Crimson Ties

Dante's voice tore through the room like a gunshot, each word soaked in venom. "You think this is your fucking slammer, Vince?!" he bellowed, his fist slamming down on the battered desk in front of him. The impact made the assortment of junk on its surface jump—a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and a few smudged papers fluttering to the floor. "You think you can just waltz in here whenever the hell you feel like it?! Like you own the fucking place?!"

Vince stood in the middle of the room, unmoved, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark trench coat. His face was unreadable, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his sharp features. He didn't react to Dante's outburst, his silence only seeming to agitate the gang leader further. The tension in the air was suffocating, the kind that made even the faintest movement feel amplified.

The room itself reeked of smoke and sweat, a crude attempt at making a decrepit cargo hold into something resembling an office. Metal walls, streaked with grime and rust, reflected the faint flicker of the overhead bulb that swayed slightly with the freighter's occasional groan. The faint thrum of machinery hummed through the floor beneath their feet, a constant reminder of the vessel's age. Behind Dante's desk, a cracked map of Bog Bay Harbor was taped to the wall, its edges curling. Red and blue lines marked territories, with pins stuck into various key points. Beside it, a rack of melee weapons leaned haphazardly—blades, bats, and a crowbar still smeared with dried blood.

Two of Dante's thugs flanked the room like sentinels, their presence adding to the oppressive atmosphere. One, a wiry man with a twitchy demeanor, held a bat with nails jutting out, his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. The other, a broad-shouldered brute with a jagged scar running down his cheek, rested a hand on the handle of a wickedly curved knife strapped to his side. When Dante's fist hit the desk, both men stiffened, their eyes darting toward Vince like predators waiting for an excuse to pounce.

"Boss?" Scar muttered, his voice low but charged. He shifted slightly, his hand twitching toward the knife. Twitchy, on the other hand, raised the bat an inch, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Stand down," Dante snapped without turning to look at them, though his tone carried a dangerous edge that silenced any argument. Still, the two thugs didn't lower their weapons, their eyes glued to Vince like he was a lit fuse about to go off.

"You broke the treaty," Vince said suddenly, his voice calm but carrying enough weight to momentarily halt the building storm in the room. He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the metal floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The bat in Twitchy's hands twitched upward, while Scar's fingers tightened around his knife. Both men's stances screamed aggression, like coiled springs ready to snap at the slightest wrong move.

Dante leaned forward, his hands gripping the desk as he stared Vince down, his bloodshot eyes blazing. "What the fuck did you just say?" he hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl.

Vince didn't flinch, his eyes meeting Dante's with a calm intensity. "You broke the treaty," he repeated, each word measured and deliberate. "By moving out of your territory."

The words hung in the air like a match hovering over a pool of gasoline. Dante's lip curled into a snarl, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. The two thugs shifted uneasily, their weapons rising just slightly higher, the air practically crackling with tension. It was the kind of moment where a single breath out of place could set off an explosion.

Dante's glare burned holes into Vince as he barked, "Get the fuck out!" at the two thugs flanking the room. The sharp command echoed, cutting through the tension like a whip.

Twitchy and Scar hesitated for a beat, glancing at each other nervously before scrambling to obey. Twitchy practically dropped his bat in his haste, the nails clanging against the metal floor as he fumbled to pick it up. Scar, meanwhile, muttered something under his breath, shooting Vince a venomous look before disappearing out the door. The heavy slam of the door behind them left an oppressive silence in their wake.

Vince's smirk spread slowly, deliberately, as he turned his gaze back to Dante. "Seems you've kept your underlings in the dark about the treaty," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "Guess even they don't know how deep the shit really goes, huh?"

Dante's jaw clenched visibly, his teeth grinding as a vein pulsed at his temple. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers gripping the desk like he was ready to rip it apart with his bare hands. His eyes were wild, glinting with barely restrained fury, but he stayed silent, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a sharp breath.

"It was the Black Marlins' fault," Dante spat, the words laced with venom as if he was forcing them through a tight throat. His voice quivered with agitation, though he clearly fought to keep it steady. "Those shitty bastards broke the treaty first. They pushed us, chased us to this shithole we're stuck in now!" He gestured to the room around them with a jerky sweep of his arm, his frustration boiling over. "You and your dogs at BBPD should've been the ones to keep the balance, to cut the Black Marlins down, but you did jack shit!"

