The cacophony of an entire community packed into such a small space was overwhelming. Yet, somehow, it soothed their fear, granting them the fragile sense of stability needed to quell the pandemonium clutching their hearts.
The Manufacture D’Armes De Miraval had historically been the heart of the military–industrial complex ruled by the Miraval family, the lifeline that, by supplying the Miraval Institute of Magic and Technology with thousands of tons of new steel each day, granted Miraval City the self-sufficiency it needed to remain isolated from the rest of the world. Today, however, things had changed, and the old dream of centralizing all industrial production within a single titanic factory had gone out of fashion, and out of economic realism. Hence, other megaliths—each specialized in a different field—had risen around the original Manufacture D'Armes, until the whole southern rim of Port Island was consumed by a vast expanse of iron and smog.
If Miraval City were ever to be besieged, there would be no better refuge than within these modern castles of metal, their walls thick enough to withstand both the thousands of degrees generated by the furnaces and their occasional explosions. And indeed, that is exactly where its citizens were now fleeing.
A couple of meters every time the bombardments paused, hundreds of thousands of people from Port Island poured into the southern fortresses seeking shelter. Nonetheless, keeping order, providing food, and maintaining healthcare for an entire city’s population enclosed within such a cramped and inhospitable environment was a colossal feat of social engineering, where a single misstep could ignite panic into an outright massacre. That being said, there were always professionals ready to delve into the depths of hell for money. They were called—Marians.
”You’re a businessman, and so am I. The Demmies’ offers keep getting juicier day by day, and I’m sure you know the fate of more than two hundred thousand people rests on my shoulders.” He inhaled from a massive cigar, shaping a perfect smoke ring as he savored the fear on the other end of the line. “So triple the money, or you’ll watch those you left outside your manor invading and burning it while chanting ‘Break the Chain.’” He slammed the receiver down, then leaned back in his chair to admire the smoke ring with a puzzled expression.
“It’s grotesque that people unironically pay taxes only to be governed by such incompetent leeches—thanks the ’Original Seeker,’ I never did.” The man was fat—the result of drinking a thousand bottles of wine and savoring the greasy yet tasty lasagna he loved so much—and lifting his massive belly off the chair was a monumental feat he rarely bothered with. Nevertheless, after a few powerful groans, he forced himself to his feet to reach the window of his office, which overlooked the molten bay.
The mastodontic furnace ran at minimum power, just enough to heat the thousands of refugees packed into the room below. Some lay on the floor, over carpets found around the city. Whereas, most of them had found new homes among scaffolds nailed to the factory walls where sheets—some silk, some ragged cloth—were draped over the pig-iron frames to form tiny cubicles to grant a bit of privacy to the families. On the other hand, food and hygiene were centralized—a large liquid tank had been converted into a communal pot, and the steelworkers’ showers had been reverse-engineered to recycle the furnace’s cooling water for hundreds of desperate people.
The fat man had given them shelter, food, water, and a fragile yet tangible sense of security. However, after almost a week, he still hadn’t seen a single smile. “Whoever you’re clinging to is gone now. Wouldn’t it be simpler if you accepted the loss and moved on with your life?” He smoothed his cigar into the window frame, relishing in the sound that cut that dreadful silence.
“Well, there’s a reason sheep are meant to produce, while we wolves are meant to lead.”
Don Massimiliano Pittoresco was born fifty-two years ago in the Free City of Maria. An Uomo d’Onore of the Marian Mafia, he had been entrusted by the Della Gherardesca Clan to oversee all their operations and business within Miraval City. In other words, Don Pittoresco was the undisputed sovereign of Port Island—untouchable, even by the Miraval Family.
Abandoned at birth by an unknown mother, Big Max grew up in one of the many orphanages run by the Trentasette Clan—the Cupola formed by the most powerful families governing the vast and intricate galaxy of different organizations that comprised the Marian Mafia. And beneath the orphanage’s bittersweet façade, a training ground was set up to forge the next generation of soldiers for the Marian families, where the first and most sacred lesson for a mafioso was taught—it’s dominate or be dominated.
