Chapter 8 - The War for the North End
The underground warehouse on the outskirts of South Boston was lit by a single flickering overhead bulb that cast harsh, dancing shadows across the concrete floor.
Dmitri Malenkov sat tied to a wooden chair, his immaculate white suit stained with dirt and dried blood, his left eye swollen shut.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed across the concrete.
Victor Malenkov stepped into the circle of light. He didn't wear a coat. He wore a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his knuckles bruised, his pale gray eyes burning with the cold, apocalyptic fury of an executioner.
"You broke the rule, Dmitri," Victor said quietly, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "You touched what is mine."
Dmitri spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and laughed, a raspy, defiant sound. "She's a weakness, Victor! A little nursing student from a dive bar! You think you can play king with a civilian tied to your coat tails? The New York board is already voting to strip your territories while you play domestic house!"
Victor didn't yell. He didn't lose his temper. He walked slowly around the chair, picking up a heavy steel wrench resting on a nearby workbench.
"The New York board can vote from a cemetery," Victor said flatly.
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Three hours later, the war for the North End was officially over before it had even begun.
Dmitri’s syndicates were dismantled, his assets frozen, and the surviving New York lieutenants packed onto a midnight flight back across state lines with a very clear, permanent warning. The ghost of Boston had reclaimed his crown, but this time, he wasn't hiding in the dark.
