The Black Sun Syndicate

Part 1: The Vescari Syndicate Meeting

The heavy bass of the nightclub vibrated through the walls, a deep, pulsing rhythm that resonated in the bones of anyone inside. The Vescari Syndicate's headquarters, hidden behind layers of luxury and excess, was a place of business disguised as entertainment. Tonight, however, the real business took place in the back rooms, away from the dancing crowds and neon lights.

Inside a private lounge, a dimly lit room bathed in the soft glow of golden chandeliers, Adrian Vescari sat at the head of a long mahogany table. His presence alone was enough to command the attention of every man seated around him. He was dressed in a sharp, dark suit, a gold watch glinting on his wrist as he tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table.

Anton Sorelli sat to his right, a glass of whiskey in hand, his sharp eyes watching the room. Silvio Bellini leaned back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling around his face as he listened. Luca "The Hammer" sat near the end, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He cracked his knuckles and grinned. "Ok, king," he muttered whenever Adrian spoke, a habit that had become his signature.

The air was tense. The reason for the meeting was clear.

Adrian finally spoke, his voice like a slow-moving storm. "Respect is earned, and fear is maintained. If we let these parasites operate in our streets, what do we become? Weak. And I do not tolerate weakness."

He tossed a dossier onto the table, its contents spilling out—photographs, reports, and names. The target of their discussion was an African drug operation led by a ruthless man named Kofi "The Butcher" Adeyemi. His men had been moving heroin through Vescari territory, ignoring the warnings to stop.

"He's making money off our streets," Anton Sorelli said coldly. "Our business suffers."

Silvio exhaled smoke through his nose. "We've warned them. Twice. Either they think we're bluffing, or they don't care."

"Then we make them care," Adrian said, his fingers tapping the table again. "Blood is the only language men like these understand."

Luca grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Ok, king."

Adrian leaned forward, his expression dark. "Tomorrow, we strike. Daylight. Public. We let the whole city know what happens when you steal from the Vescari Syndicate. If one of them survives, make sure he tells the others."

Anton nodded, downing the rest of his whiskey. "It'll be handled."

The men began discussing the logistics—the hit would take place at noon, when Kofi's men met with their buyers. The Vescari Syndicate would show no mercy.

As the meeting wrapped up, Adrian's final words echoed in the room. "Loyalty is paid in blood. Let them pay."

---

Part 2: Elias' Nightmare

Elias' sleep was restless, his mind plagued by the mission ahead. He drifted into a nightmare, a horrifying vision of what was to come.

In his dream, he stood in the middle of Vescari's nightclub, his gun raised. The music pounded in his ears, but everything else was eerily silent. Anton Sorelli was in front of him, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

This was his chance.

He squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

His gun jammed. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Before he could react, hands grabbed him from behind.

He struggled, but they were too strong. The dream twisted, pulling him into a chair in a dark room, his hands bound behind his back. The faces of his captors became clear—Anton Sorelli, Silvio Bellini, and Alex "The Hunter", Vescari's top enforcer.

Anton leaned forward, his voice filled with venom. "Who sent you?"

Elias stayed silent, his breath shallow.

Alex stepped closer, a cruel smirk on his lips. "We know it wasn't your idea. Someone sent you. Who?"

Elias clenched his jaw.

Anton pulled out a knife, running the blade along Elias' cheek, not deep enough to cut—just enough to remind him of the power they held.

"Dominic Graves," Elias finally whispered.

Silence.

Then laughter.

Alex's smirk turned into a sneer. "I will bury you and the fat pig."

Anton lifted a gun, pressing the barrel to Elias' forehead. The cold metal burned against his skin.

A gunshot rang out.

Elias woke up with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His heart pounded like a war drum, the echoes of the nightmare still gripping him.

But there was no turning back.

Tomorrow, he would be free.

---

Part 3: Preparation and Arrival at the Club

Elias took a long shower, letting the water wash away the fear clinging to his skin. He dressed carefully, slipping his pistol into the holster beneath his jacket. He checked the silencer, ensuring it was in perfect condition.

This was it.

As he stepped outside, a shadow loomed near his car.

Patrick "The Undertaker" stood there, dressed in a dark coat, his expression unreadable. He was one of Dominic Graves' most trusted men.

"Dominic sends his regards," Patrick said, lighting a cigarette. "And some advice."

Elias narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Patrick exhaled smoke, watching it curl into the cold night air. "If you fail, don't say his name. Don't mention the Black Sun Syndicate. If they catch you, you don't know us."

Elias swallowed hard.

Patrick smirked. "Good luck." Then he turned and walked into the night.

Elias clenched his fists. There was no room for failure.

He drove to the nightclub, parking a few blocks away. The neon glow reflected off the wet pavement as he approached the entrance. The bouncers barely glanced at him as he walked inside, disappearing into the crowd.

The music was deafening. He scanned the room.

Anton Sorelli sat at a VIP booth near the bar, laughing with his men. He looked relaxed, unaware of the storm about to descend upon him.

Elias moved to a dark corner, ordering a drink he had no intention of touching. He needed the right moment. The perfect opportunity.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against the concealed pistol.

This was it.

One shot.

One moment.

And he would be free.