Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the DoorThe Red Serpents operated out of an abandoned meat-packing plant on the southern edge of the docks, a sprawling maze of rusted corrugated metal and corrugated refrigeration units. Inside, neon signs hummed a sickly green glow over rows of poker tables, illegal slot machines, and crates of smuggled contraband.
At the center of it all sat Jax Miller, a scarred brute with a gold-plated revolver tucked into his beltline, counting a stack of cash stolen from a dozen small-time shops across the district.
"Easy money, boys," Jax laughed, tossing a bundle of bills across the table to one of his lieutenants. "That little flower shop bitch thought she could stall us. A couple of cracks to the skull and she learns her place. The whole south side is ours for the taking. Falcone’s old men don't give a damn about these blocks."
"You sure about that, Jax?" a nervous lieutenant asked, eyeing the heavy steel doors at the far end of the warehouse. "Word is, Falcone’s got his fingers everywhere."
"Falcone hasn't left his high-rise district in five years," Jax scoffed, pouring a glass of cheap whiskey. "He's an old ghost. We play our cards right, we carve out our own empire before—"
CRASH.
The massive iron loading doors didn't just open—they were blown inward off their reinforced hinges, collapsing onto the concrete floor with a deafening roar of grinding steel.
Silence swallowed the warehouse instantly. The music cut out. Thirty armed gang members froze, their hands scrambling for weapons.
Through the settling dust and billowing rain, a single figure walked in. Enzo Falcone. Behind him, emerging from the shadows like a wall of dark water, came forty elite enforcers in matching black tactical coats, their weapons drawn and leveled with terrifying synchronization.
Jax scrambled backward, his chair tipping over, his hand desperate for the gold-plated revolver at his waist. "Who the hell do you think you are?!" he roared, his voice cracking slightly as the terrifying aura of the man in front of him registered in his brain. "You're trespassing on Serpents territory!"
Enzo didn't run. He walked with a slow, measured cadence, his hands buttoning the front of his coat. Behind him, Marco stepped forward, tossing a heavy, blood-stained velvet pouch onto the poker table. It landed with a sickening thud, spilling out coins, shattered glass, and a single torn white ribbon belonging to a little girl.
"You broke a flower shop tonight," Enzo said. His voice was dangerously quiet, cutting through the cavernous room like a razor blade.
Jax blinked, his mind struggling to connect the dots. "What? What are you talking about? Some raggedy-ass florist—"
"That florist," Enzo interrupted, taking another step forward as the enforcers fanned out, sealing every exit, "belongs to me now."
"You're... you're Enzo Falcone," Jax whispered, the blood draining entirely from his face as the reality of his death sentence crashed down upon him.
"I am," Enzo replied, stopping ten feet away. He tilted his head, his eyes as cold and dead as winter ice. "And you made a very expensive mistake. You didn't just steal money from a struggling mother. You ruined a little girl's sleep. You made her cry."
Jax swallowed hard, panic overriding his bravado. "Wait—name your price! Double whatever she owes! We can make a deal—"
Enzo raised his hand. A single finger flicked outward.
May you like
"There is no deal," Enzo said softly. "There is only subtraction."
Before Jax could draw his weapon, the warehouse erupted.
