THE MAFIA'S FORGOTTEN SON

Chapter Five – Blood Debt

The morning light was thin and gray when Denilson woke.

Sleep had been elusive, his dreams a storm of broken glass, Jenna’s laughter, and the steel gaze of Marcus Franfurt. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. One still bore faint cuts from the glass he had picked up just days before. The other bore a fresh scar from last night’s blade.

His old life and his new one. Both written in blood, When he stepped into the kitchen, Jenna was already there, dressed in silk, scrolling idly through her phone. She didn’t look up as she sipped her coffee. Didn’t ask where he’d been. Didn’t care.

The silence between them felt heavier than ever, but different. For once, Denilson didn’t feel crushed beneath it. He felt above it. As though she no longer had the power to suffocate him.

Her phone buzzed, her lips curved into a secret smile. Denilson knew the name flashing across that screen wasn’t his,Once, the sight would have gutted him. This morning, it only steeled him,  He left without a word.

The Black Orchid sedan was waiting outside. A driver in a black suit opened the door wordlessly. Denilson slid into the backseat, his heart pounding with quiet rage.

The ride was silent until the driver spoke. “Your uncle says the debtor is stubborn. Owns a warehouse near the docks. He’s been late three months. Interest has piled high.”

Denilson’s jaw tightened. “And if he can’t pay?”, The driver’s eyes flicked to him in the mirror. “Then he’ll pay another way.”, The car stopped outside a warehouse that reeked of rust and sea salt. Men loitered near the entrance, rough and wary. They stiffened when the sedan pulled up.

One stepped forward. “What’s this?”, The driver got out, his voice cold. “The Franfurt heir.” A ripple passed through the men  confusion, disbelief, then a flicker of fear.

Denilson stepped out, straightening his shoulders. For the first time in years, he wasn’t shrinking into shadows. He met their eyes, steady and sharp.

Inside, the warehouse was dim and cluttered with crates. At the center, a man in his fifties sat behind a desk piled with ledgers. His hair was thinning, his hands trembling as he shuffled papers.

He looked up  and froze., “Franfurt?” he whispered. Denilson’s voice was low, steady. “You owe us.” The man swallowed. “I… I just need time. Business has been slow. Please, tell Marcus I’ll have it next month.”

Denilson stepped closer, every word weighted. “You’ve had time. Time is done.” The man’s eyes darted nervously. “ I can get half, maybe by tonight”

Denilson’s rage flared, not at the man, but at the memory of years he had begged for scraps of respect. He slammed his hand down on the desk, the sound echoing through the warehouse.

The man flinched, “You think we beg?” Denilson’s voice shook with fury. “You think we wait? My father’s blood runs in these veins, and you dare test it?”

The man’s face went pale, The driver tossed a small pistol onto the desk. Its weight seemed to vibrate through the wood. Denilson stared at it, his pulse thundering.“This is your test,” the driver said flatly. “Take what is owed. One way or another.”

Denilson’s throat tightened. His hand hovered over the weapon.Could he do it? Could he kill?

The debtor was shaking, stammering pleas, his fear filling the air. Denilson’s mind reeled. He had spent years being mocked, dismissed, trampled could he now become the monster who trampled others?

His hand closed around the pistol. The room went deathly still,  He lifted it, the barrel trembling as it aimed at the debtor’s forehead.

The man broke, sobbing, scrambling for a safe hidden beneath the desk. He yanked it open with shaking hands, pulling out stacks of cash. He shoved them across the table, desperation in his eyes. “All of it,” Denilson ordered, voice cold, foreign even to his own ears.

The man obeyed, piling the money high, his hands shaking so badly the stacks nearly toppled. Denilson lowered the pistol, breath ragged, For a moment, he thought it was over.

Then a voice rang from behind him, “Well done.” Denilson spun. Marcus stood in the shadows of the warehouse, flanked by two guards. His silver hair glinted in the dim light, his smile sharp. “You see?” Marcus said softly. “Power is not begged for. It is taken. And tonight, you took.”

Denilson’s hand tightened on the pistol, his mind torn between pride, horror, and raw adrenaline, Marcus stepped closer, his gaze piercing. “But remember this, nephew every coin you take, every debt you collect, every enemy you crush… they will all remember. They will come for you.”

He leaned in, voice a whisper sharp as a blade. “And they will test whether you are truly your father’s son.”

The warehouse doors slammed open, Gunfire erupted.