Blood Ties And Forbidden Love

Chapter 3: Fallen On Hard Times

Preston sauntered over to the bookshelf, his eyes scanning the collection of leather-bound tomes. With a calculated hand, he plucked out a book and brought it to the table "This here, my friends," he proclaimed, his voice laced with a mysterious charm, "Me, Carlos, and Luca." The photograph captured the trio perched atop a crate teeming with stolen treasures, a symbol of their audacious exploits.

"Carlos and Luca, they were men of distinction," Preston began, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and caution. "One was a loyal family man, the other, a lethal force to be reckoned with." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes fixed on the memory of those turbulent days.

The college student leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "I've read about Luca Rossi, a true scion of the mafia. He was renowned for meting out justice to those who deserved it."

"Luciano Rossi," Preston corrected, his tone low and reverential. "Nothing escaped Luca's grasp. Opportunities, power, lucrative deals, he had a knack for acquiring them all." A wistful smile played upon his lips. "That's what endeared him to Don Garcia, the man at the helm."

Another student, emboldened by the intrigue, ventured forth with a question. "So, how did you find yourself entangled in the clutches of this criminal empire?"

Preston's smile widened, revealing a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Ah, my friend, sit back and listen closely." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I shall regale you with the tale of my induction into the fold."

Year: 1945

Preston POV:

Few minutes before the end of the chapter 2.

I stood stoically behind the polished bar counter, as was my usual post, surveying the dimly lit establishment. Word had spread throughout the city that my joint offered respite from the perils of the streets, a sanctuary where one could unwind without encountering any unwanted trouble. Or so I had thought.

Whispers of my severed ties with Don Salvatore, the man who once held my uncle's fate in his merciless grip, had begun circulating. But I was not one to be bound by another's will. I had learned the ways of the world during my time in the military, honing my instincts and following my gut. No punk would ever exploit what my family had painstakingly built.

It was during that tumultuous period that I first noticed him, a man with a tailored suit, a flat cap perched jauntily upon his head, and hands concealed within his pockets. The glances he exchanged with the seductive dames in the room set off my alarm bells. My suspicions aroused, I resolved to confront this enigmatic figure head-on.

"Empty your pockets!" I barked, my arms defiantly crossed over my chest, daring the man to challenge my authority.

He attempted to weave a web of deceit with his silver tongue, but I was not one to be swayed. In one swift motion, I seized him by the collar and forcefully slammed him against the sturdy bar counter.

My grip unyielding. Ignoring his feeble protests, I delved into his pockets, unmasking his hidden secrets. With a firm grasp on his arm, I dragged him outside, the cold pavement beneath his trembling figure.

"What did I tell you?" I snarled, my voice dripping with menace. "No drugs shall be peddled within these sacred walls. Now slither back to Salvatore and deliver my message." I solidified my point with a powerful kick to his gut, leaving an unforgettable imprint.

Returning to the sanctuary of my bar, an air of tranquillity gradually settled over the patrons. Laughter and merriment resumed, as if the disruptive episode had never occurred. Yet, my keen eyes did not fail to notice the entrance of two figures, one of whom I recognized all too well, "Carlos Lawrence"