Ron Donaldo: Rise Of The Apex Don

The heavy steel gates of Blackgate Penitentiary groaned. The sound was like a dying animal, loud and metallic, echoing against the high concrete walls. For five years, that sound had meant lockdown. Today, it meant the end.

The small door within the gate opened. A man stepped out.

Ron Donaldo wore a gray suit that was two sizes too big. The fabric was thin and stained. His face was pale, his cheeks hollow, and his hair was cut close to his scalp in a rough, uneven buzz. He held a clear plastic bag in his hand. Inside were his worldly possessions: a cheap watch, a belt, and a pair of worn-out shoes.

Standing next to him was Warden Miller.

Miller was a large man. He was known for breaking ribs with his baton and sending men to solitary confinement for looking at him wrong. But today, Miller was not smiling. He was not shouting.

Miller was sweating.

Despite the cold morning air, beads of sweat rolled down the Warden’s forehead. His hands, usually steady when holding a gun, were shaking as he handed Ron his release papers.

"Mr. Donaldo," Miller whispered. His voice cracked. He looked around nervously, as if the walls themselves had ears. "Everything is in order. The… the transfer we discussed. It’s done. The records are wiped."

Ron didn't look at him. He just stared at the gray sky. He took a deep breath, tasting the air. It smelled of rain and exhaust fumes, but to him, it smelled like oxygen.

"Thank you for your mercy, Sir," the Warden whispered, his head bowed low. It was a bow fit for a king, not a prisoner. "Please remember my family… remember you gave me your word."

Ron finally looked at him. His eyes were dark, calm, and terrifyingly empty. He gave a single, slow nod.

Miller let out a breath he had been holding for days. He stepped back and slammed the heavy door shut, retreating into the safety of his prison, hiding from the man he had just released.

Ron walked forward.

The road outside the prison was empty, except for one car. It was not a taxi. It was a long, black limousine. It shone under the dull clouds, looking like a dark jewel in a pile of trash.

Ron stopped. He knew that car.

The back window rolled down. A face appeared. It was a handsome face, smooth and tanned, with a smile that showed perfectly white teeth.

Marcus Thorne.

Five years ago, Marcus was just an accountant. Now, he was the CFO of Sterling Tech. He was wearing a suit that cost more than Ron’s parents had made in a lifetime.

The door opened, and Marcus stepped out. He didn’t offer a hand. He leaned against the car, crossing his arms, looking Ron up and down with a look of pure disgust.

"Look at you," Marcus laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound. "Five years in the pit and you look like a stray dog. I told Theresa you wouldn’t last a week. I guess cockroaches really are hard to kill."

Ron stood still. The wind whipped his oversized jacket around his thin frame. He said nothing.

"Cat got your tongue?" Marcus smirked. "Or did the inmates cut it out?"

Marcus reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. He waved it in the air.

"Theresa wanted to be here," Marcus lied. His eyes glittered with malice. "But she’s busy. We’re expanding the company. Your company. Well, it’s ours now."

Ron’s fingers twitched by his side. A sudden, violent image flashed in his mind—his hand crushing Marcus’s throat, the snap of bone, the silence that would follow. It would take less than two seconds. Ron had learned many things in five years. Killing a man with his bare hands was the basics.

But he didn't move. He forced his shoulders to slump. He made himself look smaller. Weak.

"I have something for you," Marcus said. He flicked his wrist.

The paper fluttered through the air and landed in a mud puddle at Ron’s feet. It was a check.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Marcus said. "Alimony. A parting gift. Take it, Ron. Buy some food. Buy a tent. Go somewhere far away and die quietly. If you ever say her name again, if you ever come near Sterling Tech… I won't send the police. I’ll send professionals."

Rain began to fall. It splattered against the check, blurring the ink.

Ron looked down at the paper in the mud. He fell to his knees.

Marcus laughed louder. "That’s it. That’s where you belong. On your knees."

Ron reached out. His hand was trembling violently. To Marcus, it looked like the shaking of a broken, fearful man.

It was not fear. It was the vibration of a machine trying not to explode. It was the suppression of a rage so deep it burned Ron’s blood. He grabbed the wet check, clutching it to his chest as if it were gold.

"Pathetic," Marcus spat. He turned around and got back into the limousine. "Drive. I can’t stand the smell."

The limousine’s engine purred. The tires spun, splashing dirty water onto Ron’s face. The car sped away, disappearing down the long, gray road.

Ron stayed on his knees until the taillights faded.

Silence returned to the road. The rain fell harder, washing the mud from his face.

Slowly, the trembling stopped.

Ron stood up. He didn't struggle to rise. He stood with a fluid, powerful grace. His slump disappeared. His chest expanded. He stood to his full height, his spine straight as a steel rod. The look of the beaten dog vanished, replaced by the eyes of a predator.

He looked at the check in his hand. $50,000.

He walked over to a rusted metal trash can by the bus stop. He didn't even look at the check again. He crumpled it into a ball and dropped it into the trash.

"Keep the change, Marcus," he whispered. His voice was not weak. It was deep and rough, like grinding stones.

He looked toward the horizon. About half a mile away, parked in the shadow of a wooded area, was a line of six black SUVs. They were military-grade vehicles, windows tinted pitch black. They were idling, waiting for his signal. A small army, waiting for their general.

Ron ignored them. He wasn't ready to be seen yet.

He opened his plastic bag of "junk." He pushed past the old shoes and the cheap watch. At the bottom of the bag, taped inside the lining, was a small, black burner phone.

He pulled it out. He pressed a single button.

It rang once.

"Sir?" A voice answered instantly. It was a crisp, professional voice.

Ron looked down the road where Marcus had disappeared. A cruel, cold smile touched his lips.

"I’m out," Ron said.

"Welcome back, Apex," the voice replied. "What are your orders?"

Ron watched the rain hit the pavement. "They think I’m a beggar. They think I’m broken."

"We can eliminate them tonight, Sir. Just give the word."

"No," Ron said softly. "Death is too easy. I want them to lose everything first. I want them to watch their empire turn to dust."

He turned his collar up against the rain and began to walk toward the city.

"Initiate the collapse."