Chapter 6 Shadows Of Opportunity

• Twelve years later.
• The dim flicker of a single bulb cast jagged shadows across Santino’s cramped apartment. He sat at a rickety table, counting bills with the precision of a machine six thousand euros, crisp and stained from three days’ work. He sorted them into neat stacks: rent, supplies, savings, bribes. Order was his lifeline, his shield in a world of chaos.
• His phone buzzed, vibrating against the wood. Vito, punctual as always. Santino picked it up, voice clipped. “Speak.”
• “Shipments arrive early. Tonight,” Vito said, his tone rushed. Santino glanced at his watch—2 AM glowed in green digits. “Where?”
• “Dock 7. The usual guy can’t make it.” A ripple of unease tightened Santino’s gut. Routine shifts were trouble. “Who’s the replacement?”
• “Dunno. Some new kid. Boss says it’s fine.”
• “Nothing’s ever ‘fine’ in this game,” Santino muttered. “I’ll be there.” He ended the call, sliding a gun into the holster at his ankle and securing a knife to his belt.
• Years since his first kill, and the rules remained etched in his bones: trust no one, expect trouble, stay alive. Naples hadn’t changed either—still a jagged scar of broken buildings and hollow-eyed faces. Santino moved through its streets like a ghost, past crumbling apartments where children coughed and old men gambled.
• He’d clawed his way up from street dealing years ago, now controlling three neighborhoods’ worth of product. Not an empire, but enough to keep him fed, feared, and free.
• The docks loomed ahead, a black silhouette against the midnight sky, the air thick with salt and diesel. Santino scanned the shadows as two figures stood at the entrance, one lingering by the containers. Standard. He approached with hands raised, palms open.
• “You Leandro?” A skinny kid, barely twenty, stepped from behind a crate, his voice cracking with nerves. Santino nodded, eyes sharp. “Yeah.”
• “Got the cash?” The kid shifted, glancing toward the water.
• “Got the product?” Santino countered, his voice steady. The kid jerked his head toward a duffel bag slumped against the crate. “Twenty kilos. Pure.”
• Santino crouched, unzipping the bag with care. White powder gleamed under the dock lights, vacuum-sealed in neat bricks. He sliced one open with his knife, dabbed a finger, and tested it on his tongue. The numbness hit fast, a familiar sting. He stood, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Cash is in the car. Let’s—”
• His phone buzzed again, an unknown number flashing on the screen. Santino held up a finger to the kid, frowning. “Speak.”
• “Santino fucking Leandro.” The voice hit him like a punch from the past, warm and mocking. “Long time, brother.”
• Santino’s spine stiffened, his grip tightening on the phone. “Salvatore?”
• “The one and only,” Salvatore chuckled, his tone smooth as silk. “Miss me?”
• “You left eleven years ago,” Santino said, his voice low, edged with suspicion. “Why now?”
• “France called. I answered.” Salvatore’s voice dipped, conspiratorial. “But I never forgot my friend, Santino. Never.”
• Santino motioned the kid to wait, stepping closer to the water’s edge. The waves crashed softly, a rhythm to match his racing pulse. “What do you want?”
• “Is that any way to greet family? I’m hurt,” Salvatore teased, a laugh lurking beneath his words.
• “We’re not family,” Santino snapped, eyes narrowing.
• “We shared bread when no one else would feed us,” Salvatore shot back, his voice softening. “We’re more than family. And I’ve got a proposition.”
• The wind carried the Mediterranean’s salt into Santino’s lungs. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “I’m listening.”
• “Not over the phone,” Salvatore said, cryptic. “But let’s just say Naples has become… too small for your talents.”
• Santino glanced at the kid, who fidgeted with the duffel’s strap, sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m doing fine here.”
• “Fine?” Salvatore’s laugh cut through the line, sharp and disbelieving. “Santino Leandro, son of Ben, reduced to midnight dock runs? Your father would weep to see you like this.”
• Heat flared behind Santino’s eyes, a memory of blood and rain flashing unbidden. “Don’t speak of him,” he growled.
• “I speak the truth,” Salvatore pressed. “You’re better than this, brother. And I can prove it. Come to France. Club Octana, Paris. I’ll send the details.”
• “And if I refuse?” Santino’s jaw tightened, the weight of the gun at his ankle a cold comfort.
• “Then die slowly in Naples, moving powder for men smaller than you,” Salvatore said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Check your email. First-class ticket. Tomorrow night.”
• The line went dead. Santino stared at the phone, its black screen reflecting his hardened face. He turned to the kid, who shuffled nervously. “Load it up. We’re done here.”
• Naples suddenly felt like a cage, its walls closing in. The docks stretched dark and endless, the duffel bag a silent promise of more nights like this. But France Club Octana whispered of something bigger, a chance to rise or fall. He pocketed the phone, the email notification already pinging.