The Mafia Elite

Chapter 1 - Blood Debt

Reen's POV

The Cadillac's engine growled like something feral, something that had been caged too long.

Reen Sanchez sat in the back seat, spine straight, eyes fixed on the city lights blurring past the window. His reflection stared back at him-sharp jaw, hollow cheeks, eyes that hadn't slept in days.

He wasn't scared.

He was furious.

It sat in his chest like a coal, hot and permanent. A fire that had been burning since he was twelve years old, standing in the rain at his father's funeral, watching the Nevarros send flowers with a card that read "Our deepest sympathies."

Sympathies.

They'd killed him. They'd gutted Soren Sanchez in his own home, left him bleeding out on the marble floor of his study, and then they'd sent flowers.

Reen's jaw tightened. His knuckles went white against his thigh.

Beside him, Langston took another long pull from his flask. The whiskey sloshed, catching the streetlight. He didn't offer it to Reen. He never did.

"You're quiet," Langston said. His voice was rough. Worn smooth by too many years of too much blood.

"So are you."

"I'm always quiet before." Langston capped the flask, tucked it into his jacket. His eyes were glassy, but his hands were steady. They were always steady. "You, though. You're usually pacing. Yelling. Breaking something."

Reen didn't look at him. "Not tonight."

"Because tonight's different?"

"Because tonight it ends."

Langston was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed-low and humorless. "You sound like your father."

Reen's head snapped toward him. The words hit like a slap.

Langston didn't flinch. He just stared back, that same glassy, knowing look in his eyes. "He said the same thing. The night before he died. 'It ends tonight, Langston. One way or another.'"

The car fell silent.

Reen turned back to the window. His reflection stared back at him-his father's jaw, his father's eyes, his father's fury.

I'm not him, he thought. I won't be him.

The Cadillac tore through the city, carving a path straight to the Nevarro Syndicate.

Tonight, the war wasn't starting.

It was ending.

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The Nevarro estate came into view an hour later-a sprawl of manicured lawn and wrought-iron gates, a fortress dressed up like a palace.

Reen had studied the blueprints for months. He knew every hallway, every blind spot, every camera. He knew where the guards patrolled and when they rotated. He knew the east entrance was the weak point-a service door that hadn't been updated since the eighties, hidden behind a row of overgrown hedges.

He knew everything.

Except what he'd feel when he finally walked through those doors.

The convoy stopped two blocks out. Engines cut. Silence swallowed the street.

Reen stepped out of the Cadillac. The night air was cold, sharp with the smell of rain and gasoline. He shrugged on his jacket-black, fitted, concealing the holster at his ribs.

Around him, men moved like shadows. Checking weapons. Tying boots. Whispering last words to no one in particular.

Langston appeared at his side. The flask was gone-tucked away with the rest of his vices. In its place, a sleek pistol, already cocked.

"You remember the plan?" Reen asked.

"I remember."

"And you remember what happens if you deviate?"

Langston smirked. "You gut me yourself."

"Good."

Reen turned to the men. Twenty of them. Handpicked. Loyal. Most had served his father. Some had watched him die. One-a kid no older than nineteen-was praying under his breath. Reen didn't stop him.

They were ready.

Reen nodded. "Light it up."

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The explosion shattered the night-sharp, blinding, a pillar of orange flame erupting from the far end of the estate. For a moment, everything went white.

Then the screaming started.

Guards poured out of the main building, rifles raised, shouting into radios. Their boots pounded against the cobblestones as they rushed toward the fire, toward the chaos, toward the obvious threat.

Idiots, Reen thought. You never look behind you.

His car slid through the east entrance, silent as a ghost. The service door was exactly where the blueprints said it would be. The lock was old. Rusted. It gave way under his pick in seconds.

He stepped inside.

The hallway was dark. Narrow. The walls were lined with portraits-generations of Nevarro men, their eyes cold and empty. Reen's gaze caught on one-a man with a sharp nose and a sharper smile. Esteban Nevarro. The current don. The man who'd shot his father dead.

Soon.

He moved deeper. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. The sounds of the assault outside echoed through the walls-gunfire, screams, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground. Langston was doing his job. Keeping them busy. Keeping them blind.

Reen passed a window. Through the glass, he saw the main courtyard. Guards were scattered, confused, firing at shadows. The assault team had them pinned from three sides.

Good.

He kept walking.

The head chambers were ahead-twin oak doors, carved with the Nevarro crest. A serpent eating its own tail.

Reen paused. His hand rested on the door.

His heart was pounding. Not from fear-from anticipation.

This is for you, Dad. For our legacy.

He pushed the door open.