The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 45

The war between Mackin and Santoro reaches its climax as both men prepare for their final confrontation. Santoro’s efforts to undermine Mackin’s control of the city are escalating, but Mackin refuses to back down. The fight for power has become personal, and both men know that only one of them will survive. As alliances shift and loyalties are tested, Mackin must make a choice that will determine not just the future of his empire but his very survival.

The breaking point is near, and the city is about to be changed forever.

The city felt like a pressure cooker about to explode. Streets were quieter than usual, with people moving quickly, heads down, avoiding the eyes of those who seemed to be watching too closely. It wasn’t paranoia. Anyone in the know could sense the tension between Mackin Jones and Carmine Santoro—the entire underworld had heard of their escalating war. It was no longer whispers; it was a public secret that the clash between the two titans would tear the city apart.

Mackin sat in his office, his fingers drumming against the polished wood desk. He had never been the type to show fear, but this wasn’t just another battle for territory. It wasn’t even about taking down another rival like Lachlan or Bruno. Santoro was something else entirely. He was a mirror image of Mackin—a man who had built his empire on patience and control, not brute force. And that made him the most dangerous enemy Mackin had ever faced.

“Here’s the latest report from our guys,” Lambo said as he entered, throwing a thick file onto the desk in front of Mackin. His voice carried the same tension Mackin had been feeling for days. “Santoro’s starting to turn more of the city officials. Judges, cops, politicians—they’re coming over to his side.”

Mackin opened the file and skimmed the details. It was worse than he had anticipated. “He’s been buying them off, hasn’t he?” Mackin asked though it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, in the millions. The man’s been funnelling money into offshore accounts for years. He’s been preparing for this,” Lambo replied, running a hand through his hair. “He’s building an army of loyalists within the system, and if we don’t stop him soon, we’ll lose our hold on this city.”

Mackin’s mind raced. He had spent years building his empire, creating a network of people who were loyal to him out of fear, respect, and, in some cases, mutual gain. But Santos’s war was different. He wasn’t just trying to take over Mackin’s territory; he was methodically dismantling Mackin’s credibility, cutting out the roots that had kept him in power for so long.

“How are we on our end?” Mackin asked his voice tight with focus. He leaned forward, looking at Lambo with eyes that demanded results.

Lambo exhaled slowly. “We’re holding strong, but it’s not easy. A few cracks are starting to show. Some of our lower-level guys are getting nervous. They’re hearing things—rumours that Santoro’s already won.”

Mackin’s eyes darkened. “They’re wrong. Santoro hasn’t won anything.”

He stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window that gave him a panoramic view of the city. It was his city. Every skyscraper, every slum, every block had been touched by the Mackin family’s influence. But if Santoro succeeded, that control would vanish overnight.

“We need to hit him harder,” Mackin said, still staring out at the city. “We’ve been playing this too conservatively. It’s time we go after him directly.”

Lambo nodded, though a flicker of concern crossed his face. “You’re talking about a full-scale assault? We’ll need more firepower, Mackin. Santoro’s got protection.”

Mackin turned around, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp with intent. “Then we get more firepower. We make sure Santoro understands that no one takes from me without paying the price.”

Across the city, in the heart of one of the most exclusive penthouses, Carmine Santoro was in a meeting with his inner circle. The mood in the room was one of quiet confidence. Santoro sat at the head of the table, his hands resting lightly on the polished wood as his men briefed him on Mackin’s recent moves.

“We’ve got Mackin on the defensive,” Vito said, pacing at the other end of the room. “The media is starting to question his ability to keep control of the city. We’ve got the politicians, the law enforcement, and now the judges. If Mackin tries to retaliate, it’s going to look like desperation.”

Santoro nodded slowly, though his expression remained calm. “Mackin’s a fighter. Desperation is when he’s most dangerous.”

The room fell silent, the gravity of Santoro’s words settling over them like a heavy fog. Carmine knew Mackin better than most. He had studied the man for years and watched him rise from the ashes of his family’s legacy, carving out his empire with brutal efficiency. But while Mackin had relied on fear and violence to build his kingdom, Santoro had used patience, cunning, and influence.

