From Street Rat To Mafia Boss

Footage

They rode hard until the city thinned out and concrete gave way to a broad, empty expanse — a forgotten landing strip on the outskirts where weeds pushed through cracked tarmac and the wind had space to carry the smell of oil and old smoke. John had started the morning on his own bike but had hopped onto Dane’s when traffic choked a side street; now the two of them killed their engines and let the silence settle around the place like dust.

It was the sort of site that smelled of other people’s secrets: stale cigarettes, spilled beer, a trace of gasoline. A handful of rusting shipping containers leaned like sentries against the horizon. Near one cluster of crates, a small group lounged around a barrel, smoking and passing a bottle. Their easy posture gave nothing away at first glance, but John slowed the bike and scanned faces with the flat attention of a man who’d spent years reading danger like weather.

“Stay close,” John said under his breath. He pushed his helmet back and stretched