The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 60

Nico’s final plan to turn Santoro’s lieutenants against him reaches its critical point. Betrayal and desperation fuel the battle for control of the city. The final confrontation between Santoro and Nico is imminent, and the war for the throne will end in blood.

Only one man will walk away from the ruins of this city.

The streets of the city simmered with unease. Word of Lorenzo’s brutal execution spread quickly, his bloodied corpse dumped in an alley as a grim warning to anyone who dared to cross Santoro. But instead of quieting the unrest, it only added fuel to the fire.

The lieutenants who had once stood beside Santoro were now looking over their shoulders, wondering if they’d be next. Fear had always been Santoro’s weapon, but now it was turning on him, eroding the loyalty he had built brick by brick.

Inside his penthouse, Santos felt it. The creeping, insidious doubt. He had always been in control, always one step ahead, but now it felt like the city was slipping through his fingers. Vito had done his best to keep the men in line, but even Vito seemed to be wavering.

The pressure was mounting, and Santoro knew he was running out of time. Nico was still out there, still plotting, and every day that passed without Nico’s head on a spike made Santoro’s grip on power a little more tenuous.

Santoro stared at the whisky swirling in his glass, the amber liquid catching the light as his thoughts raced. The silence of the room was oppressive, thick with the weight of decisions not yet made. He had been ruthless when he needed to be—more than ruthless.

But it wasn’t enough. The city didn’t fear him the way it used to. And his men? They were starting to question him. He could see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices, no matter how much they tried to hide it.

Vito entered the room, his expression tense. He was always careful around Santoro these days, walking a thin line between loyalty and caution. “We’ve got a problem,” Vito said, his voice clipped. “Two of our guys were found dead in the warehouse district. Looks like another hit by Nico’s people.”

Santoro’s grip tightened around his glass, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “Nico,” he spat, the name like venom in his mouth. “How does he keep slipping through?”

Vito shook his head. “He’s got help, boss. We’ve been hearing rumours that some of the smaller crews are starting to rally behind him. They think he’s the one who can take you down.”

Santoro slammed the glass down on the desk, shattering it. Whisky and shards of glass scattered across the wood, but he didn’t care.

His patience was gone, burned away by weeks of unrest, betrayal, and bloodshed. “I want him found,” Santoro snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who we have to burn. We find him.”

Vito nodded, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something Santoro couldn’t quite place. “We’re already searching. But the city’s changing, Carmine. People are starting to believe Nico’s got a real shot.”

Santoro stepped towards Vito, his eyes dark with fury. “I don’t care what people believe. I run this city. Not Nico. Not anyone else. Me.”

But even as the words left his mouth, Santoro could feel the doubt creeping in. He had built his empire on fear and violence, but now those same tools were turning against him. His lieutenants were scared, but scared men weren’t always loyal. And if Nico was rallying the smaller crews if the city was truly starting to turn...

He had to act now. Fast. Ruthless. Before it was too late.

“Get the word out,” Santoro said, his voice cold and precise. “Double the bounty on Nico’s head. Offer them whatever they want. Money, power, anything. We flush him out.”

Vito hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It’ll be done.”

As Vito left, Santoro paced the room, his mind racing. Nico had become more than just a rival—he was a spectre, haunting every corner of Santoro’s empire. And the longer Nico stayed alive, the more that spectre grew. Santoro had crushed Mateo and wiped out the remnants of Mackin Jones’ crew, but Nico was different. Nico didn’t need an army. He was turning Santoro’s fear against him.

And Santoro knew it.

Nico stood on the rooftop of a derelict building, looking out over the city that had been his home for so long. The skyline glittered in the distance, the pulse of the city still beating despite the chaos that had consumed it. But beneath the surface, Nico could feel the shift. Santoro was losing control, and the city knew it.

Luis stood beside him, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face drawn with exhaustion. “Word’s spreading,” Luis said. “People are starting to believe we’ve got a shot at taking Santoro down. But it’s risky, Nico. Santoro’s getting desperate. He’s throwing money and threats at anyone who’ll listen.”

Nico nodded, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. He had expected this. Santoro was cornered, and like any cornered animal, he was lashing out. But desperation wasn’t strength. It was a weakness. And Nico knew that if they pushed just a little harder, Santoro’s empire would collapse under its weight.

“We need to hit him where it hurts,” Nico said quietly. “We’ve rattled him, but it’s not enough. He still thinks he’s in control.”

Luis frowned. “What are you thinking?”

Nico turned to face him, his expression hard. “We go after his money. His real money. Santoro’s got stash houses all over the city, but there’s one—one that’s bigger than the rest. That’s where he’s keeping the bulk of his cash.”

Luis raised an eyebrow. “You think we can pull that off?”

Nico’s lip curled into a grim smile. “We don’t have to. We just have to make Santoro think we’re going to.”

