Concrete Thrones: The Making of a Mafia Boss”

The Serpent’s Bite”

The city didn’t sleep anymore.

Not for Dario. Not for Southbridge.

Every night, he could feel eyes watching from the alleys, from rooftops, from behind tinted car windows. The kind of eyes that didn’t blink. The kind that belonged to people waiting for the right time to pull a trigger.

A week had passed since the ambush, and the Serpents had vanished into the shadows — no word, no movement, just whispers. But in Dario’s world, silence was never peace. Silence was war breathing in the dark.

He sat in the backroom of La Rosa, his newly renovated nightclub, where the music upstairs drowned out the secrets below. The bass from the DJ booth thumped through the walls like a heartbeat. He didn’t dance. He didn’t drink. He waited.

Vince burst through the door, jaw tight. “Boss. It’s starting.”

Dario didn’t ask what. He already knew.

Vince tossed a bloodied phone onto the table. “They hit the Westside drop. Two men down. No survivors. No money.”

Dario leaned back slowly, face unreadable. “Alvaro’s calling.”

“Louder than ever,” Vince said. “They left a mark on the wall. A serpent drawn in red. Paint—or blood. Maybe both.”

Dario’s cigarette burned low between his fingers. He tapped the ash into a glass tray and stood, pacing. “He wants a reaction.”

“Then let’s give him one.”

“No.” Dario stopped pacing. “Not yet. You don’t feed a viper when it’s watching your hand.”

He looked at the city map on the wall — lines drawn in red marker, territories divided like kingdoms. His control was strong in the south, fading near the docks, nonexistent beyond the bridge. That was where Alvaro thrived — the borderlands between poverty and greed.

Dario’s voice lowered. “He wants me angry. But we’ll answer with silence.”

Vince frowned. “You sure that’s wise?”

Dario met his gaze. “In this world, Vince, sometimes silence is the loudest threat.”

---

That night, Dario returned to the streets. Not as the Boss. As the ghost of what he once was — hoodie up, pistol tucked beneath his jacket, eyes sharp. He needed to see for himself.

Southbridge was changing. The corners that once sang his name now whispered rumors. Every conversation stopped when he passed. The old men at the dice tables avoided his stare. The kids—his lookouts, his runners—moved with fear, not pride.

He turned down an alley, where neon light bled onto wet pavement. A group of Serpent lookouts huddled near a dumpster, smoking cheap cigars. They didn’t see him coming.

One step, two, and he was in their midst. A flash of metal, the sound of knuckles cracking. Within seconds, one was on the ground, gasping; another pinned against the wall with Dario’s pistol pressed to his throat.

“Where’s Alvaro?” Dario’s voice was calm. Too calm.

The man wheezed. “I—I don’t know! He don’t stay still!”

“You just made that mistake,” Dario said, pulling the trigger.

The shot was muffled, swallowed by the rain. The others ran. Dario didn’t chase. He just stood there, breathing smoke and rain, the city’s noise fading into silence again.

He looked at the blood pooling near the gutter. It ran toward the drain, just like the last time.

Southbridge had its river. Dario had his.

---

By dawn, word of the killing spread. The Serpents struck back fast. One of Dario’s safe houses burned to ash. Two men vanished from his crew. Another was found dumped in the river, hands tied, serpent carved into his chest.

The message was clear: You’re bleeding, Boss.

At the club, the tension grew thick enough to choke on.

Vince slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t sit still anymore, D! They’re taking your streets!”

Dario didn’t move. He poured two glasses of whiskey, handed one to Vince. “You ever play chess?”

Vince frowned. “What?”

“Chess,” Dario repeated. “You don’t rush a king across the board. You build your walls. You lure your enemy out. And then—” He flicked the pawn off the table. “You break his hand before he moves.”

Vince stared at him. “You’ve changed, D.”

Dario smirked faintly. “So has the game.”

He stood, straightening his jacket. “Call Nico. Tell him to prepare the convoy. Tonight, we visit Alvaro’s playground.”

---

The convoy moved through the night like a dark wave — tinted SUVs, headlights off, engines low. They rolled through the north docks where the Serpents ran their trade — stolen goods, counterfeit bills, blood money.

The moon hung low, pale and thin.

When they reached the first warehouse, Dario stepped out alone. His men waited by the cars, weapons ready.

He walked straight through the gate.

Inside, the smell of gasoline and smoke filled the air. A few Serpents sat around a fire barrel, laughing, passing a bottle between them. They froze when they saw him.

“Evening,” Dario said.

The gunfire that followed shattered the stillness.

It was over in minutes. His men swept in like shadows, silenced pistols, no mercy. When it was done, the warehouse burned — flames licking the night sky.

Vince stood beside Dario, breathing hard. “That’s one nest down.”

Dario watched the flames. “Seven more to go.”

As the warehouse collapsed, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered.

A voice, smooth and venomous, echoed through the line.

“You’re bold, Dario. I respect that.”

“Alvaro,” Dario said, tone flat.

“Burning my house won’t make you king,” Alvaro sneered. “It’ll make you a target.”

“I was already one.”

A pause. Then laughter — low, cruel.

“You don’t understand yet,” Alvaro said. “You’re fighting for streets. I’m fighting for legacy.”

“Then your legacy ends here.”

The line clicked dead.

Dario stood there, the phone still in his hand, the fire reflected in his eyes.

---

By morning, the city was in chaos. The Serpents retaliated, bombing a nightclub affiliated with Dario’s allies. The police cracked down hard, raiding businesses, questioning faces that once moved freely.

Dario’s kingdom was shaking.

At La Rosa, the air was thick with paranoia. Every man carried suspicion in his pocket like a knife.

Carlo’s name surfaced again — whispers that he’d been seen alive, working with the Serpents. Vince brought it to Dario immediately.

“Could be lies,” Vince said. “Could be bait.”

“Or truth,” Dario replied, eyes cold. “And truth is more dangerous than bullets.”

He stood at the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, distorting the neon city lights below.

“I built this empire on loyalty,” Dario murmured. “Now loyalty is what’s killing it.”

Vince approached slowly. “What’s the next move?”

Dario turned. The look in his eyes wasn’t rage — it was calculation. Cold, mechanical.

“War,” he said simply. “No shadows. No messages. No warnings.”

Vince hesitated. “And Alvaro?”

Dario smiled faintly. “He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

---

That night, Dario walked the bridge alone — the same bridge where he buried his first betrayer. The river below was black, restless. He tossed a coin into the water and whispered something only the night could hear.

Then he turned back toward the city.

Concrete towers glowed like silent thrones in the distance.

He could feel the crown forming, invisible but heavy.

A crown made not of gold… but of ash, blood, and consequence.

And as thunder rumbled over Southbridge, Dario understood — he wasn’t fighting for the throne anymore.

He was the throne.