Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 59: La Mana De Titano.

San Marino.

Across the fringes of Italy and Paris, news spread like wildfire—a crushing blow against those reckless enough to claim mafia titles. The once-mighty clan, a force to be reckoned with, had crumbled in a swift, brutal fall that shook the criminal world. It was as if the land itself had swallowed molten lava, leaving it scorched and irrevocably altered.

In the wake of this power vacuum, even the wealthiest men felt the pull of an empire casting its shadow over all. This empire—marked by its black-and-blue insignia—was ruled by Conti, the Don of La Mana De Titano in Camorra, San Marino.

His network of crime and corruption stretched across the country, and his iron-fisted rule had earned him the title of The Crane of Authority. Conti was a cunning and relentless leader, but ambition clawed at him; what he held was insatiable. He wanted more.

Though his office felt like a sanctuary, a tightening reality crept in, constricting around him. The news seeped into every corner, warping his stronghold into something suffocating.

In his dim office, Conti sat, his cyan eyes flickering under lowered brows. His empire, once sprawling, now faced a grave threat. "Massimo!" he roared, the name echoing off the walls. "He's pushed his luck too far." His voice rumbled as he leaned back in his chair.

A tableau of half-naked women, their glossy lips painted scarlet, pressed against Conti's forehead, their bodies writhing in a sensual dance. Their manicured hands, adorned with glittering rings, tangled in his hair, tracing the patterns of his inked skin.

But amid their shrill laughter, Conti's gaze remained fixed on the ebony box resting on his desk, his mind a million miles away. He signaled to a guard with a sharp sniff.

The guard, a pistol heavy in his pocket, fumbled with the box's clasp. A soft thud sounded as the lid fell open, revealing its chilling contents. His nostrils flared as he stepped back, resuming his position.

Conti's knuckles tightened as he pushed the box forward, his eyes narrowing into deadly slits as they met Vittorio Fabbri's.

Vittorio, Conti's sworn consigliere, sat across from him—a picture of polished veneer and sharp wit. His face, devoid of any tattoo, was marred only by a jagged scar stretching from his cheek to his earlobe.

The thick haze of cigar smoke coiled around him as he adjusted the cuffs of his crisp blue shirt. He cleared his throat, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple as he glanced at the box's contents.

"I received this a few hours ago, and this is evidence..." Vittorio murmured, cracking his knuckles, the sound like brittle bones.

Their gazes fell on the grotesque display before them. The box, adorned with a skull and crossbones, held empty sockets that stared blankly into the dim light.

The women froze, eyes widening in terror. Their scarlet smiles faltered, turning into horrified stares.

Conti snorted, his jaw set like iron. "His teeth..." He leaned forward, eyeing a dark hole in the skull. "He was tortured to death, Padrone Ruggiero. A slow, agonizing death."

With a furious slam of his fist on the desk, Conti's glare swept over the room. The women cowered, their whimpers barely audible.

"This is a message, Vittorio," he growled, turning to his consigliere. "A warning."

Vittorio's gaze darkened, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Such a bold move, Don. But who do you think sent this?"

A vein pulsed violently on Conti's temple. "Who else but our enemy, the one we despise?" He spat out the name with venom: "Massimo!"

He snapped his fingers, and the women huddled closer, transfixed by the sinister display. His hand drifted out, fingers brushing against a woman's hair. "I shall ruin him. This is all the evidence I need."

"Evidence for what, Don Conti?" Vittorio's voice was barely a whisper. "A skeleton won't be enough to start a war with the Shaque."

Conti stopped him cold with a snarl. "What are you saying, Vittorio? You think Massimo walks free after this? No. He has to pay."

The woman's hand was trapped in Conti's grip, her knuckles white. Vittorio's scoff barely rose above the steady drag of Conti's cigar and the faint whimper of the woman.

Vittorio tried to interject, but Conti's growl cut him off. "Take this away." Conti spat the words, scowling at the box. Its polished surface gleamed ominously. A metallic click echoed as a guard removed it.

Vittorio sighed, his shoulders slumping. "If I may speak freely, Don," his voice softened. "This is San Marino. Our mafia culture isn't Italy's. No one would believe us, Don. A box of bones means nothing against the purveyor of blood and death—this would only stir up a scandal."

A sly smile tugged at Vittorio's lips as he leaned in. "And you know exactly what a scandal brings in our world," he rasped, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Maximus doesn't even flinch at the thought of you hunting him down." Vittorio's smirk deepened, his brows knitting together.

Conti snorted. "He's not my competition, either. But don't you think it's a good thing, using the fact that the north graveyard's in Paris and Massimo was present?"

"And that cost Ruggiero his life, Don," Vittorio replied, tilting his head lazily. "Seeking justice only endangers us. It would be you questioned, not him." His eyes narrowed. "Time to grow a spine and deal with him head-on. Enough lives have been risked over your hesitation."

Conti's laugh rumbled through the room as the women resumed their caresses. They giggled, massaging his shoulders. "Hesitation...," he cackled, "I am the crane of authority. My title is no joke."

Vittorio sneered, his voice low and biting. "Then prove it. Let him see that no veil is high enough to hide you."

A heavy silence settled over the room once more, broken only by the rustle of wool as Conti straightened his suit. "Ladies, enough!" he snapped, his gaze cutting toward them, and they fell silent. Leaning forward, he flicked his cigarette into the ashtray.

"The Purveyor of Blood and Death. That's a title he won't be holding for long."

YOUR VOTES MATTERS