The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 57

With Nico still on the run and Santoro’s empire beginning to fray, the city teeters on the edge of chaos once more. Santoro tightens his grip, but his enemies are gathering in the shadows, waiting for their moment to strike.

As the battle for control reaches its breaking point, both Santoro and Nico will be forced to confront the cost of their war—and the truth that there can only be one king in the city’s underworld.

The final confrontation is drawing near.

The days after the docks massacre were marked by an unsettling calm, a quiet that felt more like the city was holding its breath than basking in the victory Carmine Santoro thought he had won.

Santoro's men patrolled the streets like wolves on the hunt, ensuring everyone knew the rebellion had been crushed, but the whispers were louder than ever. Nico had escaped, and his survival was a thorn in Santoro's side, one that continued to fester with each passing day.

In the luxury of his penthouse, Santoro sat at the edge of his leather chair, staring out the window as the sun set over the city. The skyline glittered, but there was something hollow about it as if the glow of the buildings was nothing more than a facade hiding the cracks beneath.

Vito entered the room, moving quietly. His face, usually unreadable, was drawn with fatigue. "We’ve got nothing on Nico,” he said, his voice low. “The men are starting to think he’s a ghost."

Santoro’s jaw clenched. The thought of Nico slipping away from him again, of the city still buzzing with rumours about his return, gnawed at his control. Nico had survived every trap Santoro had laid, and now his continued existence threatened the empire Santoro had killed for.

"Keep looking," Santoro said coldly, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "He's out there. And I don't care how long it takes—we find him."

Vito nodded, but the unease lingered between them. Santoro could sense it. His men were growing restless. Nico had become a symbol, a ghost haunting every corner of the city. And in a place like this, ghosts had power. Power Santoro couldn’t afford to ignore.

"People are starting to talk," Vito added, his voice quiet but insistent. "They're saying you're losing control. That maybe Nico is the one who should be running things."

Santoro’s grip tightened on the arm of his chair. He could feel it slipping—the respect, the fear that had kept his men in line. The rebellion had been crushed, but Nico's shadow still loomed large. "Is that what you think?" Santoro asked, his voice soft but dangerous.

Vito hesitated, then shook his head. "No, boss. But you need to squash this before it gets out of hand. We can’t afford any more doubt. Not now."

Santoro stood, his movements slow and deliberate. "Then squash it. Make sure anyone who's spreading these rumours disappears. Remind them that I’m still in control. I don't care how we do it—just make it happen."

Vito nodded and left the room, but the tension hung in the air like smoke. Santoro knew he was walking a razor's edge. Every move had to be perfect. Every message was sent with precision. One wrong step and everything he had built would crumble.

But Nico was still out there, and as long as he was alive, Santo’s throne would never feel secure.

Nico sat in a dark room, bandages still wrapped tightly around his chest where the bullet had grazed him at the docks. His breathing was laboured, but he was alive. Barely. His hideout was far from the city’s centre, a place where Santoro’s men wouldn’t think to look. For now, he was safe.

But safety wasn’t the goal. Revenge was.

He ran a hand over his face, rough stubble scratching his palm. Everything had gone wrong at the docks. Tony was dead. Most of his crew was gone. He had lost men and friends. And for what? A trap that Santoro had laid so perfectly. But he hadn’t killed Nico. And that was Santo’s mistake.

The small group of men who had survived with Nico were gathered around him now, their faces grim but determined. They had lost nearly everything, but they still had their loyalty. That was something Santoro couldn’t take.

"How long do we lie low?" Luis asked, his voice a rasp from too many nights of sleepless tension.

Nico exhaled slowly, wincing from the pain in his chest. "Not long. We’ve given Santoro enough time to think he’s won. He’s getting comfortable again. That’s when we hit him."

Luis leaned forward. "But with what? We’ve lost too many men. We don’t have the numbers to fight him head-on anymore."

Nico’s eyes narrowed, his mind already spinning with possibilities. "We don’t need numbers. We just need the right people. There are still plenty of men out there who hate Santoro as much as we do. Gangs that stayed neutral, smaller crews that didn’t want to get caught in the war. They’re waiting for someone to stand up and take charge. We rally them. And we show this city that Santoro isn’t untouchable."

The others exchanged uneasy glances, but they trusted Nico. He had survived what should have been his death. He had come back from the brink. If anyone could bring Santoro down, it was him.

Luis gave a slow nod. "Alright. But how do we start? Santoro’s got his claws in everything."

