Shadows over Miami

Chapter One: Blood on the Pavement

The rain came down hard, turning Miami into a blur of neon smears and dark puddles. This city was a reflection of itself—glamour on the surface, rot just underneath. It was 1947, and the city was crawling with ghosts of men who didn't make it back from the war or wished they hadn't.

I was one of them. Jack Malone. But everyone knew me as Viper. A name that stuck because I struck first and asked questions later. Tonight, survival was my only priority—same as any night—but this time, I wasn't the only one caught in the crosshairs. Marconi had made sure of that.

I leaned against the soaked brick wall of the alleyway, lighting a cigarette that sputtered in the rain. A glance down at the damp Colt .45 under my coat reminded me I was still alive. Still breathing. A few hours ago, that could've changed. And if I didn't find out why Marconi had dragged me into this mess, it still might.

The Blue Parrot, a two-bit bar that smelled like regret and sawdust, was the kind of place where hope came to die quietly. I stepped inside, water dripping off my trench coat, and spotted Benny wiping down the bar. His eyes flicked to me, then to a corner where a man sat hunched over, cradling a glass.

"Marconi," I muttered to myself.

I slid onto the stool beside him. He didn't look up, just kept swirling the glass like it held answers he wasn't ready to hear.

"You got something for me?" I asked.

His hand trembled as he pulled a crumpled envelope from his coat, his eyes bloodshot, sunken, like he hadn't slept in days. "This is bigger than both of us, Viper. They're watching. They're always watching."

"What's this about, Marconi? You never were the paranoid type." I opened the envelope, a slip of paper inside with some names and addresses. No context, but it reeked of trouble.

"Shipment," he whispered. "Weapons. Drugs. I thought I could handle it, but... there's more. You gotta know, Malone, it's not just business anymore. It's them."

"Who's 'them'?" I pressed. But before he could answer, the door slammed open. I didn't need to turn around to know Marconi's boys had shown up. They weren't here for drinks.

"Move!" I growled, dragging Marconi off the stool and toward the back exit.

We burst into the alley, rain still falling in relentless sheets. The sound of footsteps behind us grew louder, angrier. I shoved Marconi ahead, but he stumbled, clutching his side. Blood was soaking through his shirt. One of the bullets had found its mark.

"Go," he rasped. "You have to finish it. They're going to burn everything down."

I knelt beside him, the rain mixing with the blood pooling around us. His breath came in shallow gasps. "Who, Marconi? Who's behind this?"

He reached for my hand, his fingers cold, trembling. "Vivian... Sinclair. She knows." His head slumped forward, life fading out of his body as fast as the blood from his wound.

I stood, gripping the Colt in my hand, the weight of it like a promise. Vivian Sinclair. I'd heard the name whispered before, but it wasn't attached to anything concrete. Just smoke. Until now.

I had no choice—Marconi's death had given me no room to turn back. This wasn't just about the shipment anymore. There was more to it. Something lurking behind the curtains. The only way out was to charge through it head first.