“Mackin won’t go down easily,” Santoro continued, his voice soft but filled with authority. “He’ll come at us with everything he’s got. And that’s exactly what we want.”

Vito looked confused. “You want him to come at us?”

Santoro’s smile was cold and calculated. “Yes. Mackin’s strength has always been his willingness to take the fight to his enemies. But that’s also his weakness. He’s too direct. He’s too predictable. He’s used to winning battles by sheer force. This time, we’ll let him think he’s winning until it’s too late.”

Santoro leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with the knowledge that he had already outmanoeuvred his opponent. “When Mackin makes his move, we’ll be ready. And we’ll be the ones to end this war.”

Two days later, Mackin’s plan was in motion. His men had gathered in one of his fortified hideouts, preparing for the next strike. Santoro’s club had been an easy target, but this time, Mackin was going for the jugular. His men would hit Santoro’s most valuable assets—his financial hubs, the heart of his legitimate business operations. They wouldn’t just cripple his criminal network; they would destroy his reputation in the process.

Standing in the middle of the room, Mackin briefed his top lieutenants. “This is our moment. We’ve spent weeks dismantling Santoro’s outer defences, but now we’re going after the core. I want his finances in ruins. I want every bank, every investment portfolio he’s tied to, gone. We’ll make him bleed.”

The men nodded, adrenaline surging through the room as they prepared for the assault.

As Mackin spoke, Lambo stood at his side, but there was a look in his eyes that Mackin hadn’t noticed before—a hint of unease. “You sure about this, boss?” Lambo asked, his voice low enough that only Mackin could hear.

Mackin glanced at him. “What are you getting at?”

Lambo exhaled. “Santoro’s playing this game differently. He’s not like Bruno or Lachlan. You hit him, and he’s already thinking three moves ahead. I don’t want us walking into a trap.”

Mackin’s eyes hardened. “We don’t have a choice, Lambo. Santoro’s already turned half the city against us. If we don’t take him down now, there won’t be a next time.”

Lambo nodded reluctantly, but the tension between them remained.

That night, Mackin’s men struck. They hit three of Santoro’s key financial hubs—places where the money flowed freely from legal investments into offshore accounts. The operation was quick and efficient, leaving Santoro’s assets gutted. The damage was severe, and for the first time, it looked like Mackin might have the upper hand.

But as the reports came in, something felt wrong.

Mackin stood in his office, staring at the glowing screen of his laptop, his gut telling him that this had been too easy. Santoro hadn’t even put up much of a fight. His men had been minimal, the security barely an obstacle. It was as if Santoro had let it happen.

Lambo entered the room, his face grim. “We did what we set out to do,” he said. “Santoro’s bleeding. But there’s something off about this, Mackin.”

Mackin nodded, his mind racing. “He wanted us to strike. This was part of his plan.”

Lambo leaned against the desk, his arms crossed. “So what now? He’s down but he’s not out. You think he’s planning a counterattack?”

Mackin’s eyes narrowed. “No. He’s already set it in motion.”

At the same time, across town, Carmine Santoro sat in his penthouse, a glass of wine in his hand, watching the city lights flicker below. The news of Mackin’s latest assault had already reached him, but there was no anger in his heart, no fear of the damage that had been done.

Vito entered, his face filled with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Mackin hit us hard tonight. We lost millions in assets.”

Santoro didn’t turn from the window. “That’s exactly what I expected.”

Vito frowned, stepping closer. “But... now we’re vulnerable. Mackin’s winning.”

Santoro’s smile was slow, deliberate. “No, Vito. Mackin’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

He turned, setting down the glass, his eyes cold with satisfaction. “Mackin played right into our hands. While he was busy tearing down our businesses, we were tearing down his empire from within. Tomorrow, everything he’s built will come crashing down.”

Vito’s eyes widened. “How?”

Santoro’s smile widened. “We’ve turned his people against him. His men—his lieutenants, his allies—they’re not loyal to him anymore. We’ve planted doubt in their minds, and when the time comes, they’ll abandon him.”

Santoro leaned back, watching the city, knowing that the pieces had already fallen into place.

“Mackin Jones is finished.”