C123 Trust Me

The air was thick with tension and the faint scent of blood as Dante stepped out of his car at the ranch on the outskirts of Acadia.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the land, but the beauty of the golden hour was overshadowed by the gruesome reality that awaited him inside.

The ranch house, a rustic structure that once symbolised peace, was now a silent witness to a massacre.

Dante adjusted his black overcoat, his expression grim as his sharp gaze swept over the scene.

His men were already stationed around the perimeter, their faces hard and their postures tense.

A few of Sylvano's men loitered near the entrance, their eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

Dante knew that kind of anger could ignite into chaos if not handled carefully.

Inside, the sight made even Dante, hardened by years of violence, pause.

Sylvano, a man known for his fairness and integrity, lay slumped in a chair in the middle of the room.

His body bore signs of torture.

Deep cuts and bruises covered him, and his face was barely recognisable.

The brutality of it was unmistakable.

His men, six in total, were sprawled lifeless across the floor.

Their deaths seemed merciful compared to their boss’s.

Dante clenched his jaw tightly, his fists balling at his sides.

On the wall behind Sylvano, written in what was unmistakably his blood, were the chilling words:

"Give up your power or watch them all die."

The message wasn’t just a threat.

It was a declaration of war.

Angelo appeared beside Dante, his face pale but composed.

He leaned in and spoke quietly.

“Signs of Romano’s movement were picked up in this area.

A car matching one of his fleet was spotted about an hour before the time of death was estimated.”

Dante didn’t move for a moment, his eyes fixed on the bloody message.

“Don’t let Sylvano’s men hear that,” he said coldly.

“They’re already looking for someone to blame, and the last thing we need is a war breaking out because of speculation.”

Angelo nodded.

“Understood.”

The sound of footsteps approaching made Dante turn slightly.

It was Sylvano’s second-in-command, Mario, a wiry man with an unpredictable temper.

His hands were shaking as he looked at Dante, his eyes red from unshed tears.

“Who did this, Cazador?” Mario asked, his voice trembling with rage.

“I want names.

I want faces.

And I want them dead.”

Dante’s voice was steady, commanding.

“We don’t move without proof.

I’ll find out who’s behind this, Mario.

And when I do, they’ll pay.”

Mario wasn’t convinced.

His eyes flickered to Sylvano’s mutilated body, then back to Dante.

“I don’t need proof.

I need vengeance.

Sylvano was like a father to us.

And now, he’s gone.”

Dante stepped closer, his towering presence forcing Mario to hold his ground.

“You think acting rashly will honour Sylvano’s memory?” Dante asked, his voice low but firm.

“You’ll start a war that could destroy everything he worked for.

You’ll hand his enemies exactly what they want.”

Mario’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further.

He looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“We’ll stand down,” he muttered.

“But only because it’s you, Cazador.

Don’t make us regret it.”

Dante gave a short nod, then turned to Angelo.

“Get the bodies taken care of.

Make sure the cops don’t have a reason to stick their noses in.”

Angelo nodded, already motioning to the men to start clearing the scene.

As Dante stepped outside, the cool evening air hit him, but it did little to quell the fire burning inside him.

Sylvano’s men were gathered in a tight group near the ranch’s entrance, their expressions a mix of grief and rage.

He stopped before them, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

“I know you’re hurting,” he started. “And I know you want answers. But I need you to trust me to handle this. Lay low, keep your heads down, and let me do my job.”

One of the younger men, barely out of his twenties, spoke up.

“How can we trust anyone when this is what happens to loyalty?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Dante’s gaze locked onto the young man, his tone unwavering.

“You trust because Sylvano trusted me. And I won’t let his death go unanswered.”

The group fell silent, and Dante took that as their reluctant agreement.

As he walked back to his car, Angelo caught up with him.

“They won’t stay quiet for long,” Angelo said.

“They’ll want blood sooner rather than later.”

Dante didn’t look at him as he responded.

“Let’s hope we find the right people to bleed before they take matters into their own hands.”

The drive back to Acadia was tense.

Dante’s mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last.

Romano’s name kept surfacing, but something didn’t sit right.

This wasn’t his style.

If it was Romano, he’d left no loose ends, and that was what troubled Dante the most.

Back in the city, the lights of Acadia’s skyline glittered in the distance, a stark contrast to the darkness Dante felt closing in.

The weight of the blood-soaked message lingered in his mind, a grim reminder that the stakes were higher than ever.