Nico's lip curled into a half-smile. "We start where he’s weakest—his trust. Santoro’s got enemies, even within his crew. We turn them against him."

While Nico’s plans simmered in the dark, Santoro continued tightening his grip on the city. His soldiers moved with ruthless efficiency, cracking down on any whispers of rebellion and silencing anyone who dared to question his reign. But even as his men patrolled the streets, Santoro knew he couldn’t crush the whispers completely. Doubt had spread like cancer, and it had taken root in places he couldn’t reach.

His empire was still strong, but cracks were forming. And Nico’s shadow only deepened them.

It was on one of these tense nights that Vito returned to Santoro’s penthouse, his face more troubled than usual. Santoro looked up from his desk, sensing the weight of the news before Vito even spoke.

“We’ve got a problem,” Vito said, his voice low.

Santoro’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”

Vito stepped closer, his expression grim. “One of our lieutenants—Giovanni—has been talking. He’s been meeting with other crews, feeding them information.”

Rage flashed across Santoro’s face. “What kind of information?”

“Not much yet, but it’s enough to make them think they can move against you. He’s been careful, but word’s getting around. Nico’s name has come up.”

Santoro slammed his fist onto the desk, the sound echoing through the room. “That rat.”

Vito stood still, his face set in a hard line. “Giovanni’s been with us a long time, but I think he’s feeling the pressure. If Nico’s name is getting around, he might be trying to hedge his bets.”

Santoro’s heart pounded with fury, but beneath the anger was a chilling realisation: Nico was still pulling strings from the shadows. Somehow, even without an army, even with his rebellion crushed, Nico had found a way to sow doubt among Santoro’s men. Giovanni’s betrayal was proof of that.

“What do we do?” Vito asked, his voice soft but tense.

Santoro’s eyes burnt with cold intensity. “We make an example out of him. Call Giovanni in, and make him think it’s business as usual. Then we deal with him.”

Vito nodded, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. Santoro had become more ruthless in the weeks since Nico’s escape, more paranoid. And though Vito had always followed his orders without question, he couldn’t ignore the way Santoro’s grip was tightening—not just on the city, but on everyone around him.

Giovanni arrived at Santoro’s penthouse the next night, oblivious to the trap that had been set for him. He walked in with the same air of confidence he had carried since the early days of Santoro’s rise, his loyalty never in question. Or so he thought.

Santoro greeted him with a cool smile, his demeanour calm. But behind the calm was a storm brewing—one Giovanni never saw coming.

“Giovanni,” Santoro said smoothly, pouring two glasses of whisky. “Good to see you.”

Giovanni nodded, taking the glass with a smile. “Always a pleasure, boss. Everything’s running smoothly. No trouble on my end.”

Santoro raised his glass, watching Giovanni closely. “That’s good to hear.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension palpable. Giovanni sipped his drink, unaware of the danger he was in.

“So,” Santoro said, leaning forward slightly, his voice soft. “I’ve been hearing some interesting things, Giovanni. Word on the street is you’ve been having meetings. Private ones.”

Giovanni’s smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face. “Meetings? No, boss, I—”

Santoro’s smile disappeared in an instant. “Don’t lie to me.”

Giovanni froze his drink halfway to his lips. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in around him. “Boss, I swear, I—”

Before he could finish, Santoro was on him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. Giovanni’s drink shattered on the floor as he struggled to catch his breath, panic flooding his eyes.

“You’ve been feeding information to the other crews,” Santoro hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve been talking about Nico.”

Giovanni shook his head frantically, his voice shaking. “No, no, I haven’t—I swear, I—”

Santoro pulled a knife from his jacket, pressing the blade to Giovanni’s throat. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You think I don’t know that you’ve been hedging your bets, waiting to see if Nico’s going to make a move? You’re a rat, Giovanni. And I don’t tolerate rats.”

Tears welled in Giovanni’s eyes as he tried to plead for his life, but Santoro’s expression remained cold, unfeeling. In one swift motion, Santoro sliced the blade across Giovanni’s throat, silencing him forever.

As Giovanni collapsed to the floor, choking on his ow blood, Santoro stood over him, wiping the blade clean. His hands were steady, but inside, his fury was burning. He had been betrayed by one of his own, and Nico’s name was still in the air.

Vito stepped forward, his face impassive. “What now?”

Santoro looked down at the body, then back at Vito. “Send a message. Make sure every man in this city knows what happens to traitors.”

Vito nodded, but as he turned to carry out the order, Santoro’s words lingered in the air like a curse.

The king had dealt with another threat, but the shadow of doubt still loomed.