Page 8 of King Of Order

VALERIO

8 years ago

The warehouse was vast, lit by a few flickering overhead lights that did little to chase away the cold.

The air reeked of sweat, oil, and metal.

An echo of rumbling trucks filled the atmosphere as they moved in and out of the depot, tires screeching against the concrete floor.

Shadows clung to every corner, interrupted only by the occasional beam of headlights or the flickering of the harsh florescent lights above.

The entire place felt alive, not with warmth or life but with the hustle of greed and avarice.

The constant motion of labor was indifferent to me as I sat alone in the office above, watching it all.

The harsh and cold light cast a sterile glow over the room.

Security monitors lined the walls, each displaying a different feed—grainy images of trucks loading, men shouting orders, and crates stacked with mechanical efficiency.

Slumped, bleeding out, aching like hell, I shook with livid rage.

Cazzo!

I was pissed off at myself for letting my guard down when the freakin’ Tironeteppistigrabbed me during smoko on the street outside our Calibrese family offices.

Now I sat at their mercy, my hands bound tight to armrests, the rope cutting into my wrists.

I twisted my mouth in annoyance and then winced, feeling every edge of the bruising on my face, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

They’d gone hard, and my head throbbed from the hours of beating.

Still, I lived.

My eyes, dark and cold, stared with dispassion from between swollen eyelids at the screens in front of me.

Watching stone-faced as the Tirone drugs and stolen goods network of trucks and delivery men unfurled, taking their illicit wares all over Naples.

My attention was jerked away from the screens by the squeak of the opening office door.

The three thugs entered, and their cackling filled the room with a foul stench.

The first swaggered in with broad shoulders, heavy, sagging features, and eyes gleaming with amusement.

Behind him, the other two thugs followed, thick around the middle from years of pasta, drink, and indulgence.

Their faces flushed, breaths labored, stinking of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

‘Un tale perdente, what a sorry-ass loser,’ the first man sneered, his voice rough and grating as he looked down at me. ‘Sitting all high and mighty, like we haven’t got him where we want him.’

The other two chuckled, their laughter crude and hollow, but I didn’t flinch.

A slight twitch of my jaw was the only sign of the venom bubbling underneath.

My eyes, sharp as knives, regardless of their bloodied bruising, locked onto them, and they froze. My gaze had a way of making mofos rethink their choices.

I stared at them, unblinking, my expression carved from stone, but the fury in my gaze was unmistakable. My soul had no fear—only contempt and a promise of retribution.

The first man, the burly big shot, was a mid-tier mob Don.

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