The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 63

When Mateo’s rebellion is crushed, Santoro consolidates his hold on the city, but the war has left deep scars. The rebellion may be over, but the cost of victory weighs heavily on Santoro’s empire. As new threats emerge and old enemies resurface, Santoro must face the reality that holding the throne is far more difficult than taking it. The city may be his, but at what cost?

In the ashes of the empire, the game of power continues.

Carmine Santoro stood alone at the city's edge, the glow of burning embers from the factory still visible on the horizon. The war was over. Mateo’s rebellion had been crushed, and his men were reduced to ash and blood. The remnants of Mackin Jones’ legacy had been swept away in the final, brutal act of violence. Santoro should have felt victorious—relieved, even—but instead, there was only a gnawing emptiness.

The cost of victory hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

He had won, but at what price? His empire was intact, but the scars left behind by the rebellion ran deep. His men were growing weary, stretched thin from the constant battles. And now that the immediate threat of Mateo was gone, new challenges loomed on the horizon.

In the underworld, power didn’t guarantee loyalty. It only bought time.

Santoro took a deep breath, the night air cold and biting. The city was his now, but it felt fragile—more like glass than iron. For all his power, all the bloodshed, he had learnt one unshakeable truth: control was a fleeting thing. It could slip through your fingers in an instant, no matter how tightly you held on.

The following morning, Santoro sat in his penthouse, staring out at the city that had cost him so much. Vito stood nearby, a fresh report in his hand.

“It’s quiet out there,” Vito said, though his tone was far from relaxed. “No movement from any of the smaller factions. They’re staying low, probably waiting to see what you’ll do next.”

Santoro didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the skyline. The rebellion had shaken his empire, and though the streets were quiet for now, he knew it was only a matter of time before the next threat emerged. The underworld was like a hydra—cut off one head, and two more would grow in its place.

“Good,” Santoro said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Let them wait. Let them wonder.”

Vito nodded, though the weight of the past few weeks was still evident on his face. “We’ve lost a lot of men,” he said quietly. “And word on the street is that some of our allies are getting nervous. They’re not saying anything yet, but there’s talk of instability.”

Santoro’s gaze flicked to Vito, his expression cold. “Instability?” The word rolled off his tongue like a challenge.

Vito shrugged slightly. “People are wondering how long we can hold this together. Mateo’s rebellion showed them that even you can be hit. We crushed them, but the damage was done. They’re scared.”

For a moment, silence filled the room. Vito’s words hung in the air, heavy and real. The truth was, no matter how hard they had fought, the rebellion had left a crack in Santoro’s reign. His men were starting to doubt him—not openly, not yet, but doubt had a way of spreading like a virus. It could infect even the most loyal soldiers, the ones who had been with him from the beginning.

“Then we remind them,” Santoro said, his voice hardening. “We remind them who runs this city. Fear isn’t a weakness, Vito. It’s a tool. The moment they forget that is the moment we lose everything.”

Vito nodded, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, maybe. Or was it fatigue? Either way, Santoro noticed it. He always noticed.

“What about the smaller factions?” Santoro asked, shifting the conversation. “We’ve been playing nice with them long enough. It’s time they pay their dues.”

Vito shuffled the papers in his hand. “Some of them have been paying—quietly but consistently. Others, well, they’re hesitant. They know what happened with Mateo, and they’re worried about getting caught in the crossfire.”

Santoro’s lip curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Then we visit them. Remind them that loyalty is not optional.”

Vito hesitated again, then nodded. “I’ll set it up.”

As Vito turned to leave, Santoro’s mind raced. He had built his empire on strength, on fear, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough to sustain it. Not forever. Fear could keep people in line, but it also made them desperate. And desperate men made dangerous moves.

Across the city, in one of the darker corners where the reach of Santoro’s power didn’t extend as far, a group of men sat huddled around a table. The warehouse was dimly lit, the smell of stale cigarettes and oil permeating the air. They were survivors—former soldiers of Mateo’s rebellion, the ones who had managed to escape the massacre at the factory.

Among them sat a man named Nico, one of Mateo’s closest lieutenants. He had watched his leader die; he had seen the fire consume their dreams of a new order, but he wasn’t ready to let go. Santoro had crushed them, but that didn’t mean the fight was over.

“He thinks it’s done,” Nico said, his voice low but filled with simmering rage. “He thinks because he took out Mateo, we’ll all fall in line. But he’s wrong.”

The others around the table nodded in agreement, their faces hard, their eyes glinting with the promise of revenge. They had lost men, but they hadn’t lost their spirit. They had seen Santoro bleed, and that meant he could bleed again.

“What’s the plan?” one of the younger men asked, his voice laced with both fear and eagerness.

Nico’s jaw clenched as he looked around the room. “We keep doing what we’ve been doing. We hit him where he’s weakest—his operations, his supply lines. But we need to be smarter. Santoro’s going to be watching for any sign of rebellion. We can’t be careless.”

Another man, older and with a scar running down his cheek, leaned forward. “You think we can take him down? Mateo couldn’t.”

Nico’s eyes darkened. “Mateo fought Santoro head-on. That’s why he lost. We don’t fight him like that. We fight him from the shadows.”

The group fell into a grim silence, but there was a spark of determination in their eyes. Nico wasn’t wrong. Santoro had won the battle, but there were still men willing to fight. They just needed to bide their time, to wait for the moment when Santoro slipped when his empire showed another crack.

And when that moment came, they would strike.

Days turned into weeks, and the city settled into an uneasy calm. Santoro’s forces patrolled the streets with an iron fist, and the smaller factions had fallen in line, paying their tributes to avoid the wrath of the new king. But beneath the surface, tensions simmered. The cracks in Santoro’s empire were growing, even if they weren’t visible to the naked eye.

In the quiet moments, when Santoro sat alone in his office, he could feel the weight of it. The rebellion had been crushed, but the cost had been higher than he wanted to admit. His men were loyal, but loyalty built on fear was fragile. Vito had been right—people were scared. And scared people were unpredictable.

One night, as Santoro poured himself a glass of whisky, Vito entered the office again, a grim look on his face. “We’ve got a problem.”

Santoro set the glass down, his eyes narrowing. “What kind of problem?”

Vito hesitated, his face tight. “Nico. One of Mateo’s men. He’s been hitting our supply lines—quietly but consistently. He’s gathering support from some of the smaller gangs, the ones we thought were staying neutral.”

Santoro’s grip tightened around the glass. “So, Mateo’s ghost is still haunting us.”

Vito nodded. “Looks like it.”

Santoro stood, pacing the room, his mind racing. He had underestimated Mateo once, and now he was paying the price for that mistake. He wouldn’t make the same error with Nico.

“Find him,” Santoro said, his voice cold and sharp. “And this time, we don’t play games. We don’t send a message. We don’t give him a chance to fight back. We end it.”

Vito nodded, but there was something in his eyes—something Santoro had seen before. Doubt. Weariness. Santoro had leaned heavily on Vito throughout this war, and it was starting to show. The cracks weren’t just in his empire—they were in his closest advisors too.

As Vito left the room, Santoro sat back down, swirling the whisky in his glass. Nico was a problem, but he wasn’t the real issue. The real problem was the city itself—the way it seemed to devour kings, no matter how powerful they were.

Santoro had taken the throne, but he was starting to realise that holding onto it would be the real fight.

And this fight would never truly end.

"That was a story." Nico waved the thought behind to face the future.