The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 54

With Mateo’s rebellion growing more dangerous by the day, Santoro launches a brutal campaign to eliminate the remnants of Mackin’s loyalists once and for all.

But as the battle intensifies, new alliances are formed, and both sides are forced to confront the reality that this war will cost them more than they ever imagined. Santoro’s control over the city is slipping, and the wrath of the king will be felt by all.

The final reckoning is coming.

The smell of burnt cash and blood still lingered in the air as Carmine Santoro paced the charred remnants of his cash house. The attack had been a gut punch, a reminder that even the most fortified walls could be breached. Mateo’s crew had done more than steal money—they had struck at Santoro’s very core, undermining the image of untouchability he had cultivated for so long. The news of the raid had already begun to ripple through the streets, fueling rumours that maybe—just maybe—Santoro wasn’t as invincible as he seemed.

But he couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.

Vito stood nearby, his face as unreadable as always, but Santoro could sense his hesitation. “We’ve been tracking Mateo’s men,” Vito said, breaking the heavy silence. “We think we’ve got a lead on where they’re hiding out. It’s not confirmed, but—”

“I don’t care if it’s confirmed or not,” Santoro snapped, cutting him off. “We don’t wait for confirmation. We go in now, and we burn everything to the ground.”

Vito’s eyes flickered with unease, but he nodded. He knew better than to question Santoro when he was in this mood. The king was angry, and that meant blood would flow.

“I want you to send every man we’ve got,” Santoro continued, his voice low and menacing. “I don’t care if they have to turn the city upside down. Mateo and his people are finished. No more playing games. No more sending messages. We end this tonight.”

Vito nodded once more and turned to make the necessary calls, his shoulders stiff with the weight of the order. Santoro’s eyes narrowed as he watched Vito leave, his mind racing with a singular, focused intent. He had been too lenient, too patient. He had allowed Mateo’s rebellion to fester, thinking it was a small problem that could be handled with minimal effort. But Mateo had proven to be more than a nuisance—he had become a threat.

Now, Santoro would remind the city who the true king was.

Mateo lay on a makeshift cot in the dimly lit basement of an old factory, the air thick with the smell of rust and damp concrete. His side ached where the bullet had grazed him during the cash house raid, but the pain was manageable. It was nothing compared to the stakes of the war they were fighting.

Tony sat nearby, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he checked the ammunition for his gun. The raid had been successful, but barely. They had made it out with a significant amount of Santoro’s money, but they had lost men—good men. And now, they knew Santoro would retaliate with everything he had.

“We hit him hard,” Tony said, breaking the tense silence. “But it wasn’t enough. He’s coming for us, Mateo. We all know it.”

Mateo gritted his teeth, ignoring the dull throb in his side as he forced himself to sit up. “I know. But this was never about one big win. We keep hitting him. Keep making him bleed until there’s nothing left.”

Tony looked sceptical. “He’s got more men, more money, and more resources. We’re running on fumes. How long do you think we can keep this up before he corners us?”

Mateo met Tony’s gaze, his eyes hard with determination. “As long as it takes. We’re not going down without a fight.”

The room fell into silence again, the weight of their situation pressing down on everyone present. They were all battle-hardened, but even the toughest men had their breaking points. Mateo knew the risks—they all did. But if they gave up now, everything Mackin had built would be gone. The city would belong to Santoro, and there would be no one left to stop him.

“We’ve got one shot left,” Mateo said, his voice firm but low. “We take the fight to him. Santoro’s been acting like we’re nothing more than a nuisance, but now he knows we’re a real threat. That means he’s going to overreach. He’s going to make a mistake.”

Tony frowned. “You think we can get to him?”

Mateo nodded. “We don’t have to take down his entire empire. We just have to take down him.”

The men around the room exchanged uneasy glances, but slowly, they began to nod in agreement. Mateo’s plan was dangerous—maybe even suicidal—but it was the only option they had left. Santoro had the numbers, the firepower, and the money, but he was just one man. And like any man, he could be killed.

Later that night, the city was eerily quiet. The kind of silence that hinted at the chaos brewing beneath the surface. Santoro’s men were already on the move, sweeping through the streets in search of Mateo and his crew. The orders were clear: no prisoners, no mercy.

