The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 18

Drake stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him with such force that the walls rattled. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to regain control.

He had never seen Mackin like that before—so cold, so ruthless. It was as if the years had hardened him into someone unrecognizable.

Drake’s fingers itched as he reached for his phone, dialling a number he hadn’t used in years. The person on the other end picked up after a single ring.

“It’s Drake,” he snapped into the receiver. “I need you to move up the timeline.”

There was a pause, followed by a low, gravelly voice. “You sure about this, boss? It’s going to get messy.”

Drake’s jaw clenched. “Do it.”

He hung up without waiting for a response, his mind racing with plans of sabotage, of destruction. If Mackin thought he could come in and take over, he was sorely mistaken. This was still Drake’s family, his empire, and he would burn it to the ground before he let Mackin have it.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Mackin estate, the golden light filtering through the large windows and bathing the halls in a false sense of warmth. But inside, the air was tense, crackling with the electricity of brewing conflict. Drake paced back and forth in his private study, his mind a whirlwind of rage, fear, and desperation.

Mackin’s return had shifted the balance of power within the family, and Drake could feel his grip slipping, piece by piece.

His conversation with the hired muscle had been brief, but the implications of his decision weighed heavily on him now. Drake had always been ruthless, willing to do whatever it took to maintain control, but this—what he had just set into motion—felt different. It felt irreversible.

The door to his study creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. Drake didn’t need to look to know who it was. His father’s presence filled the room with a familiar heaviness.

"Drake," Bruno rasped, his voice weakened from his illness but still carrying an edge of authority. "What have you done?"

Drake turned to face his father, his expression hard. "What I had to do," he replied coldly. "Mackin’s return has complicated everything. If we don’t act now, we’ll lose everything."

Bruno’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of concern crossing his gaunt features. "You’ve been reckless. You think hiring thugs will solve this problem?"

Drake’s jaw clenched. "You weren’t there, Father. You didn’t see the way Mackin looked at me. He’s not the same man we cast out. He’s dangerous now—more dangerous than we ever imagined. If we don’t eliminate him, he’ll destroy us."

Bruno sighed, sinking into the leather chair by the fireplace, his frail body sagging under the weight of years of deceit and manipulation. "This family has always thrived in the shadows, Drake. We control through influence, not brute force. What you’ve set in motion could ruin us all."

Drake slammed his fist onto the desk, his frustration boiling over. "You’re wrong! This is the only way. Mackin won’t stop until he’s taken everything. You saw the way he humiliated me, humiliated you! He’s out for blood."

Bruno coughed violently, his body wracked with the strain of his deteriorating health. When he finally regained his breath, his voice was hoarse but firm. "You’ve let your pride blind you. Mackin’s not the only enemy we face. There are others—powerful ones—watching, waiting for us to fall."

Drake’s face twisted with anger, but behind it was the flicker of fear. "What are you saying, Father?"

Bruno’s gaze darkened. "I’m saying that if this escalates the way you want it to, we won’t just be fighting Mackin. We’ll be fighting a war on all fronts, and I’m not sure we’re prepared for that."

Drake opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his lips. Deep down, he knew his father was right. But it was too late to back down now. The wheels were already in motion, and soon, there would be no turning back.

Mackin stood in front of the wide windows in his penthouse office, his arms crossed as he looked out over the city that had once been his prison. The skyline glittered with promise, each skyscraper a symbol of his triumph over the odds, a monument to the empire he had built from nothing.

But his mind wasn’t on the view. It was on Drake. The confrontation in the family estate had been inevitable, but it hadn’t given Mackin the satisfaction he thought it would. Drake was desperate, cornered—and a cornered animal was always the most dangerous.

"Mackin." Lambo’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Mackin turned to see his most trusted ally standing in the doorway. Lambo’s expression was grim.

"What is it?" Mackin asked, already sensing the bad news that was to come.

"We’ve received intel," Lambo said, stepping into the room. "Drake’s planning something. Something big. He’s hired people—dangerous people."