The first years were dire for Massimiliano. His gentle disposition and frail physique—as thin as a nail—placed him at the bottom of the food chain, easily becoming the wolves’ preferred target and enduring the worst kinds of humiliation. Yet, it was thanks to these beatings and mockery that he learned that the Free City of Maria was living proof that eugenics is a pseudoscience.
One day, during his daily humiliation ritual, two of his bullies got into a fight over something Big Max didn’t remember well, but knew had been petty—a stupid argument that, nevertheless, led to the death of one of them. To properly develop the orphans’ character, many debatable acts were tolerated, but murder was too far—a Mafioso couldn’t kill a Confratello without authorization from the Cupola. Hence, Big Max literally pissed his pants, believing the bully’d kill him next to shut his mouth. Instead, in that moment, the future Don Pittoresco discovered that being as defenseless as he was could be its own kind of power—anything, even weakness, can become an advantage if you learn how to use it.
In the bully’s mind, Big Max was a being too pathetic to ever be considered a threat, and unwittingly, the little mafioso had created an atmosphere around himself that saved his life. Once he understood this, it didn’t take long for him to capitalize on the opportunity, and one by one, the boy everyone treated like a slave began uncovering the orphanage’s darkest secrets—where the stolen money was hidden, who smuggled the drugs, who had blood on their hands—and the few times he was caught snooping around, no one cared—people may be disgusted by insects crawling throughout their rooms, but they never fear them.
When Big Max recounted this story, he always loved to conclude it with the quote—“The dumber people think you are, the more hilarious the look on their faces when you stab them in the throat.”
One by one, his worst bullies were found dead—throats slit in their sleep, poisoned at breakfast, or betrayed by their closest friends after evidence of disloyalty mysteriously appeared beside their beds—and paranoia spread through the orphanage like a plague, tearing its already fragile social fabric apart. And amidst that chaos, there was only one person left whom everyone could still trust, or rather, whom everyone knew to be harmless to them. In short, the killings had been necessary to eliminate those deemed unfit for his plan, while the rest were either befriended or blackmailed into obedience.
By the age of twelve, Big Max left the orphanage as its undisputed king, an invaluable experience that taught him what the Mafia truly is—the exploitation of fear. Find what a victim values most, threaten it, and offer him an offer he cannot refuse.
Forty years had passed since those unforgettable days, and now he stood as Don Massimiliano Pittoresco, an Uomo D’Onore—the highest rank one not born into the Trentasette Clan could aim for. Perhaps too successful, and that might be the reason why the Della Gherardesca Clan rewarded him with their most profitable market, shipping Big Max as far from Maria as possible—a golden retirement. Nevertheless, with power came responsibility, and failure, even if in such an unpredictable situation, now meant death.
Don Pittoresco took one last look from his office window at the thousands of people below, who were throwing themselves to the ground as the bombardment resumed. The closer each explosion drew, the louder the hysteria propagated in the room, and for the first time in his life, Big Max found himself wishing the government would do its job as quickly as possible.
*Knock!*
He tilted his head at the door, watching a young man stepping into the room. His face was pale, sporting greased hair, large eyebags, and a filthy Silicon-Woven Armor—a cheap 3D printed armor riddled with tiny irregular holes like an Arpine cheese.
”Don Pittoresco” He swiftly kneeled and kissed Max’s hand. “We’ve rescued two thousand people from Vieille Ruelle. Sadly, we were too late for most of them—all gassed. I believe around four thousand people died in that neighborhood alone.” The Don nodded, jotting down the data on an almost-full spreadsheet on his desk. “One more thing,” the young man continued, his tone stiffening. “My men didn’t join the Clan to be swallowed alive by an anaconda or to choke to death due to the Sarin. Their morale is at the bottom, and I’m afraid they’re about to abandon us.” Sebastiano Della Gherardesca—Scion of the Della Gherardesca Clan—was sent by his family to Miraval City to learn from the best of the best. However, now he kept his eyes low, ashamed to even meet his mentor’s gaze.
