The Black Sun Syndicate

#The Attack on the African Group

The morning sun barely peeked over the city skyline when the Vescari Syndicate prepared for their ambush. Adrian Vescari stood in the middle of the warehouse district, his men positioned strategically around the alleyways. Anton Sorelli adjusted the grip on his rifle, his cold gaze scanning the perimeter. Luca "The Hammer" Bellini cracked his knuckles, grinning as he loaded a drum magazine into his machine gun.

"Remember," Adrian said, his voice low but commanding, "we send a message today. No one sells in our territory and walks away." He adjusted his cuffs and smirked. "Fear is the greatest weapon."

"Ok, king," Luca muttered, checking his ammunition belt.

The African group had been growing bold, pushing their product onto Vescari-controlled streets. Their leader, Ezekiel "Zeke" Madaki, a ruthless dealer from Lagos, had been warned once. He didn't listen. That meant only one thing—bloodshed.

A black van pulled up near an abandoned warehouse where Zeke's men conducted their deals. Two African dealers, armed with pistols, stepped outside, unaware that their executioners were already closing in.

"Now," Adrian whispered.

Gunfire erupted like a thunderstorm. Luca let loose a wild, chaotic burst, his machine gun roaring. "Go to hell, pieces of shit!" he shouted, his face twisted in exhilaration.

Bullets shredded through the air, shattering crates and tearing through flesh. One of Zeke's men fell instantly, his chest riddled with holes. The second attempted to flee, ducking behind a car, but Anton coolly raised his rifle and fired once. The man collapsed, his body limp on the pavement.

Zeke's men inside the warehouse returned fire, but they were outgunned. Adrian stepped forward amidst the chaos, adjusting his gloves as bullets whizzed past him. His men cut through the African group's defenses, pushing them back. Smoke and gunfire filled the air, bodies dropping left and right. The Vescari Syndicate had made its point.

By the time the shooting stopped, only silence remained. The smell of gunpowder and blood clung to the wind. Adrian turned to Anton. "Clean this up. I want everyone to know who runs this city."

"Consider it done," Anton replied, reloading his weapon with precision.

The Vescari Syndicate had won the battle. But the war was far from over.

---

A Night at the Club

As night fell, Elias sat alone in the dark corner of the Vescari nightclub, his hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey. He wasn't drinking to enjoy it—he was drinking to dull the weight of what he had to do. His fingers itched toward the pistol hidden beneath his coat.

Anton Sorelli was only a few feet away, laughing with Luca and Silvio Bellini. Elias watched them carefully, waiting for the right moment.

The club was packed with patrons, loud music shaking the floors. Neon lights flickered, casting a dangerous glow over the room. The air smelled of cigars, sweat, and expensive liquor.

Then the doors swung open, and Sheriff Cain walked in.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The music still played, but the tension was thick enough to choke on. The sheriff strolled toward Adrian's table like he belonged there. The Vescari men didn't even flinch—this wasn't the first time Cain had been here.

Cain sat down, tipping his hat back. "Busy night, huh?" he muttered, signaling a waitress for a drink.

Adrian smirked. "Always. What brings you here, Sheriff?"

"Just checking in," Cain said, lighting a cigar. "Making sure things are… in order."

"You're a good friend, Cain." Adrian lifted his glass.

Elias clenched his fists under the table. The sheriff was dirty, in bed with the very criminals he was supposed to fight. It made Elias sick. But he couldn't afford to act yet.

Then, a sudden noise interrupted the moment.

The club's front doors burst open. A Vescari guard stumbled in, his suit soaked in blood. His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. He collapsed onto the floor, his breathing shallow.

For a long second, nobody moved.

Then—

BOOM.

Gunfire erupted outside. The windows shattered. Patrons screamed, ducking for cover. The African group had struck back.

---

The Club Turns into a War Zone

Bullets ripped through the nightclub, turning tables and walls into splinters. Elias instinctively dove beneath a table, heart pounding.

Vescari's men grabbed their weapons and returned fire.

Luca roared as he fired his machine gun toward the entrance. "Come get some, you sons of bitches!"

Cain pulled out his revolver, cursing. He had never expected this.

The African group stormed inside, unloading automatic rifles. Bodies hit the ground. Customers, employees—anyone caught in the crossfire was torn apart.

Elias stayed low, gripping his pistol, but this wasn't his fight. Not yet. He had a mission. He needed to survive first.

Adrian ducked behind the bar, gritting his teeth. "Anton, take control of this damn situation!"

Anton Sorelli grabbed a shotgun and fired, hitting one of Zeke's men in the chest. The man crashed into a table, blood spraying across the floor.

The battle raged on for ten minutes.

Then, suddenly—silence.

Elias dared to peek out. The room was destroyed. Bodies littered the floor. The African attackers had retreated.

Then, someone shouted.

"Hell! The sheriff is dead!"

---

The Aftermath

Cain lay slumped over a table, blood pooling beneath him. A bullet had gone clean through his skull. The sheriff of the city was gone.

Police sirens wailed in the distance.

Adrian cursed under his breath. "Damn it."

Elias watched as two Vescari men—Silvio Bellini and Rosa Pellizi—were also dead. Their bodies were riddled with bullets, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

The police stormed in, weapons drawn. Officers shouted for everyone to get down. But Adrian simply raised his hands and smiled. "Gentlemen, what took you so long?"

The officers hesitated. They knew who Adrian was. They also knew he owned the department.

Elias kept his head low. He was still alive. That meant he still had a mission.

As the chaos settled and bodies were collected, he thought of one thing—

Tomorrow, he would have to kill Anton Sorelli. And after tonight, he knew one thing for sure.

There was no turning back.