The Return of the Mafia Don

Chapter 3: Death and Rebirth

It had been three days since the trial.

Three days since Hermosa shattered his heart in front of the world.

He had barely slept.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. On the witness stand. Lying.

“He told me he was doing it for the company’s survival.”

“He said it was the only way to protect the Gordonis legacy.”

Lies. Every word.

And yet, she had looked at him like she believed it.

Or worse… like she wanted to.

The van hit a bump in the road, jolting him out of his thoughts. Outside, the night was silent and desolate. Miles of empty road stretched ahead. They were deep in the countryside now, far from the city lights. The only company was the occasional chirp of insects and the soft crackle of the van’s radio.

Two guards sat in the front. The driver sipped from a thermos while the other scrolled through his phone.

“ETA to Ridgewood Penitentiary, 32 minutes,” the driver muttered.

Andre’s eyes drifted to the small vent near his feet. A single breeze slipped through, bringing the scent of pine and gasoline.

His stomach twisted.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t know how, but his instincts screamed it.

Then, a sound. Distant. Low.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It grew louder until suddenly a blinding white light flooded the van from behind.

“What the hell…?” the driver said, looking at the side mirror.

A black SUV roared up behind them, its headlights off until the last second.

The guard in the passenger seat reached for his radio. “This is Transport 4, we’ve got an….”

BOOM.

An explosion rocked the van.

The world tilted violently.

Andre was thrown sideways as the van flipped once, then again. Screams, glass shattering, metal twisting, tires screeching. Fire licked through the edges of the van’s front end.

Then silence.

Smoke.

Pain.

Andre groaned.

His head throbbed. Warm blood trickled down his temple. He was lying on his side. One of the guards, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, lay just feet from him, motionless. Flames crackled near the dashboard.

The van was split open.

Sparks danced along the edge of the torn metal, casting flickering shadows across the wreckage.

Through the haze, Andre saw them, dark silhouettes moving around the crash.

Men. Armed. Faceless under black helmets.

He held his breath.

“Target confirmed dead?” one of them barked into a radio.

“No pulse on either guard. Inmate’s body was thrown clear,” another answered from behind the van. “Burned badly.”

A pause.

Andre felt the hairs on his neck stand.

Were they… talking about him?

He looked down at himself. Bloodied. Scorched. But still breathing.

Suddenly, he understood.

This wasn’t an accident.

This was a hit.

Someone had arranged this to make sure he never made it to prison.

Who?

Tom?

No. Tom was too proud. Too clean. But someone else…

The men moved away, circling to search the woods.

Andre forced himself to move.

Pain lanced through his ribs. His shoulder screamed. His hands, still cuffed, made every motion harder. But adrenaline surged through his veins. He crawled, slow, silent into the shadows beneath the van.

One of the men passed within inches.

“Burn the whole van,” a voice ordered.

Andre didn’t wait.

He rolled from under the wreck and limped into the treeline.

Smoke clung to his clothes.

Branches scraped his skin.

He didn’t look back, not even when the van exploded again behind him.

Keep moving, he told himself. Or die.

Angela White stood in her private suite, eyes fixed on the security footage playing across a dozen monitors.

The prison transport burned brightly in the center of the highway like a beacon of death.

“Send a team,” she said coldly, turning to her second-in-command. “Now.”

“He’s dead,” the man replied.

“No,” Angela snapped. “Andre Gordonis doesn’t die in a fire. Not without leaving a trace.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“And I want to know who made that fire.”

Two Days Later

Andre woke to darkness.

He was on a bed, not metal, not cold. A real bed. Cotton sheets. Clean bandages.

He blinked, confused.

Pain clawed through his body, but it wasn’t the same raw pain from the crash.

His injuries had been treated.

A small lamp glowed in the corner of the room. It was warm. Safe.

A figure stepped into the light.

Tall. Dressed in black. Eyes hidden by shadows.

“You’re awake,” the man said.

Andre tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

The man poured water into a cup and handed it to him.

Andre drank greedily.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“Safe,” the man said. “For now.”

“Who are you?”

“We’re the people who know what they tried to do to you,” the man said. “You were supposed to burn in that van. Someone paid a lot of money to erase you.”

Andre leaned back, heart pounding. “Why… help me?”

The man paused.

“Because we don’t like unfinished stories.”

Andre’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

The man smiled faintly. “We’re the syndicate. And you, Mr. Gordonis… you’ve just been reborn.”

Angela White stood at the edge of the crash site, hands on her hips.

The trees were blackened. The van was reduced to twisted metal.

No body.

No bones.

Nothing.

Her men swept the woods. Dogs. Drones. Nothing.

“He’s gone,” one of them reported. “If he survived, he vanished.”

Angela’s lips tightened.

She had seen men vanish before. But not like this.

No trail. No footprints.

Just absence.

She looked to the horizon.

Where are you, Golden Son?

---

Elsewhere — Unknown Location

Andre stood in front of a mirror.

His face was bruised. His ribs were taped. His eyes, once full of light, were now storms.

The man from the syndicate entered the room again.

“We need a name,” he said simply.

“A name?”

“You can’t be Andre Gordonis anymore,” he explained. “He’s dead. You need a ghost. A weapon. A storm they never see coming.”

Andre stared at the mirror.

His reflection stared back, unfamiliar but burning with purpose.

He touched his bandaged side. Then his face.

A new man. Born from fire.

He closed his eyes and whispered.

“Don Alaric.”

He opened them again.

“A new name. A new war.”