The city never slept, and neither did its shadows. Montrose City, a sprawling metropolis built on crime and corruption, pulsed with the energy of those who ruled from the darkness. Among them, one name commanded both fear and respect—Antonio "Nero" Vasquez.
The neon glow of streetlights flickered across the rain-slicked pavement as a convoy of black sedans rolled through the backstreets of Montrose. Inside the lead car, Nero sat in silence, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the leather armrest. The scent of cigars and expensive cologne lingered in the air, blending with the faint metallic tinge of gun oil.
"He's waiting inside," a gruff voice announced as the car came to a slow halt in front of an old warehouse. The building loomed over them like a sleeping beast, its broken windows and rusted doors bearing witness to years of silent violence.
Nero stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. He was a man of presence—calm, calculating, and deadly when necessary. As he approached the entrance, two of his men flanked him, their hands resting near their concealed weapons.
Inside, the dimly lit space was filled with the scent of damp concrete and old wood. A single overhead light flickered above a metal table where an older man sat, his wrists bound to the chair. Blood dripped from his lip, pooling onto his disheveled shirt.
Nero exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled out a chair and sat across from the battered figure. "You know why you're here, Frank?" His voice was smooth, almost casual, but beneath it lay the promise of something far more sinister.
Frank coughed, spitting out a mix of saliva and blood. "You got it all wrong, Nero... I swear. I never—"
A sharp nod from Nero, and one of his men delivered a brutal punch to Frank's ribs, eliciting a strangled groan.
"Loyalty is everything in this city, Frank. You should know that by now." Nero leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto the broken man before him. "And betrayal? Well, that's something I don't forgive."
The warehouse fell silent except for the distant rumble of thunder. Outside, Montrose City continued its endless dance of crime and survival, unaware that within these walls, the fate of one man had already been decided.
Nero sighed and rose from his chair, straightening his tie. "Make it quick," he muttered before turning away, the click of his polished shoes echoing through the warehouse as he walked toward the exit. Behind him, the sound of a silenced gunshot marked the end of Frank's story.
The Good Old Fella was no more.