The Return of the Almighty Dragon Jackal

Chapter Six: Shackled by the Mafia

The wind howled over the training yard like a cry from the grave. Somewhere in the distance, a crow shrieked, but within the walls of Thorne Compound, there was no such thing as silence. Gunfire cracked like a metronome. Men shouted. A man begged for mercy. The stench of sweat, metal, and spilled blood clung to everything.

Andrew wiped the sweat from his brow, blood still drying across his knuckles. His chest heaved as he stood in the center of the yard, bruised and exhausted, his eyes shadowed beneath the harsh floodlights. It had only been a week since he signed his life away to Edward Thorne. Seven days since he became a “property” of the most feared Mafia lord in the country.

And already, he’d lost count of how many men he’d broken.

Or how many times he'd been broken himself.

“Again,” snapped Victor, one of Edward’s most vicious captains, throwing another man into the ring. “This one’s stronger. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The new fighter lunged. Andrew didn’t even flinch. His fists moved on instinct now—precision and pain. A snap of the elbow. A twist of the wrist. The crunch of cartilage. The man dropped with a groan.

Victor smirked. “Maybe you’re not useless after all.”

Andrew stepped back, breathing hard, his eyes flickering toward the high balcony above the yard.

There, Edward stood—always watching. Like a god surveying his creation.

Beside him stood a girl. No—a woman—cloaked in shadows, slim, with sunken eyes and long black hair that fell like a curtain. Her cheek was bruised, a fresh cut across her lip. Her gaze never left Andrew.

He squinted against the floodlight, feeling something odd tug in his chest.

No.

It couldn’t be.

---

Later that night, after the bruises had been patched and the blood cleaned off, Andrew stumbled back to his quarters—if you could even call it that. A cold cement room with a steel cot and a single flickering bulb. He was peeling off his shirt when the door creaked open.

A figure slipped in. Silent. Barefoot.

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

He turned slowly, breath catching.

“…Cynthia?”

Her eyes were wide, hollow with disbelief. “Andrew?”

For a second, the silence between them was louder than any scream.

He rushed forward. She hesitated.

He stopped.

She had changed.

Gone was the bubbly little girl from the orchards. In her place was a haunted, hardened shell—a woman who had seen hell and learned to survive it. Her arms were marked with faded bruises, burn scars. Her wrists bore the angry red imprints of restraints.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, voice cracking.

“I thought the same about you,” he whispered.

And for the first time since he entered the compound, something inside Andrew cracked.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. Not yet.

They just looked at each other and recognized what the world had stolen from them.

---

The next morning, Andrew was assigned to a squad of lower-ranked members—gangsters-in-training who were as violent as they were reckless. Edward’s orders were clear: train them. Make them lethal. Or suffer the consequences.

He stepped onto the dusty field, bruises fresh, voice sharp.

“You call yourselves soldiers?” he barked. “Half of you would be dead before your first shot if this were real. Drop down. Give me fifty.”

They groaned, but something in Andrew’s eyes silenced rebellion.

Day after day, he trained them—relentlessly. He taught them discipline, combat techniques, and even how to disarm without killing. His reputation spread quickly. Whispers floated through the compound: The new one fights like a machine. Never flinches. Never stops.

Among the group was one man—tall, quiet, with a permanent scowl and a limp in one leg. His name was Jax.

Jax didn’t talk much. But Andrew noticed how he always followed orders, protected the others during drills, and took hits meant for weaker men.

One evening, after a particularly brutal session, Jax stayed behind.

“You fight like someone who’s got nothing to lose,” he muttered, tossing Andrew a bottle of water.

Andrew caught it, eyeing him. “Do you?”

Jax cracked a grin. “I’ve already lost everything. Wife. Kid. Freedom. Just trying to stay alive long enough to rip Edward’s throat out.”

That was the start of a fragile, brotherly bond—built not on trust, but on shared rage.

---

One night, Cynthia came to Andrew again. This time, her steps weren’t hesitant.

“They keep me in the East Wing,” she said quietly, sitting beside him on the cot. “I’m one of the ‘favorites.’ That’s what they call us. The ones they don’t kill—but don’t let live, either.”

He looked at her, horror dawning in his eyes. “Cynthia… what did they—?”