Vince took a single, calculated step closer, his boots clinking faintly against the metal floor. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading into a shadow of itself, replaced with a malicious calm. "The Black Marlins hold the north of Bog Bay City Harbor. The Fangs, the south." His voice was low and deliberate, each word razor-sharp. "No matter what happened, it was your two sides that were supposed to keep the balance." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "Once that balance is disturbed, heads will roll."

Dante's fists curled into tight balls, his knuckles cracking audibly. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension building like a fuse nearing its end. His face twisted, a sneer forming as his breaths came faster, angrier.

Vince took another step forward, his dark eyes locking onto Dante's. His tone grew even colder, biting, like frost cutting through flesh. "You already knew what happened two years ago." He paused again, letting the sentence hang in the air like a noose tightening around Dante's neck. "And you don't want it to happen again… do you?"

Dante's fury, which had been threatening to erupt, faltered. His breathing hitched, his glare losing some of its heat. The muscles in his jaw twitched, and for a split second, his eyes flickered with something that resembled fear. He straightened up, his shoulders tense, but his movements slowed, deliberate, as if trying to regain some semblance of control. The fire in his gaze cooled, replaced by a shadow of unease, though his lips still curled into a faint snarl.

The memory hit Dante like a punch to the gut, the images flooding his mind unbidden. It was the Bog Bay City Harbor, two years ago, but it might as well have been hell itself. Smoke choked the air, blackening the sky like an omen. Fires raged uncontrollably, licking at the skeletons of warehouses, sending sparks into the dark. The acrid stench of burning oil, wood, and flesh clung to everything, suffocating the very breath from his lungs.

The screams were the worst. High-pitched wails of terror, guttural cries of pain, and the heart-wrenching sobs of the living who had to step over the dead. Life was being snuffed out like candles in a storm. Men's bodies lay crumpled on the ground, some riddled with stab wounds, others beaten beyond recognition, their blood pooling and soaking into the dirt like a macabre river.

Women shrieked as they ran, their faces pale with horror, some clutching what little they could salvage, others clutching torn clothes to their bodies as they tried to escape the monsters prowling the chaos. Some didn't run fast enough. Dante could still hear the sickening laughter of men who'd thrown their weapons down for something crueler—violence of a different kind, the kind that didn't end with a quick death.

And the children. Goddamn the children. Little hands clutching the limp bodies of their parents, sobbing, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. Some cried out names—mom, dad, brother—screaming into the void that would never answer them back. A boy, no older than six, sat beside his mother's broken body, his tiny fists pounding against her lifeless chest, as if he could bring her back by sheer force of will. Dante couldn't look away, the sight seared into his brain.

Everywhere he turned, death was waiting. A man's body hung limply from a crane's rusted hook, swaying grotesquely like some sick trophy. Another crawled through the mud, his guts spilling out, his eyes wide and pleading, but no one stopped to help. A severed hand lay forgotten in a puddle of blood, its fingers curled as if still trying to fight.

The Marlins and the Fangs were at war, but it wasn't just the gangs paying the price—it was everyone. The harbor had become a goddamn graveyard, an open-air slaughterhouse where no one was spared. The clang of metal against metal rang out in the distance, followed by the thud of fists and boots meeting flesh. Men roared as they fought, primal and brutal, hacking and bashing until the other guy wasn't moving anymore.

Dante could still see it all so clearly—the chaos, the blood, the sheer fucking madness of it. His men screamed as they were cut down, some begging for mercy that never came. The Marlins weren't any better, their faces twisted with rage as they charged, clubs and knives swinging, their own casualties littering the ground beside their enemies.

At that moment, Dante had been nothing more than a scared shitless thug, one among many. He wasn't some feared leader, just another rat in the pit, terrified to die.

But that wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst came next. Dante remembered the explosion that ripped through the night, the deafening roar of fire as a warehouse went up in flames. The blast had sent shockwaves through the ground, knocking him off his feet. People screamed as the inferno engulfed everything in its path—flesh, steel, crates of goods, all swallowed by the flames. The world had turned to ash.

The harbor had been a war zone—no rules, no mercy, just the fight for survival. The Fangs and Marlins had each fought for territory, no step taken back. Greed had led them to this, the desire to carve up the harbor until no one could tell where one gang ended and the other began. They'd pushed until the treaty was the only thing keeping them from tearing each other apart entirely.