Santoro stood in his penthouse, watching as his empire moved in unison. He had always prided himself on control, on the way he could orchestrate events like a conductor leading a symphony. And tonight, he would lead the final movement in this deadly dance with Mateo. It would end with blood, but it would end.

Vito entered the room again, a phone in his hand. “We’ve got a location. Mateo’s crew has been spotted near the industrial district, holed up in one of the old factories. It’s not confirmed, but it’s the best lead we’ve had all week.”

Santoro turned from the window, his eyes sharp. “Send everyone. I want that building surrounded. No one gets in or out without my say-so.”

Vito hesitated for a moment. “Do you want us to take them alive, or—”

Santoro’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Kill them all. No one survives this.”

In the darkened factory, Mateo and his men were preparing for what they knew would be their final stand. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made every movement feel heavier and every breath more laboured. They knew Santoro was coming—it was only a matter of time.

Mateo’s side throbbed with pain, but he pushed it aside, focussing on the task at hand. He had led men into battle before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just a fight for survival—it was a fight for legacy. For Mackin’s memory. For the city, they once ruled.

Tony stood by the window, peeking through the cracked glass. “I see movement,” he whispered, his voice tight. “Santoro’s men. They’re closing in.”

Mateo grabbed his gun, the familiar weight of it comforting in his hand. “Get into position. We’re not going down without a fight.”

The others nodded, moving quickly into position, guns drawn and ready. The room was filled with the tense anticipation of men who knew they were facing impossible odds but who had chosen to fight anyway.

The first shots rang out, shattering the quiet night. Santoro’s men stormed the building, flooding in from every entrance. Mateo’s crew opened fire, taking down the first wave with practiced efficiency, but it wasn’t enough. More and more of Santoro’s soldiers poured in, and soon, the factory was a war zone.

Bullets ricocheted off metal beams and shattered windows. Mateo fired back, his movements quick and deadly, but the pain in his side slowed him down. He gritted his teeth, fighting through the agony as he took down another one of Santoro’s men.

Tony was beside him, reloading his gun as fast as he could. “We’re getting overwhelmed!” he shouted over the chaos. “There’s too many of them!”

Mateo didn’t respond. He knew Tony was right. The fight was spiralling out of control, and they were running out of time. Santoro’s men were too many, too well-equipped, and they were closing in fast.

A deafening explosion shook the building, sending debris flying across the room. Mateo was thrown to the ground, his ears ringing as he struggled to stay conscious. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see and hard to breathe. He felt Tony grab him, pulling him to his feet.

“We’ve got to fall back!” Tony shouted, his voice muffled by the ringing in Mateo’s ears.

But there was nowhere to fall back to. They were surrounded, trapped.

As Mateo staggered to his feet, he saw them—Santoro’s enforcers, moving in like vultures circling a dying prey. There was no escape.

Mateo raised his gun, but before he could fire, a sharp pain tore through his chest. He looked down, seeing the blood spreading across his shirt. The world around him blurred, and he stumbled back, collapsing against a steel beam.

He could hear Tony shouting, but the sound was distant, fading.

Mateo’s vision darkened, the edges of the world closing in. He had fought as hard as he could, but it wasn’t enough. As he lay there, the weight of defeat pressing down on him, one thought echoed through his mind.

For Mackin.

And then, there was nothing.

Carmine Santoro stood over Mateo’s lifeless body, his expression cold and unreadable. The factory was silent now, the battle over, the rebels dead. His men moved efficiently through the building, clearing the last of the resistance, but Santoro barely noticed them.

He had won. Mateo was dead. The rebellion was over.

Vito stepped forward, glancing down at the body. “It’s done,” he said quietly.

Santoro didn’t respond right away. He stared down at Mateo, his thoughts swirling. This war had cost him more than he had anticipated. Mateo had pushed him to the edge, forcing him to play a dangerous game of control. But now it was over.

“Burn it,” Santoro said, his voice cold. “Burn everything.”

Vito nodded, signalling to the others. As they moved to carry out the order, Santoro turned and walked out of the building, the flames already starting to rise behind him.

The king had struck back. But even in victory, there was no peace.