”They should be afraid of you, and you alone.” Big Max grimaced at first, but then calmed himself and sighed. ”You’ve got so much to learn, but that’s why I’m here, didn’t I?” He softly slapped his protégé’s cheek a couple of times, but then a something weird interrupted them.
”Waaah! Waaah! Waaah!” The sound was so out of place that for a moment, Don Pittoresco thought he’d imagined it. Then the door opened, revealing a man in blood-stained Carbon-Woven Armor cradling a crying baby in his arms. It was such a surreal sight that even Big Max was shocked, and very few things had ever succeeded in doing so.
“Holy fucking shit—I finally did it!” After gently placing the baby on the Don’s desk, the guest collapsed into a chair, free himself from all the tension accumulated during that complicated day. Then, he glanced toward the Uomo d’Onore, reached into his [Inventory], and pulled out three briefcases—two were set neatly on the desk, while the third got thrown at Big Max. “Here’s what you wanted.”
After a couple of confused blinks, Don Pittoresco opened it and whistled in approval. “Well, you brought me a fourth unrequested package, one that has just pissed all over my paperwork. But you did your job, so I can’t complain—Seb!” Big Max tossed the briefcase to his protégé. Sebastiano awkwardly caught it mid-air, flipped it open, and froze as he admired the gleaming of the hundreds of gems. “It’s a gift for your rebellious subordinates,” Max explained, lighting on another cigar. “As I’ve told you before—a man with a full stomach is a loyal one.” Sebastiano frenziedly nodded while his keeping his eyes on the package, smiling.
Meanwhile, Don Pittoresco retrieved a large folded blueprint from his desk and handed it to the man in Carbon-Woven Armor. “Your payment.”
"Where’s the bomb? The deal was the blueprint and the bomb!” The Young Butcher complained.
“The Demmies captured our smuggler. What can I say? Shit happens.” He raised and showed both palms apologetically. ”Don’t worry, I’ve already ordered a replacement, and it should be here in a few days. So, you’ll have to wait, just like everyone else trapped in this doomed city.” The man’s jaw tightened, but he wasn’t foolish enough to argue with a Don. Instead, he made a quick nod and thanked him. “By the way, I had a look at that blueprint, and my intuition’s rarely wrong—MOTHERFUCKER, are you mad?!”
“Ahem…the plan isn’t mine,” the man replied while scratching the back of his neck. “It’s Derserk Rouge’s. Yeah, he swore revenge on the Demmies who killed his father and stole his homeland, no matter the cost—truly a madman.”
Max frowed for a couple of seconds, then shrugged.
Perhaps I should thank that ’Romantic Dreamer.’ That crazy kid might actually end up solving my problems.
Big Max knew that no plan ever goes smoothly, but neither did any plan come without consequences. Whatever happened, he would be ready to exploit it.
“Don,” the Young Butcher began. “Can I ask you to find someone to take care of her?” He gestured to the baby on the desk.
“There are plenty of women who’ve lost their children in the siege.” Max pressed a button on his intercom, summoning an attendant. “Does she have a name?”
The man fell silent for a moment, staring at the child’s tiny hands as she reached toward him, smiling as if she was trying to hug her savior. “Just call her—Speranza.”
He shut his eyes tight to stop his heart from beating. Then, he stood and turned toward the door, but just as his hand touched the knob, a hand stopped him by his shoulder.
“You’re Rinaldinho, aren’t you?” The name Sebastiano addressed him really irritated the Young Butcher. “I just wanted you to know that my Clan and I had nothing to do with that—we’ve always respected you and your family. Damn, if only Rinaldo—not you, the other one—hadn’t died, that whole shitshow would never have happened.”
The Young Butcher’s fingers clenched around the knob, crushing it. “Yeah,” he muttered as he gritted his teeth.
“If only that motherfucker hadn’t died.”
