SYSTEM : MAFIA CAPO IN A WORLD RULED BY GANGS

“Damn… this is a pretty interesting piece of work, man.” Dante muttered under his breath as he scrolled through his favorite w******l on his phone. The glow from the screen lit up his face in the dim restaurant, making him look younger than his forty-three years. A reincarnation story. A guy reborn into a fantasy world with a system. It was the kind of story that let him escape reality for a few minutes at a time—something he desperately needed nowadays. He smirked as he dragged his thumb down the screen, fully absorbed. The hustle of the restaurant faded into background noise—the clatter of plates, the smell of frying onions, the chatter of customers. Everything else simply dissolved. Dante was lost in the text, in the fantasy of a second life, a new start, a clean slate. He didn’t even notice the door opening or the heavy steps crossing the floor until a voice cut sharply through his focus. “Boss! Boss!” Dante blinked, flinching slightly. His eyes tore away from the glowing screen. “Goddamn it, Gallic—what?” He shut his phone with an irritated tap and turned on his stool. Standing beside him was Gallic—his right-hand man, his shadow, his muscle. A man who was always too tall, too broad, too stern for any room he walked into. His brown coat hung heavily on him like it was made of bricks, and that permanent frown carved into his face made him look like he was angry at life itself. Gallic didn’t look like he came here casually. Dante’s irritation weakened. “We got a problem, boss.” The annoyance vanished completely. Dante’s posture straightened, his mind kicking into work mode instantly. He placed his phone down on the counter with quiet care. “What’s the problem?” he asked, voice low and controlled. Gallic hesitated. His jaw flexed. His eyes shifted sideways, like he was trying to find a gentler way to deliver the blow. “Someone raided the docks, boss.” Dante’s breath caught. His whole body stiffened. No… no… no… His pulse spiked violently, like someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed. The dock wasn’t a minor spot. It wasn’t some small stash or side operation. It was the place. The place he was responsible for. The place holding a shipment worth one hundred and fifty million. One hundred and fifty million that did not belong to him. “Tell me everything is still there,” Dante said. His voice was barely a whisper. Gallic swallowed. His eyes dropped to the floor. He shook his head once—slowly, heavily, like the gesture itself hurt. Dante slammed his palm against the counter with a c***k that echoed across the restaurant. “F**k!” His mind fractured into panic. They’re going to kill me. They’re actually going to kill me. The thought looped and looped and looped. His chest tightened until each breath became a struggle. His vision blurred around the edges as adrenaline crashed through him like a wave. One hundred and fifty million. Gone. One hundred and fifty he was responsible for. One hundred and fifty the Don would never forgive. There was no surviving this. Before Dante could force himself to breathe—before he could even steady his shaking hands—the restaurant door exploded open so violently that it slammed into the wall behind it. The entire place froze. Three men stormed in, all wearing dark coats, all with the same expression of controlled aggression. Their boots hit the floor hard. Their eyes locked immediately on Dante and Gallic. And their hands—resting too comfortably on their pistols—promised violence. Gallic’s instincts were immediate. His hand flew into his coat, fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun— “You pull that out, and we’ll blow your f**king brains out!” Friday shouted. Friday. One of the Capos. One of the Don’s favorites. One of Dante’s loudest enemies. A man who thrived on fear and enjoyed seeing others fall. He had always been waiting for Dante to slip up—always. Gallic froze. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised both hands and stepped back from his pistol. “Good,” Friday sneered, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. His gaze shifted to Dante like a predator sighting prey. Dante forced himself to hold Friday’s stare, even though his heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal. “So, Dante…” Friday walked closer, cracking his knuckles one by one. “What the f**k happened, eh? How the hell did your docks get raided?” He kept moving until he was close enough that Dante could smell his cologne—sharp, expensive, arrogant. Every step he took screamed hostility. Dante forced his trembling legs to move. He jumped down from his seat, straightened himself, and faced Friday head-on. “How the f**k will I know?” Dante snapped back. He tried to sound strong. Tried to sound like the Capo he was. Tried to hide the fear clawing at his throat. But bravery didn’t matter. Friday’s punch came faster than Dante could react. The fist smashed into his face, shattering through his guard, sending him flying back into the chair he’d just stood up from. Pain burst across his face like fireworks. His vision flickered. “Don’t f**king toy with me, Dante,” Friday said, voice low and deadly. “I had twenty million worth of product in your docks.” Dante clutched his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm and thick. His eyes watered from the impact. Friday didn’t give him time to recover. He grabbed Dante by the shirt, jerking him upward until their faces were inches apart. “I could end you right here,” Friday whispered. “Hell, I should. But the Don wants a word with you first.” Dante’s heart plummeted. The Don. If Friday was the wolf, the Don was the executioner. Friday lifted Dante easily—like he weighed nothing—and hurled him toward the door. Dante slammed into one of Friday’s men and collapsed to the floor. Pain shot through his nose, his cheek, his back. “F**k…” he hissed. Before he could push himself up, something cold pressed hard against the back of his neck. A gun. “Stand up and move,” one of Friday’s men ordered. Dante glared up at him. If this had been any other day—any normal day—he would’ve ended the man with a bullet between the eyes. But today wasn’t normal. Today he was a dead man walking. Grinding his teeth, Dante dragged himself to his feet. He brushed dust off his jacket, straightened his shirt as if dignity could still be saved, and walked out of the restaurant. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. He already knew— This might be the last time he ever saw this place alive.