The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 49

With Santoro tightening his grip on the city and Mackin’s empire crumbling, Mackin makes one final, desperate move to reclaim his throne.

But as the battle reaches its bloody climax, both men will be forced to confront the reality that there can only be one king. Betrayal, loyalty, and power collide in a final confrontation that will leave the city forever changed.

The reckoning has come.

Mackin Jones stood at the edge of his empire, figuratively and literally, as he gazed out over the city from his office balcony. The once-invincible king now felt the weight of everything slipping away. The warehouse ambush had gutted his crew, leaving a trail of bodies and broken loyalties in its wake. Santoro had won that battle, but Mackin wasn’t about to concede the war. Not yet.

Lambo entered the office quietly, his steps heavy with the gravity of their situation. “We lost three more safehouses overnight. Santoro’s people are moving fast, taking over the territory we used to control.”

Mackin didn’t turn, but his fists clenched around the railing. “We’ve been reacting to his moves,” he muttered. “It’s time we make the final strike.”

Lambo frowned. “You’re talking about going after Santoro directly?”

Mackin nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the glittering city below. “We end this. No more games, no more waiting for his next move. Tonight, we go straight for him.”

Lambo hesitated. “We’re running low on men, Mackin. Half the crew’s either dead or too scared to fight. They’re hearing rumours—thinking Santoro’s got us on the ropes.”

Mackin turned finally, his eyes burning with cold intensity. “They need to know that I’m still standing. We’ll take Santoro down, and once he’s gone, this city will remember who’s in charge.”

Lambo gave a slow nod. “I’ll round up the rest of the crew. Where do we hit him?”

Mackin stepped back into the office, his mind already forming the plan. “Vito told us about Santoro’s safehouse in the hills. That’s where he’ll be holed up tonight, counting on us to lick our wounds. But we’re going to bring the fight to him.”

Lambo’s eyes narrowed. “It’s heavily fortified. Santoro’s going to have his top guys there.”

“We’ll handle them,” Mackin said, his voice unwavering. “This is our last move. We hit hard, we hit fast, and we don’t stop until Santoro is dead.”

Lambo gave him a long look, then nodded again. “I’ll get the men ready.”

As Lambo left the room, Mackin walked to his desk, picking up his gun and checking the clip. His thoughts turned to the betrayals, the losses, and the shifting loyalty that had left his empire fractured. But Santoro was the root of it all. Kill Santoro, and the cracks would begin to heal. The men would fall back in line. The city would return to its control.

Or so he told himself.

Carmine Santoro stood in the grand living room of his secluded safehouse, the walls adorned with expensive art and the air thick with the scent of cigars and whisky. His men moved like shadows, ensuring every security detail was in place. He was confident, perhaps even smug, as he prepared for the inevitable victory. Mackin’s empire was collapsing, and with one more push, Santoro would rule the city uncontested.

Vito entered the room, his face tight with tension. “Mackin’s making his move,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “He’s planning to hit us here tonight.”

Santoro’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Good. Let him come. He’s desperate now, and desperate men make mistakes.”

Vito shifted, his unease growing. “You sure this is the right call? Mackin’s dangerous when he’s cornered.”

Santoro’s eyes glinted as he poured himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid slowly. “Mackin’s been beaten. He just hasn’t accepted it yet. Tonight, we’ll make sure he understands.”

Vito nodded, though the doubt lingered. Santoro had set the trap, but he knew better than anyone that Mackin wasn’t someone to be underestimated. The night could end in bloodshed—one way or another.

Hours later, the night was thick with tension as Mackin’s convoy moved silently through the winding roads leading up to Santoro’s safe house. The moon hung low, casting a pale light over the hillside as the SUVs came to a stop just outside the perimeter. Mackin stepped out, his gun in hand, his heart pounding with a cold, steady rhythm.

Lambo joined him, his face a mask of focus. “The men are in position. Santoro’s got guards all around the property, but we can slip in through the south entrance. We’ll hit the main house before they know what’s happening.”

Mackin nodded, his eyes scanning the darkened estate ahead. “No mistakes this time, Lambo. We go in, we kill Santoro, and we get out.”

Lambo didn’t need to be told twice. He signalled to the rest of the crew, and they moved forward, weapons drawn, slipping through the trees and under the cover of night. As they approached the outer walls of the estate, Mackin felt the familiar rush of adrenaline—danger mixed with purpose.

The first guard barely saw them coming. Mackin’s silenced pistol made quick work of him, the body crumpling to the ground without a sound. Lambo’s team followed suit, taking out the remaining sentries with deadly precision.

