Page 3 of Marco

The city awaits my response. And respond I shall.

The sun sets over the city, casting long shadows over the gleaming skyscrapers. On the bustling streets below, crowds of workers pour out of offices, eager to start their weekends. Bright lights flicker on, neon signs and gaudy billboards advertising trendy restaurants and clubs.

But in my office high above, I brood in solitude, the lively city nothing but a distant backdrop. This is the price of power—isolation, separation.

My phone buzzes. "Boss, I was able to confirm it. The Irish have completely cleared out the warehouse. Over two million in product, gone." Aldo's gravelly voice is strained.

I suppress a flare of anger. "Then it's time we return the favor. Hit their fronts in the south side tonight. All of them."

"With pleasure." A hint of anticipation in Aldo's reply. "We'll teach those nervy bastards a lesson."

I end the call, turning back to the window. Far below, crowds of oblivious revelers flock to restaurants, bars and nightclubs, seeking escape and entertainment. A world away from mine, yet still under my unseen influence. They have no idea of the strings I pull behind the scenes, how much I impact their daily lives without them having the slightest inkling.

In a dingy bar downtown, I imagine a greasy man in a trenchcoat is handing a fat envelope to a steely-eyed Irish enforcer. Payment for services rendered. The rat who sold us out.

In an abandoned lot, I know my men are unloading cans of gasoline and materials for makeshift explosives, preparing for tonight's job. I can almost feel the furtive glances into the shadows, everyone on edge.

I glance at my surveillance cameras. A young couple kisses in a corner booth at one of my jazz clubs, as my men sweep the room, keeping close watch on a city councilman in my pocket. Nothing can disrupt his crucial vote next week.

The city lives and breathes according to my silent machinations, even as ordinary citizens remain unaware. This is the power—and the burden—of my position. I rule an empire hidden in plain sight, obeyed yet unseen. I call the shots, but never take them myself. There's a power in my understated silence, but sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell from the rooftops, to destroy threats with my own bare hands.

For now, the smooth facade of the city remains intact. But trouble brews beneath. My clash with the Irish is only the beginning. Other threats loom, both within and without. I must be ready.

The city depends on it.

I lean back in my leather chair, gazing out at the city lights stretching into the distance. Another long night ahead, and always more work to be done.

My desk is immaculately organized, files and reports perfectly aligned. Not a pen out of place. I appreciate order, discipline, control. The same principles applied to my business.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call out, my voice steady and commanding.

Two of my other captains enter, their postures rigid with tension. Ricci and Morales. Loyal soldiers who have bled for me before and who wouldn't hesitate to again. I gesture for them to sit.

"The Irish aren't letting this go," Ricci begins without preamble. "They hit our warehouse in the docks tonight. Torched the whole damn thing."

I nod calmly. On reflection, I expected some form of retaliation given we've been honing in on their territory. Plus, of course, I've already heard about this from both Luca and Aldo. I'm still undecided about whether to be flattered or perturbed that my capos are bringing time-sensitive updates directly to me without conferring with each other first. "And our merchandise?"

"Salvaged most of it in time," Morales replies. "But they sent a message, boss. Took out two of our guys in the process."

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Who?"

"Safton and Trujillo." He looks down.

Damn. Two good men lost, and resources destroyed. Families now without fathers. Unacceptable.

"I know it was the O'Malleys, but… any leads on who sanctioned the hit?" I ask. We must know the source before striking back. No rash decisions.

The men exchange a look. "Word is it came from the top. Finn himself."

Finn O'Malley. The Irish kingpin who fancies himself my rival. A brazen move, even for him. The time has come to remind him exactly with whom he is dealing.

"Set up a meet with Finn's crew," I order decisively. "He wants a war? We'll bring him one."

My captains nod, accustomed to my swift action. Indecision is poison in this business.

"And the warehouse?" Ricci asks.

"Torch one of his in return. Send a crew tonight. I think Luca's already getting everyone organized."

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