******

The air inside Romano’s estate was thick with a heady mix of cigar smoke, perfume, and the faint musk of spilled liquor.

Dante stepped through the open double doors of the grand parlour, his sharp eyes immediately scanning the decadent scene before him.

Romano, the once-imposing elder of one of the five families, was sprawled on a plush leather chair, his face flushed from drink and debauchery.

A golden-haired woman draped herself over his shoulder, giggling as Romano waved a nearly empty glass in the air.

Around him, scantily clad women lounged on sofas, their laughter tinkling in the heavy atmosphere as if they didn’t notice—or didn’t care—about the man’s obvious decline.

Bottles of champagne littered every available surface, and the low thrum of jazz music played from a corner of the room where a lone musician half-heartedly strummed his bass.

Romano’s bloodshot eyes lit up when he saw Dante standing rigidly near the entrance.

“Cazador!” he slurred, his voice loud and boisterous.

“Join us! We’re celebrating! Haven’t you had enough of that grim face for one lifetime?”

Dante didn’t move, his cold gaze fixed on Romano like a predator sizing up its prey.

“What are we celebrating, Romano?” Dante’s tone was clipped, his displeasure barely restrained.

Romano laughed, his chair creaking beneath his shifting weight.

“I’m celebrating my progress, boy,” he said, gesturing grandly.

“I’m this close—this close—to finding my son’s killer since you’ve done fuck-all about it!”

The room fell silent as every eye turned to Dante.

The tension was a tangible force, pressing down on everyone present.

Dante’s jaw tightened, but his composure remained intact.

“Everyone out,” he ordered, his voice like a whip cracking through the air.

The women exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to obey, but when Angelo stepped forward, his expression darker than a thundercloud, they quickly began gathering their belongings.

“Not you,” Dante said, pointing a steady finger at Romano.

“You stay.”

Romano frowned as the last of his entourage slipped out, his grip tightening on his glass as if he might use it as a weapon.

“Dante,” he said, leaning forward.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Instead of answering, Dante grabbed a pitcher of water from the table and, without hesitation, upended it over Romano’s head.

The elder man sputtered, coughing violently as the water soaked him from head to toe.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Romano barked, struggling to wipe his dripping face with the sleeve of his damp shirt.

Dante leaned in, his voice low and razor-sharp.

“Sylvano is dead.”

Romano froze, his movements stilled as if the words had struck him physically.

For a fleeting moment, something flickered across his face—was it guilt? Surprise?

Dante couldn’t be sure.

Then, just as quickly, Romano shrugged, reaching for his glass.

“Don’t care,” he muttered, lifting the glass to his lips only to find it mixed with the water Dante had poured.

He grimaced and tossed it aside.

“Whatever the fuck you’re on about, it has nothing to do with me.”

Dante’s patience wore thin.

“Don’t play dumb, Romano. If you know something about Sylvano’s death, you’ll tell me now.”

Romano’s eyes narrowed, and he sneered.

“I don’t take orders from you, boy. I’m not one of your lackeys to command.”

He sat up straighter, the fury in his expression morphing into something far more insidious.

“The city will slip away from you, Dante. Mark my words. You’ll lose everything. You’re no better than Rafael.”

The mention of Romano’s dead son made Dante’s blood run cold.

He signalled Angelo with a glance when the latter moved to strike Romano, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re pathetic,” Dante said, his voice a quiet growl.

“Your son would be disgusted to see you like this.

Weak.

Drunk.

Hiding behind women and booze instead of leading your family.”

Romano let out a strangled yell, grabbing the nearest bottle and swinging it at Dante’s head.

Dante sidestepped with ease, the glass shattering against the floor.

Before Romano could grab another weapon, Dante closed the distance between them, seizing the older man by his shirt and hauling him upright.

“You think you can lash out like a child and call it strength?” Dante’s voice was low, his fury barely contained.

“You’re nothing, Romano. Nothing but a shadow of what you used to be. You need to get your shit together”

Romano struggled in Dante’s grasp, his fists pounding ineffectually against the younger man’s arms.

Dante’s patience snapped, and with one swift motion, he delivered a punch to Romano’s jaw.

The impact sent the older man sprawling back into his chair, his body limp as if the fight had been knocked out of him.

Romano groaned, his head lolling to the side as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Dante straightened, his breathing heavy, his knuckles throbbing.

He glanced at Angelo, who stood ready in case more violence erupted.

And then back at Romano, who was now a crumpled mess in his chair.