The Mafia king

CHAPTER 7: THE KING IS DEAD

The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. It came down in thick, dirty sheets, washing the blood off the streets of Ashford City — but it couldn’t wash away the fear. The word was out: Alberto Romano, the King of the Southside, was dead.

No one knew who did it. Some said the police. Others whispered it was one of his own men. But everyone knew what came next — war.

I was sitting in La Rosa Bar, the same dive where Alberto had crowned me his “iron hand” five years ago. The place stank of smoke and sweat, and the neon lights flickered like dying stars. Around me sat ghosts — men who once carried power in their veins, now too scared to lift their heads.

“Luca,” said Marco, my oldest friend, pouring two glasses of bourbon. “It’s starting.”

“What is?”

He didn’t answer with words — just nodded toward the TV hanging crooked above the bar. The news anchor’s voice trembled.

“A massive explosion has torn through the Romano family estate tonight. Police suspect internal conflict following the death of alleged crime boss Alberto Romano…”

I didn’t wait to hear more. The bottle shattered on the floor as I stood. “Who?” I asked, my voice low, sharp. “Who hit the house?”

Marco looked away. “The Navarro brothers. They’re taking the docks. Word is, they want everything.”

The docks — the heart of our empire. Drugs, weapons, cash — all came through there. Alberto built it with blood. And now it was being stolen.

I grabbed my coat and gun. “Get the car.”

Marco hesitated. “Luca, listen — Alberto’s gone. Maybe we walk away. Start new somewhere else.”

I looked at him. My hands were shaking, not from fear — from fury. “We walk away now, we die nobodies. You think the city forgets men like us? We built it. We own it. Until we’re in the ground.”

He sighed. “Then I’ll drive.”

The night air hit like cold iron as we drove south. Flames painted the skyline where Alberto’s mansion once stood. I could almost hear his voice — rough, commanding: “Never show weakness, Luca. Never let them think the throne is empty.”

We pulled up near the docks — dozens of Navarro soldiers, their cars lined up like a fleet. Crates of h****n being loaded onto trucks. I recognized one of them — Tino Navarro, Alberto’s old errand boy, now playing boss.

I stepped out, rain slicking my hair, gun in hand. Marco whispered, “We’re outnumbered, man.”

“Then aim straight.”

The first shot cracked through the storm. Then another. Chaos erupted — bullets slicing through the fog, sparks dancing off metal. I dropped two men before they even saw me. Marco covered my side, cursing, reloading, shouting my name.

“Tino!” I roared, advancing through the haze. “You think you can steal from my family?”

Tino popped up from behind a crate, grinning. “Your family’s dead, Moretti!”

“Not yet.”

One pull of the trigger — his body jerked, collapsed. Silence followed, except for the rain and the sound of my own breath.

We’d taken the docks back — but at a cost. Marco was bleeding out beside the car, hit in the chest. I dropped beside him, pressing on the wound.

“Stay with me, brother.”

He smiled weakly. “You always were too stubborn to die, Luca.”

“Don’t talk.”

“You… you gotta lead them. Alberto’s gone. They need someone.”

His eyes went dull before I could answer.

I sat there, soaked in blood and rain, watching the life drain from one of the few men I’d ever trusted.

And that night, I made a promise to myself — if Ashford City wanted war, I’d give it to them.

One bullet at a time.