“We’re in,” Lambo whispered, signalling Mackin forward.

They crept through the manicured garden, past the opulent fountains and statues, moving towards the large mansion where Santoro waited. The house loomed ahead, its lights casting long shadows across the lawn. Mackin’s grip tightened on his gun as they reached the back entrance, the door guarded by two more men.

Lambo dispatched them quickly, and Mackin led the team inside. The tension was unbearable now. Every step they took deeper into Santoro’s lair felt like stepping into the lion’s den. But there was no turning back. Not tonight.

Inside, the mansion was quiet—too quiet. Mackin’s eyes swept the dimly lit corridors, expecting an ambush at any moment. The silence was suffocating, but they moved forward, deeper into the belly of the beast.

Suddenly, the crack of gunfire echoed down the hallway, shattering the calm. One of Mackin’s men fell, a bullet tearing through his chest as the ambush sprang to life.

“Cover!” Mackin shouted, diving behind a marble column as bullets ripped through the air. Santoro’s men had been waiting.

The firefight erupted in full force, the hallways of the mansion turning into a warzone. Mackin fired back, his movements sharp and lethal. Lambo was at his side, gunning down two of Santoro’s men as they tried to flank them.

“We’re pinned down!” Lambo growled, his back pressed against the column as gunfire erupted around them. “They’ve got more men than we thought!”

Mackin’s mind raced. The plan was falling apart, but they were too deep now. There was no retreat. They had to push through.

“We keep moving!” Mackin barked, reloading his gun. “Santoro’s in the main room. We take him down; this is over.”

They fought their way through the mansion, bodies dropping on both sides as the gunfight intensified. Mackin’s men were tough, but Santoro’s forces were well-prepared, and the fight was brutal. Every corner they turned, another wave of enemies was waiting.

Finally, they reached the grand living room. The door burst open as Mackin charged inside, his eyes locking on Santoro, who stood calmly at the centre of the room, a cold smile on his face.

“You came,” Santoro said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

Mackin’s gun was aimed squarely at Santoro’s chest. “It’s over, Carmine.”

Santoro chuckled softly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Is it? Look around, Mackin. You’re losing. Your empire is crumbling, your men are turning on you, and yet, here you are—still thinking you can win.”

Mackin’s finger tightened on the trigger, but something in Santoro’s voice made him hesitate. A flicker of doubt flashed across his mind, but he pushed it aside.

“I told you, Santoro. As long as I’m breathing, you haven’t won anything.”

Santoro’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “And how long do you think that will be?”

Before Mackin could react, the gunfire started again—this time from behind. Lambo cried out, collapsing to the floor as a bullet ripped through his shoulder. Mackin spun around just in time to see more of Santoro’s men pouring into the room, guns blazing.

The room erupted into chaos as Mackin dove for cover, returning fire with lethal precision. But it was clear now. This had been a trap all along. Santoro had been ready, waiting for Mackin to make his final move.

As the bullets flew, Mackin realised with chilling clarity that Santoro had been one step ahead the entire time.

In the chaos, Mackin managed to take out three more of Santoro’s men, but it wasn’t enough. The odds were stacked against him, and he knew it. Lambo was bleeding out beside him, struggling to stay conscious as the fight raged on.

Santoro remained calm, watching the scene unfold with detached amusement. “This is what power looks like, Mackin,” he said, his voice cutting through the gunfire. “Not brute force, not fear—control. And I’ve controlled you from the start.”

Mackin gritted his teeth, rage boiling inside him. “You haven’t won yet.”

But even as he said the words, he knew they rang hollow.

As the firefight continued, the realisation hit Mackin like a sledgehammer. He was losing. Not just the battle, but the war. His empire was falling apart, and now, in this moment of reckoning, he understood the full cost of his ambition.

But Mackin wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

With one last burst of energy, he charged forward, his gun blazing, his mind focused on one thing: killing Santoro. If he could just get close enough, he could end it all with a single bullet.

But as he closed the distance, Santoro’s men closed in from all sides. And then, the world exploded into pain.

A bullet tore through Mackin’s side, sending him crashing to the floor. The room spun around him, the sounds of gunfire fading into a dull roar as blood pooled beneath him.

Santoro stepped forward, standing over Mackin’s fallen body. “You fought well, Mackin,” he said quietly, his smile now one of pity. “But this was never your city. It was mine.”

Mackin’s vision blurred, his strength fading as he stared up at the man who had taken everything from him. He tried to lift his gun, but his hand was too weak, his body failing him.

Santoro knelt beside him, whispering the final words that Mackin would ever hear. “Goodbye, Mackin.”

And then the world went dark.