Luis crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “A setup?”

Nico nodded. “We hit the smaller stash houses first; make it look like we’re closing in on the big one. Santoro will panic. He’ll pull his men from everywhere else to protect his money. And when he does, we hit him where he’s weakest.”

Luis was silent for a moment, considering the plan. It was risky, but it made sense. Santoro’s empire was already fraying at the edges, and if they could push him just a little further, the whole thing might come crashing down. “Alright,” Luis said finally. “Let’s do it.”

The first hit came quickly. Nico’s crew moved fast, hitting one of Santoro’s smaller cash operations on the outskirts of the city. They didn’t take everything—just enough to send a message. The next hit came two nights later, this time closer to the heart of Santoro’s territory. Each strike was precise, calculated, and designed to make Santoro believe that Nico was systematically dismantling his financial base.

And it worked.

Santoro’s men were scrambling, pulling resources from other parts of the city to protect the remaining stash houses. The tension in Santos’s organisation was palpable. His lieutenants were stretched thin, their loyalty hanging by a thread. And all the while, Nico stayed one step ahead, playing the game with ruthless precision.

Santoro was furious. He had sent his men out in force, hunting for Nico, but every time they got close, Nico slipped through their fingers. The hits on his cash houses were bleeding him dry, and worse, they were making him look weak.

The city could smell weakness, and Santoro knew that if he didn’t stop Nico soon, it would be the end of his reign.

“Where is he?” Santoro demanded, his voice raw with anger as he slammed his fist onto the table. His lieutenants stood around him, nervous, unsure of what to say.

“We’re looking, boss,” one of them said. “But Nico’s smart. He’s not staying in one place for long.”

Santoro’s eyes blazed with fury. “Then find him. I don’t care how many men it takes. We stop this now, or we’re all dead.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Santoro’s words hanging heavy in the air. His men knew the truth, even if they didn’t say it. The empire they had built, the power they had fought for, was slipping away. And Santoro’s fear was becoming their fear.

On the night of the final hit, Nico’s crew moved with precision. They knew Santoro’s men were watching, waiting for them to strike. But that was the point. The stash house they were hitting was heavily guarded, a clear signal to Santoro that Nico was closing in on the big prize.

But Nico had no intention of taking the money. Not yet.

The hit was fast, a quick in-and-out that left Santoro’s men scrambling. But Nico’s real target was Santoro himself. As the stash house burnt, Nico’s crew slipped away, moving towards the real goal: Santoro’s safehouse, the place where he thought he was untouchable.

The plan was simple. While Santoro’s men were distracted, Nico would slip through the cracks and confront Santoro on his turf. It was bold, dangerous, and exactly what Santoro wouldn’t expect.

As they approached the safehouse, Luis turned to Nico, his face tense. “You sure about this?”

Nico nodded, his expression cold. “It’s time.”

They moved through the shadows, slipping past the guards who had been pulled from their posts to protect Santoro’s money. Inside the safe house, the air was thick with tension, the quiet hum of the night broken only by the sound of their footsteps.

Nico’s heart pounded in his chest but his mind was clear. This was it. The endgame.

They found Santoro in his office, the once-confident king now pacing, his face drawn with anger and fear. When he saw Nico, his eyes widened, but he didn’t back down.

“So,” Santoro said, his voice cold. “You finally came out of the shadows.”

Nico stepped forward, his eyes locked on Santoro. “It’s over, Carmine. You’ve lost.”

Santoro’s jaw clenched, his hands twitching towards the gun on his desk. “You think you can take me down? You don’t have the men. You don’t have the power.”

Nico’s lip curled into a grim smile. “I don’t need men. All I needed was to make you afraid.”

Santoro’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, the weight of Nico’s words sinking in. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Nico took another step forward, his voice low and steady. “Yes, you are. You’ve been afraid of me since the day I survived the docks. You’ve been running scared ever since.”

Santoro’s hand shot towards the gun, but Nico was faster. In a split second, he had his weapon drawn, pointing it directly at Santoro’s chest.

“Don’t,” Nico warned, his voice deadly calm.

For a moment, neither man moved the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Santoro’s face twisted with rage, but beneath that rage was something else—fear. The fear that Nico had seen in every man Santoro had killed, in every man who had dared to defy him.

“You’re done, Carmine,” Nico said, his voice cold. “This city doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

Santoro’s hand trembled, but he didn’t lower the gun. “You think you can take my throne? You think you’re any different than me?”

Nico’s eyes hardened. “I’m nothing like you.”

And with that, the silence was broken by the crack of a gunshot.

Santoro staggered back, his body hitting the wall with a sickening thud. Blood spread across his chest, his eyes wide with shock as he collapsed to the floor.

Nico stood over him, his heart pounding, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Santoro’s eyes flickered with disbelief as the life drained out of him. The king was dead.

And the throne was empty.