New Blood, Old Trouble

The sound of motorcycle engines echoed through the misty dockyard, growling like wolves in the dark. A black SUV rolled to a slow, deliberate stop under the dull glow of a flickering streetlamp. The door creaked open, and Milan stepped out, his coat sweeping the concrete like a cape.

He stood still for a moment, scanning the figures emerging from the fog. The overseas MC gang was here—tall, stone-faced, and armed. Milan’s own crew flanked him, silent and alert, fingers twitching near their weapons. Every breath between them felt heavy with history and threat.

Milan took a single step forward—

And tripped.

His polished shoe caught a rusted pipe, and he stumbled awkwardly toward the rival mafia boss. Guns were drawn in a heartbeat, the tension slicing through the air like a blade.

He froze mid-stumble, caught his balance, and cleared his throat.

“I meant to do that,” he muttered, brushing off his coat with a flick far too dramatic for the moment.

The rival boss didn’t blink. “Real smooth, boss man.”

Without missing a beat, Milan extended his hand, the cocky smirk slipping back onto his face. “Like I said... trust.”

After a pause, the rival accepted the handshake. The moment lingered—tense, dangerous—but unspoken agreements passed through locked eyes.

Two kings. One empire. Blood would decide everything.

Later That Night – Mafia Headquarters

The trailer played on a wide screen inside the private lounge of Milan’s underground club. The room was dim, the air thick with smoke and the scent of whiskey. His crew sat on velvet couches, murmuring as they watched the dramatic footage roll.

“Boss looks badass,” someone commented.

Milan sat front and center, legs crossed, nursing a glass of scotch. He looked every bit the part—until he leaned sideways to steal a cookie from a pink plate sitting on the armrest... and spilled the entire drink onto his shirt.

“Sh*t,” he muttered.

“Boss, you good?” one of his men asked, biting back a laugh.

“I’m fine. It’s part of the look.”

Before anyone else could react, a small figure padded into the room. Trixie, Milan’s five-year-old daughter, held a crumpled napkin in her tiny hand and looked up at him with amused eyes.

“Daddy,” she giggled, dabbing his shirt, “you’re like a puppy when you fall.”

Milan exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re the only one allowed to say that.”

The gang chuckled quietly. The room, usually so cold and controlled, softened just a little in her presence.

As the trailer ended, silence returned. The screen now showed a still image of the rival boss—broad-shouldered, smug, unreadable.

“What do we really think about this alliance?” one of his men asked.

Milan stared at the screen, his expression unreadable.

I don’t trust him, he thought. But I can’t stop thinking about him, either.

The room quieted after Milan's long stare at the screen. His crew shifted in their seats, sensing the change in energy. Trixie had wandered off to sit in the corner with her crayons, humming to herself and completely unaware of the weight hanging in the air.

Milan finally stood, wiping his damp shirt with the napkin Trixie had handed him.

“Keep your eyes open,” he said quietly. “That handshake didn’t mean peace. It meant war with manners.”

A few of his men nodded. One of them, Gray, leaned forward. “You think the overseas gang is planning something?”

“I know they are,” Milan said, walking toward the window that overlooked the city’s glowing skyline. “You don’t send your top dog just to say hi. He’s here for more.”

Gray frowned. “You mean Luka?”

Milan’s jaw tightened at the name. Luka—the rival mafia boss. The man who smiled with his eyes but carried death in his hands. He was the kind of man who made enemies fall for him... before he pulled the trigger.

Milan hated how well he remembered Luka’s voice.

Milan let out a dry chuckle, his voice low. “Luka, huh? Pretty boy’s back in town.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowed like he was picturing the man. “Still using that silky voice and sharp suits to make people forget he’s a snake underneath?”

The men exchanged glances. They’d seen Milan angry before—but this was something else. This was personal.

“He always did love making an entrance,” Milan muttered. “Guess I’ll have to remind Lulu who owns this city.”

Gray raised a brow. “Lulu?”

Milan smirked. “What? It fits. He acts like he’s sweet… until he bites.”

To be continued

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