The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 52

With Franco’s death, Santoro solidifies his control over the city, but his reign is far from secure. The power vacuum left by Mackin’s fall continues to breed discontent, and new threats begin to emerge from the shadows.

As Santoro struggles to maintain control, whispers of rebellion spread once more. The city may have a new king, but the seeds of revolution have already been planted.

The game of power is never truly over.

The city seemed quieter in the days following Franco’s death, but that silence wasn’t peace. It was the kind of stillness that came before a storm, the calm that hid the unrest bubbling beneath the surface. Carmine Santoro’s grip on the streets was tightening, but the more he squeezed, the more the cracks in his reign began to widen. He had crushed the last remnants of Mackin’s loyalists, or so he thought, but deep down, he knew the battle was far from over.

Santoro sat at the head of a long mahogany table in his penthouse, the lights of the city twinkling far below. Around him were his top lieutenants, men who had been with him from the beginning. Vito sat at his right, his expression neutral, though Santoro could sense the unease in him. They had won, but victory felt more fragile with each passing day.

“The streets are quiet for now,” Vito said, his voice calm but cautious. “Franco’s death sent a clear message, and most of Mackin’s remaining loyalists have gone underground. We’re not hearing much resistance.”

Santoro nodded, though his gaze remained fixed on the city skyline. “That’s because they’re waiting. They’re not stupid, Vito. They know they can’t fight me head-on, but they’re watching. Waiting for a weakness.”

One of the lieutenants, a man named Rocco, spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “So what do we do? If we keep hitting them, it’ll only stir up more trouble.”

Santoro’s eyes flicked to Rocco, his gaze hard. “We hit them when they make a move. Until then, we control the narrative. We remind this city that anyone who opposes us gets crushed.”

Rocco leaned back, crossing his arms. “That’s what we’ve been doing. But some of the younger guys are starting to question things. They think Mackin’s ghost is still out there, haunting us.”

A thin smile tugged at the corners of Santoro’s mouth. “Let them talk. Fear can be useful. As long as they fear me more than they fear Mackin’s memory, we’ll be fine.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Santoro’s words sinking in. His rule was built on control—on fear, power, and precision. But fear was a double-edged sword. It could keep men in line, but it could also breed desperation, and desperate men did dangerous things.

Vito cleared his throat. “We’ve got intel on some of the smaller factions in the city. They’ve stayed neutral so far, but with Mackin gone, they’re starting to see opportunities. We need to keep them on our side, or at least keep them from getting any ideas.”

Santoro nodded slowly, his mind already racing through the possibilities. “Reach out to their leaders. Make them offers they can’t refuse. If they’re smart, they’ll take the deal. If not, we remind them what happens when they step out of line.”

Vito stood, gathering the reports spread out on the table. “I’ll handle it.”

Santoro watched as his men filtered out of the room, his gaze lingering on Vito for a moment longer. Vito had been loyal for years, but even loyalty had its limits. Santoro could sense the tension growing between them—the quiet questioning in Vito’s eyes. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of men who thought they could be king.

Santoro walked to the window, staring out at the city he now controlled. The streets below seemed peaceful, but he knew better. Power was a fickle thing, and while he held it now, he could feel it slip through his fingers.

Elsewhere in the city, the seeds of rebellion were already being planted. In the forgotten corners, where the glow of streetlights barely reached, whispers of discontent spread like wildfire. The death of Franco had rattled the remaining loyalists, but it hadn’t crushed them. It had only made them more determined.

In a dimly lit basement beneath an old boxing gym a group of former Mackin loyalists gathered, their faces hidden in shadow. At the head of the table sat Mateo, a former enforcer who had served under Mackin’s regime for years. He had kept a low profile since Mackin’s death, but now, with Santoro tightening his grip, Mateo knew the time had come to make a move.

“They think we’re finished,” Mateo said, his voice low but steady. “They think that because Franco’s dead, we’re all too scared to fight back. But that’s exactly why we need to hit them now, while they’re still looking over their shoulders.”

One of the younger men, Tony, leaned forward, his face filled with frustration. “We’ve been lying low for weeks. Every time we try to make a move, Santoro’s men are right there, shutting us down. How do we fight back when they’re watching everything?”

Mateo’s jaw tightened. He had thought about that question every day since Mackin had fallen. Santoro’s men had eyes and ears everywhere, and any sign of rebellion was met with swift, brutal force. But Mateo also knew that Santoro’s greatest strength—his control over the city—was also his weakness.

“We fight smart,” Mateo said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “We hit him where he’s not expecting. Santoro’s too focused on the big picture—he’s trying to control the whole city. But we don’t need to take the whole city back. We just need to take pieces. Little by little, we make him bleed.”

The others around the table exchanged glances, the spark of hope beginning to flicker in their eyes. Mateo had always been a strategist, and if anyone could find a way to fight back, it was him.

“What’s the plan?” Tony asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.

Mateo leaned forward, the tension in the room palpable. “We start small. We go after his supply lines, his finances. We disrupt his operations in ways he won’t see coming. He’s too busy trying to play king—he won’t notice us until it’s too late.”

The others nodded, their resolve hardening. The war wasn’t over. Not yet. And if they played their cards right, Santoro’s reign would crumble just as quickly as it had risen.

Back in his penthouse, Santoro was oblivious to the growing unrest. He had spent the past few days consolidating his power, cutting deals with the city’s smaller factions and eliminating anyone who posed a threat. But even as he strengthened his hold, there was an unease in the air, a sense that something was brewing beneath the surface.

Santoro sat at his desk, going over the latest reports from his lieutenants. Vito had just returned from a meeting with one of the neutral factions in the city, and the deal had gone as expected. Santoro had offered them protection in exchange for loyalty, and they had accepted. But even as he read the report, something felt off.

The door to his office opened, and Vito stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

“What is it?” Santoro asked, not looking up from the papers.

Vito hesitated for a moment before speaking. “We’ve got a problem.”

Santoro’s eyes narrowed, and he set the papers aside, looking up at Vito. “What kind of problem?”

Vito shifted uncomfortably. “Mateo. He’s still out there, and he’s starting to rally the rest of Mackin’s old crew. They’re small now, but if we let them keep growing, they could become a real threat.”

Santoro’s jaw clenched. He had underestimated Mateo, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“Then we don’t let them grow,” Santoro said coldly. “I want Mateo taken out before he can gather any more support. Make sure his people know what happens to anyone who stands against me.”

Vito nodded, but the tension between them was palpable. Santoro could feel the doubt lingering in the air, like a ghost haunting the room.

“And Vito,” Santoro said, his voice dangerously quiet, “don’t make me question your loyalty.”

Vito’s eyes flickered with something—fear, perhaps or resentment—but he nodded again, his face unreadable. “You won’t have to.”

As Vito left the room, Santoro leaned back in his chair, his thoughts racing. The rebellion was small now, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long if he didn’t crush it. He had won the city, but holding it was another matter entirely. The game of power was never over—not in this city.

Santoro poured himself a drink, staring into the glass as though it held the answers. He had become the king, but even kings could fall.

And somewhere, in the shadows, his enemies were waiting.