Page 57 of Mafia Kingdom

THE RAIN IS relentless, drumming against black umbrellas like nature's own funeral march. Fitting, I think, as we lower Danny's casket into the soggy earth. The youngest Walsh, barely twenty-five, going into the ground before his time. My brother. My responsibility. My failure.

I stand rigid at the graveside, my face a mask of stone. To my right, Father stares straight ahead, his weathered face betraying nothing of the storm I know must be raging inside him. To my left stands Sasha, a surprise to everyone present, including me. She insisted on coming, said I shouldn't face this alone. The black dress she wears makes her skin look even paler, her green eyes stark and solemn in the gray morning light.

Damien and James flank Father, both maintaining careful distance from each other and from me. The Walsh family fracturing even as we pretend unity for the watching eyes of our associates and enemies alike.

I scan the assembled mourners from behind dark sunglasses. Every major crime family in North/East has sent representatives—a show of respect, yes, but also reconnaissance— measuring our strength in our moment of grief. I note whostands where, who whispers to whom, filing away each detail for later consideration.

Then I spot him—Lucas, standing apart from the main gathering, beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak. Like me, he wears dark glasses, his posture is deliberately casual as if attending a minor social obligation rather than our brother's burial.

The priest's words fade into the background as I maintain that visual connection with Lucas. My hand throbs where I've clenched it too tight, wounds from our fight reopening beneath my leather gloves. I feel Sasha shift beside me, her arm pressing gently against mine.

Father steps forward, dropping a handful of soil onto the casket. The sound it makes—earth against polished wood—brings me back to the present. One by one, we follow suit. When it's my turn, I remove my glove, wanting to feel the cold, damp earth between my fingers—a last tactile connection to Danny.

"I'll make this right," I promise silently as the soil slips from my grasp. "I'll send the one responsible to join you soon."

The ceremony concludes with minimal fanfare. No one in our world expects flowery eulogies or dramatic displays of grief. Death is a business hazard, even when it comes for one of our own.

As the mourners begin to disperse, Father approaches me.

"The Russian delegation wants to pay their respects," he says, his voice low. "Handle it. I have no patience for it today."

It's not a request. I nod, watching as he walks away, Gerald and Michael flanking him like twin shadows. Father didn’t question why Lucas wasn’t standing with us. Either he found out the same truth that I did or he doesn’t care.

"Marco."

I turn to find Sasha at my shoulder, her expression concerned. "You're bleeding," she says quietly, nodding towardmy hand where a droplet of blood has stained the cuff of my white shirt.

Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check it discreetly—a message from Tony:Lucas will be at the North docks. Meeting with the Black Crew.

A surge of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. I look in the direction that Lucas had been standing, but he’s already gone. This is it. The final confirmation I need.

"I have to go," I tell Sasha, already mentally shifting gears.

Concern flashes across her face. "Now? But the reception—"

"Tony will escort you back to the estate." I flag him down with a subtle gesture, and he materializes at my side within seconds. I’m sure he was watching me read the text he sent.

"What's happening?" Sasha asks, her voice dropping to ensure only I hear her.

I hesitate, torn between keeping her in the dark for her own protection and the growing need to bring her fully into my world. "Lucas," I say finally. "I need to settle something with him."

Understanding dawns in her eyes—too much understanding. She's piecing it together faster than I'd like.

"Be careful," she says simply.

I brush my knuckles against her cheek, not caring who might see the gesture. "I'll be back soon."

It's a promise I hope I can keep.

I drive quickly toward the North Docks, rain lashing against the windshield. My mind races faster than the car, turning over possible scenarios, calculating outcomes. If Lucas is meeting with the Black Crew again after Danny's funeral, it means he's accelerating whatever plans they've made. I need to end this now, before more blood is spilled.

The docks loom ahead, massive cranes silhouetted against the stormy sky like industrial giants. This area has been disputed territory for years—officially neutral ground where deals can be made without territorial aggression. In practice, it's a lawless zone where the strongest take what they want and the weak pray for mercy.

I park a quarter-mile away and proceed on foot, sticking to shadows and staying low. The rain works in my favor, reducing visibility and muffling sound.

Tony's intel was solid. I spot Lucas's distinctive silver Mercedes parked near Warehouse 7, an abandoned storage facility we've used ourselves for various purposes over the years. Two men stand guard outside.

I circle around, finding a service entrance at the rear of the warehouse. The lock is old and yields easily to my picks. Inside, the space is cavernous and dimly lit, stacks of shipping containers and abandoned machinery creating a labyrinth of potential cover. I move silently, guided by the low murmur of voices coming from the center of the building.

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