The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 50

The city hadn’t slept since the night Mackin Jones fell. Word spread faster than wildfire through the streets, from the glittering high-rises of the business district to the dark alleys where whispers of betrayal and bloodshed ran rampant. The king was dead, and in his place stood Carmine Santoro, a man who had played his cards so well that his victory seemed inevitable.

In the early hours of the morning, Santoro stood at the window of his penthouse, gazing out over the city that was now, unquestionably, his. He had orchestrated Mackin’s downfall with surgical precision, dismantling his empire piece by piece until all that was left was the broken man lying in a pool of his blood. Santoro had always known that to truly take over, he would need to destroy Mackin from within—shattering the loyalty of his men, turning the city against him, and then finally, delivering the killing blow.

Now, with Mackin gone, Santoro’s reign could truly begin.

Vito stood behind him, his face pale but relieved. “It’s over,” he said quietly. “Mackin’s gone. The city is yours.”

Santoro didn’t respond immediately. He watched as the sun began to rise over the skyline, casting a golden hue across the towering buildings. This was what he had fought for, what he had waited for. Years of patience, manipulation, and cunning had led to this moment. But Santoro wasn’t a man who celebrated victories too soon. He knew that even now, with Mackin’s empire crumbling, there were still threats. There always were.

“It’s never really over, Vito,” Santoro finally said, his voice calm and measured. “The moment you think you’ve won, that’s when the real enemies show themselves.”

Vito frowned. “What do you mean? Mackin’s dead. His men are either dead or scattered. There’s no one left to challenge us.”

Santoro turned, his sharp eyes fixing on Vito. “Mackin may be dead, but power is a vacuum. And vacuums attract oportunists. Ambitious men who see an opening will try to claim it for themselves. The moment they sense weakness, they’ll move in.”

Vito nodded slowly, understanding the point. “So what’s the plan?”

Santoro smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with the cold calculation that had brought him this far. “We don’t give them time to organise. We consolidate power, strengthen our hold on the city, and eliminate any potential threats before they can act. Mackin’s death will send shockwaves through the underworld, and we need to be ready for the ripples.”

Vito nodded again, more confident this time. “We’ll tighten security on all fronts. Anyone who even thinks about making a move against us won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Santoro stepped away from the window, his mind already turning to the next steps. His ascension to power was just the beginning. Now came the hard part: maintaining control.

“Start with Mackin’s remaining lieutenants,” Santoro said, his voice low. “Some of them may think they can seize parts of his empire for themselves. We remind them that this city belongs to us now.”

Vito’s expression hardened. “Consider it done.”

Santoro watched as Vito left the room, the weight of his new crown settling on his shoulders. He had won the war, but the battles were far from over. The city was his, but only as long as he could keep it.

Wherever in the city, chaos reigned. Mackin’s death had left a gaping hole in the underworld, and factions that had once sworn loyalty to him were now scrambling for position. Some saw an opportunity in the power vacuum, while others feared Santoro’s iron grip and wondered if they could survive under his rule.

In a dimly lit bar tucked away in the city’s forgotten corners, a small group of Mackin’s former men gathered in hushed whispers. They had heard the news, and while some were terrified, others were angry—furious at how quickly Mackin’s empire had fallen.

One of Mackin’s top lieutenants, Franco, slammed his fist on the table, his face twisted with frustration. “We can’t just roll over and let Santoro take everything. Mackin built this empire from the ground up, and now we’re just supposed to give it all to him?”

The others around the table shifted uncomfortable. Franco had always been a hothead, but he was one of the few left with any real power in the remnants of Mackin’s organisation.

“He’s already got half the city under his control,” one of the men said quietly. “Anyone who’s tried to stand up to him has either disappeared or ended up dead. You think we stand a chance?”

Franco’s eyes burnt with defiance. “We don’t stand a chance if we don’t fight. Santoro may have taken Mackin down, but he’s not invincible. We just need to find his weak spot.”

Another man, an older enforcer who had been with Mackin from the beginning, shook his head. “And what happens if we try and fail? Santoro’s not like Mackin. He doesn’t make examples out of people—he wipes them off the map.”

Franco leaned forward, his voice low but filled with determination. “We don’t need to take him down in one hit. We start small—chip away at his power, disrupt his operations. The more chaos we create, the harder it will be for him to maintain control. Mackin taught us that.”

The others exchanged glances, the tension palpable. They knew Franco was right in principle, but the fear of Santo’s wrath loomed large. Still, the idea of simply bowing down and accepting Santoro’s rule didn’t sit well with any of them.

After a long pause, one of the men spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. “If we’re going to do this, we need to be smart. Santoro’s watching everything. One wrong move, and we’re finished.”

Franco’s face hardened, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then we don’t make a wrong move. We hit him where he’s weakest, and we remind this city that Mackin’s legacy isn’t dead.”

The weeks that followed were filled with a quiet, simmering tension. On the surface, it seemed as though Carmine Santoro had won. His men controlled the streets, and his reach extended into every corner of the city’s underworld. But beneath that façade of control, trouble was brewing.

Franco and the remnants of Mackin’s loyalists began their campaign of sabotage, hitting Santoro’s operations with small, targeted strikes. They disrupted shipments, attacked distribution centres, and made life difficult for Santoro’s crews. It wasn’t enough to topple him, but it was enough to cause frustration—and to make Santoro’s men wonder if their new king was as secure as he appeared.

At first, Santoro dismissed the attacks as minor inconveniences—annoyances that could be dealt with quickly. But as the strikes became more frequent, his irritation grew into anger.

In his penthouse, Santoro paced back and forth, his mind racing. “These attacks need to stop,” he growled, his voice laced with frustration. “We can’t afford to look weak, not now.”

Vito stood nearby, his face tense. “We’re tracking them down, but these guys are ghosts. They hit and disappear before we can get a handle on them.”

Santoro slammed his fist down on the desk. “Then find them. I don’t care what it takes. These remnants of Mackin’s empire need to be wiped out. I want them gone by the end of the week.”

Vito nodded quickly, but the tension in the room was thick. Santoro was losing his patience, and when Carmine Santoro lost his patience, people died.

As Vito left the room, Santoro returned to the window, staring out over the city that was supposed to be his. He had played the long game, orchestrating Mackin’s downfall with precision. But now, the cracks were starting to show. And Santoro knew that in a city like this, cracks could become fault lines.

The tension between Santoro’s forces and Mackin’s remaining loyalists reached a boiling point one night when Franco led a daring raid on one of Santoro’s key warehouses. The attack was swift, brutal, and devastating. Santoro’s men had been caught off guard, and by the time the dust settled, the warehouse was in flames, and several of Santoro’s top lieutenants were dead.

The message was clear: Mackin’s legacy wasn’t dead yet.

When word of the attack reached Santoro, his fury was palpable. He paced his office, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge. The city was supposed to be his, and now these remnants of Mackin’s crew were threatening to unravel everything he had built.

“Enough is enough,” Santoro muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “We end this now.”

He picked up the phone, issuing orders to his most trusted enforcers. “I want Franco and his crew dead by sunrise. No more playing games. I want their bodies on display for the whole city to see.”

As the night wore on, Franco and his men knew the end was coming. They had pushed Santos to the edge, and now they would pay the price. But even as they prepared for their final stand, there was a grim satisfaction among them. They had made their mark. They had shown the city that Mackin’s empire, though fractured, wasn’t broken.

In the early hours of the morning, as Santoro’s men closed in, Franco stood with his remaining crew, their guns drawn, their faces set in grim determination.

“We go down fighting,” Franco said quietly, his voice steady. “For Mackin.”

And with that, the final battle for the soul of the city began.