Anything is possible.
Three hits in three days. That’s not bad luck; it's a message. And whoever sent it wants us to bleed on every front.
It started with Marco’s system getting breached. Not an amateur job either. Someone sliced through his firewalls like they’d studied them for years. Every online gambling platform we run went dark in under a minute. Marco contained it fast, too fast for it to be the real objective. No one who can hack at that level expects him not to respond immediately.
Which means the hack was never the point. It was the distraction.
Because while we were busy slamming digital doors shut, they hit something that actually matters. Our shipment. A multi-million-dollar transport, planned in silence, secured in a way only a handful of us even knew about.
Someone knew our timing. Our route. Our weak spot.
And they struck it clean.
By the time we scrambled to cover the loss, the real damage had begun. Safehouses, fronts, businesses tied to the Cosa Nostra, hit with precision like someone printed a map of our alliances and drove pins through each spot. They didn’t kill anyone important, but they made us scatter. Made us respond. Made us bleed resources and attention.
It was strategic. Coordinated. Personal.
Whoever this enemy is, they’re testing us. Studying us. Seeing where we break.
And unless we move fast, they’re going to find out.
This means another day away from my wife, going home late, barely seeing her. Which reminds me that I need to organize security around her for tomorrow’s match.
I smile when I remember how excited she was when she found that she would host the match in her gym, even if it was pre-scheduled with Boris. She wanted to honor Boris’s legacy and keep everything as it was before. She even asked him to stay and help her run it. I wonder, if she knew what he had done, would she still have asked him? I sure have him on my radar. One mistake, and I will end his legacy.
I check the CCTV footage from last night, where our trucks had been attacked. None of the men are recognizable, all of them wearing ski masks. I watch as five men shoot our drivers and take their places before they drive off into the unknown. This happened last night; therefore, there is no way we can track them. All the tracking devices were taken off and dumped as soon as they were on the road. I assume they also changed the plates later, because Marco couldn’t find anything with ours on.
Marco adjusts his glasses. “I will need time to find them. They were clever, avoiding cameras. Therefore, I’m checking private ones now. There has to be something.”
Luca, the underboss of Rhode Island, leans on the table, eyeing Salvatore, who is surprisingly calm. “Don, my men have searched the area, and they also couldn’t find those who attacked our men’s businesses. We’re being attacked from all sides, and we still don’t know the perpetrator.”
He twirls the pen between his fingers, his voice steady and controlled. “This was more than just stolen goods or damage to businesses. I’m ninety-nine percent sure this was someone from the outside. This is a distraction. There is more to come.”
“What do you mean?” Luca asks.
“Did they take anything from the businesses, like money or goods?”
Luca narrows his eyes. “No.”
He pins him with a knowing look. “See, they could have taken them. I bet there are thousands there, and they took nothing. They have other goals. There is more to come, so open your eyes and ears. Take care of the families of the dead men and compensate them and those whose businesses have been affected.”
Matteo fidgets in his place. “Could this be Sabatini?”
Salvatore’s eyes darken. “I hope it is, so I can kill him as slowly as possible.”
“He was calm today.” Marco watches Salvatore leave as soon as he dismisses the meeting with the underbosses.
“Hmm, he’s thinking. He’s looking for answers in the wrong place,” I say.
Marco tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“I thought he would stop being destructive now that Isabella is back. I guess his need for revenge is driving him to the destruction of everything around him.”
Marco snorts. “Well, Dr. Phil, I don’t remember the last time he wasn’t in a destructive mood, with Dante in as his shadow all the time.”
“I know.”
“Anyway, I have something for you.” He types on his laptop before turning the screen toward me. “I did a background check on all the names you gave me. These are the ones that are signed for the season’s fights, and these for the next. Each has the name of the gym they are part of.”