Mackin’s eyes narrowed. "What kind of people?"

"The kind who don’t ask questions," Lambo replied. "The kind who get the job done."

Mackin’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. So, Drake had resorted to hiring thugs. It didn’t surprise him. His cousin had always been willing to take the low road, but this was a new level of desperation.

"How reliable is this information?" Mackin asked, his voice low.

Lambo met his gaze, his face set in grim determination. "Very reliable. We’ve already confirmed some of the men he’s hired have been seen around the estate."

Mackin turned back to the window, his mind racing. He had anticipated that Drake would fight back, but he hadn’t expected him to escalate so quickly. This wasn’t just about family power anymore. Drake was willing to spill blood.

"How do you want to handle this?" Lambo asked after a moment of silence.

Mackin’s gaze hardened as he stared out at the skyline. "We take the fight to him."

The night was unusually quiet as Mackin’s convoy of sleek, armoured vehicles pulled up to the Mackin estate. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the vast grounds. Mackin stepped out of the car, his breath visible in the crisp night air. His entourage followed, their faces set in stone, ready for whatever was to come.

Mackin didn’t need to look behind him to know that Lambo and the rest of his men were prepared. They were professionals—calculated, disciplined, and deadly when needed. And tonight, they would be needed.

Drake had made his move, and now, it was time for Mackin to respond.

The gates to the estate creaked open, and Mackin strode forward, his heart pounding steadily in his chest. The tension in the air was palpable, like the calm before a storm. He could feel it—the shift, the anticipation of violence just below the surface.

As they approached the grand entrance, the doors swung open, revealing Drake standing in the dimly lit foyer. His eyes were wild, his hair dishevelled, but there was a gleam of triumph in his gaze.

"You came," Drake said, his voice a mixture of surprise and smugness. "I wasn’t sure if you’d have the guts to face me again."

Mackin stopped just inside the entrance, his eyes locking onto his cousin’s. "I came to finish this."

Drake’s laugh was sharp, almost manic. "Finish it? Mackin, you’re a fool if you think this is over. You don’t understand what you’ve walked into."

Mackin took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. "I know exactly what I’ve walked into. The question is, "Do you?"

Before Drake could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Mackin’s men tensed, their hands hovering near the concealed weapons they carried.

A group of armed men emerged from the shadows, their expressions cold and ruthless. These were the men Drake had hired—the ones who didn’t ask questions, who did the dirty work for the right price.

Drake smirked, his confidence returning as his hired muscle filled the room. "You see, Mackin," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "This isn’t a family squabble anymore. You’re outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched."

Mackin’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the scene. Drake had stacked the odds in his favour, but Mackin had learnt long ago that power wasn’t just about numbers. It was about strategy.

"I don’t need numbers to win, Drake," Mackin said calmly. "All I need is the truth."

Drake’s smile faltered for a moment, confusion flickering across his face. "What are you talking about?"

Mackin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, sleek device—a digital recorder. He held it up for Drake to see. "This," Mackin said, his voice steady, "is a recording of Bruno confessing to everything. The murders, the betrayals... all of it."

Drake’s face paled. "You’re bluffing."

Mackin pressed play, and Bruno’s rasping voice filled the room, recounting in painful detail the conspiracy that had torn their family apart.

Drake’s eyes widened in horror as the truth played out for all to hear. The armed men glanced at each other, uncertainty creeping into their hardened expressions. They hadn’t signed up for this—a family feud steeped in murder and lies.

When the recording ended, the room fell into a heavy silence.

Mackin took a step closer to Drake, his voice soft but lethal. "This ends tonight. Call off your men, or I’ll release this to the authorities. You won’t just lose the family, Drake. You’ll lose everything."

Drake’s face twisted with rage, but he knew he was beaten. With a flick of his wrist, he signalled for the men to stand down.

Mackin turned to Lambo, nodding once. "We’re done here."

As Mackin walked out of the estate, the weight of victory settled heavily on his shoulders. But it wasn’t the triumph he had imagined. He had won, but the cost had been high—too high.