The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 56

As Nico’s plot crumbles under the weight of Santoro’s final trap, the city descends into chaos once more. With the rebellion crushed, Santoro tightens his grip on the underworld, but his victory is far from secure.

New enemies rise from the ashes, and the cost of maintaining power becomes more dangerous than ever. The war for control of the city is far from over, and the final reckoning is about to begin.

The king’s throne is more fragile than ever.

Gunfire echoed across the docks, a symphony of violence that marked the death knell of Nico’s rebellion. His crew was pinned down, outnumbered, and surrounded. The once-cautious strikes that had bled Santoro’s empire dry now seemed like distant victories, erased by the brutal reality of the present. Blood slicked the asphalt beneath Nico’s feet, and the bodies of his fallen comrades lay scattered in the shadows, motionless.

Pinned behind a stack of crates, Nico wiped the sweat and blood from his brow. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as the sharp stench of saltwater and gunpowder filled his lungs. Tony was beside him, reloading as fast as he could, his face twisted in panic.

“We’re done, Nico,” Tony panted, his voice barely audible over the gunfire. “We’ve got no way out.”

Nico’s mind raced. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to hit the warehouse, cripple Santoro’s cash flow, and spark the rebellion that would topple the king. But Santoro had been waiting for them. He had played them like pawns, luring them into a trap that they now couldn’t escape.

Nico peeked over the crates, firing a few rounds at the approaching soldiers, but it was hopeless. They were closing in, and soon there would be nowhere left to hide.

“Get to the boat,” Nico shouted, pushing Tony towards the water where a small, battered fishing boat was docked. It had been their escape plan if things went south, but now it seemed like their only shot at survival.

“But what about the others?” Tony asked, his eyes wide with desperation.

Nico’s jaw clenched as another volley of bullets ricocheted off the crates. “There’s no one else left. Move!”

Tony hesitated for a split second before sprinting towards the boat. Nico followed, his body low as he ducked behind cover. Santos’s men were everywhere, but they couldn’t afford to stop. Every step was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder that this could be the end.

As they reached the boat, Tony fired up the engine, his hands shaking with adrenaline. Nico jumped in, throwing himself flat as more bullets whizzed past them. The engine roared to life, and the boat lurched forward, cutting through the dark, choppy waters of the harbour.

For a moment, it seemed like they might make it.

But then, a shot rang out. Tony gasped, clutching his chest as he slumped over the wheel. Nico’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Tony!” he shouted, grabbing him before he slid into the water. Blood poured from Tony’s wound, soaking the deck beneath them.

“I’m sorry,” Tony choked, his voice barely a whisper as his eyes fluttered shut.

Nico pressed his hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. The light in Tony’s eyes dimmed, and within moments, he was gone.

Rage coursed through Nico’s veins, mixing with the pain and the loss. He looked back towards the docks, seeing the distant flashes of gunfire as Santoro’s men continued their sweep. He had lost everything—his crew, his fight, his chance at victory.

But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

Nico’s hands gripped the wheel, steering the boat out towards the open sea, his mind already plotting his next move. Santoro had won this battle, but the war wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

Back at the docks, Carmine Santoro stood among the wreckage of the night’s chaos, the smell of smoke and death lingering in the cool night air. His men moved through the scene like shadows, their faces grim but victorious. The rebellion was dead. Nico’s crew had been wiped out, and Santoro had crushed the last remnants of Mackin Jones’ legacy under his boot.

But Santoro didn’t feel victorious. Not yet.

Vito approached, his expression as unreadable as ever. “We found most of the bodies,” he said, glancing at the carnage around them. “But there’s no sign of Nico.”

Santoro’s eyes darkened. “He got away?”

Vito nodded. “Looks like it. His boat’s gone. Some of the men saw it speeding off, but they didn’t get a clear shot.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Santoro’s rage simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. Nico was supposed to die tonight. This was supposed to be the end of the rebellion, the final chapter in a war that had dragged on for far too long. But now, Nico was still out there, still a threat.

“Send out every man we have,” Santoro said coldly. “I want him found. I don’t care if we have to search every inch of this city. We don’t stop until Nico is dead.”

Vito nodded, though Santoro could see the unease in his eyes. He had given this order before—several times, in fact—and every time, Nico had slipped through their grasp. The longer this dragged on, the more fragile Santoro’s rule felt.

As Vito turned to leave, Santoro stood alone amid the bodies, staring out at the dark water. Nico had gotten away, but he wouldn’t get far. Santoro would hunt him down, just like he had hunted down Mateo. There was no escaping the king.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Santoro couldn’t shake the feeling that something was slipping. His empire was intact, but it was fraying at the edges. He had crushed every challenge that had come his way, but with each victory, the cost seemed to grow heavier.

The war for control of the city wasn’t over. And Santoro knew, deep down, that as long as Nico was alive, it never would be.

In the days that followed the massacre at the docks, the city was eerily quiet. Santoro’s men patrolled the streets, keeping the smaller factions in check and ensuring that everyone knew who was in charge. But despite the surface-level calm, there was tension in the air. People whispered in hushed tones about the battle, about how Nico had escaped, and about what would come next.

In a dimly lit bar in the heart of the industrial district, a group of Santoro’s lieutenants gathered around a table, their faces shadowed and tense.

“Have you heard the latest?” one of them whispered, leaning forward. “People are saying Nico’s still alive. That he’s planning something big.”

Another man scoffed, though there was unease in his voice. “That’s just rumours. Santoro will find him. He always does.”

But the others weren’t convinced. The truth was, that Nico’s survival had shaken them. Santoro had won every battle, but the longer this war dragged on, the more people began to wonder how long the king could hold onto his crown.

“What if this time’s different?” one of the younger lieutenants asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if Nico’s got something up his sleeve? The streets are talking. People are starting to think Santoro isn’t invincible.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud. It was the kind of talk that could get a man killed, but the tension in the room told them all that the doubt had already taken root.

“Shut up,” the older lieutenant hissed, his eyes darting around the bar. “You want Santoro to hear you talking like that? You’ll end up with a bullet in your skull.”

The younger man fell silent, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

Nico lay low in a safe house far from the city’s centre, his body aching from the battle and the bullet wound that still hadn’t healed. He had lost his crew, his brother-in-arms, Tony, and nearly everything he had fought for. But he was still alive. And that meant he still had a chance to finish what he’d started.

He sat in the dark, staring at the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his torso, his mind racing. Santoro thought he had won. He thought Nico was on the run, broken and desperate. But Nico wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

The fight wasn’t over.

He would come back. He would rebuild. And next time, Santoro wouldn’t see him coming.

Carmine Santoro sat in his office, staring at the latest reports from his men. The rebellion was crushed, Nico’s forces scattered, and yet something didn’t sit right. Every time Santoro thought he had won, Nico found a way to survive. He had become more than just an enemy—he had become a phantom, haunting every corner of Santoro’s empire.

Vito entered the room, his face grim. “We’ve been searching for days,” he said quietly. “Still no sign of Nico.”

Santoro’s jaw tightened. “Keep searching. I want him dead.”

Vito nodded, but there was doubt in his eyes. “And if we can’t find him?”

Santoro’s eyes darkened. “Then we make sure he has nowhere to hide.”

Vito left, and Santoro was alone again. The king had survived another battle, but the war was far from over. As Santoro stared out at the city he had fought so hard to control, he knew one thing for certain:

The real fight was only just beginning.