“Don’t ask,” she whispered. “Just promise me something.”

“What?”

“When you escape—I know you would—don’t leave me behind.”

His voice cracked. “I won’t. I swear it.”

---

But escape was still a dream.

Because every night, Edward summoned Andrew. Gave him a new task.

Burn this building.

Deliver this package. No questions.

Extract this man.

Kill that one.

Andrew’s soul was corroding one act at a time. But every time he saw Richard’s face in his mind—motionless in that bed—he swallowed his disgust and obeyed.

Because he wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore.

He was fighting for his brother’s life. For Cynthia. For vengeance.

___

They called him The Jackal now.

Not as a joke. Not out of fear. Out of respect—earned, not given.

In only a few months, Andrew had gone from being the quiet new guy with fire behind his eyes to the man every soldier wanted to follow into battle. He trained harder than anyone. Led smarter. Hit faster. Survived longer. Edward’s men, the ones who once mocked him, now looked at him like a force of nature. They whispered about him in the corridors. Some even carved the image of a jackal on the handles of their knives—a silent allegiance to the man who’d bled with them, killed beside them, and never flinched.

But not everyone bowed.

Victor—the head-captain—watched from the shadows as his title began to crumble in the presence of a boy-turned-legend. Andrew was younger, smarter, faster. And worst of all… beloved. Soldiers who once pledged loyalty to Victor now followed The Jackal with the kind of devotion that made his blood boil. And then there was Cynthia.

She had changed.

No longer the broken, trembling girl everyone overlooked. Since reconnecting with Andrew, her spirit had begun to reassemble. She smiled more. Laughed sometimes. She still bore scars, but they no longer defined her. She walked beside Andrew now. Trained under him. Ate with him. And Victor saw it all.

He noticed how her eyes lingered when Andrew passed, how she leaned closer when he spoke in hushed tones. Cynthia had always been Victor’s secret obsession. Something about her fragility excited his need for control. But now, her gaze didn’t flinch when it met his. She looked through him—and only at Andrew.

It drove Victor mad.

One night, in the cold training courtyard, Andrew sparred with four men at once, effortlessly parrying every blow. Cynthia watched from the side, wrapping her bruised knuckles in gauze, eyes locked on him with something between awe and admiration. Victor stood nearby, his arms folded, jaw clenched.

When the match ended, Andrew offered a hand to the last man on the ground.

Cynthia clapped, grinning. “That was insane. You didn’t even break a sweat.”

Andrew wiped his face with a towel. “Guess I’m finally getting used to the pain.”

She laughed—light and genuine. “You always did have a weird relationship with pain.”

Victor stepped forward, forcing a smirk. “You training her now, Jackal? Or just enjoying the attention?”

Andrew’s face didn’t change. “She trains harder than most of your recruits.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let her distract you. We’re not here to play house.”

Cynthia’s smile faded. “I’m not a distraction.”

Victor’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve always been one.”

Andrew moved in front of her. Calm. Controlled. “Walk away, Victor.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Victor chuckled. “You think a few kills make you king? You’re still under Edward’s leash like the rest of us. Don’t forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Andrew said, voice low. “Especially how you treat people you think are beneath you.”

Victor’s fists clenched—but he walked away. For now.

—

Later that night, Andrew sat outside near the back wall of the estate, arms resting on his knees, staring at the stars he could barely see. Cynthia joined him silently, sitting beside him.

“Do you remember the treehouse?” she asked softly.

Andrew blinked. “Yeah... Behind the chapel. You used to climb up and refuse to come down till someone bribed you with candy.”

She smiled. “You were always the one to climb up and stay with me.”

“Because I was afraid you’d jump,” he said with a weak laugh.

She laughed too, then went quiet. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I searched for you,” he admitted. “After your family disappeared. We all thought...”

“I was dead?” she finished. “I was. In every way that mattered. Until now.”

Her voice cracked, and she looked away. Andrew reached for her hand—rough, bruised, callused like his—but still warm.

“We’re not dead,” he said. “Not yet.”

She leaned against him, head on his shoulder, and for a while, the silence didn’t hurt.

But just beyond the walls, Victor watched. And his eyes burned with more than rage.