Rocky stood motionless, his fists coiled at his sides. Sergeant Miller’s hand trembled around his pistol, sweat beading on his brow as he leveled the gun. The silence was razor-sharp, thick with unspoken history and imminent violence.
"You should’ve stayed in the shadows, Sarge." The words cut through the tension, a final warning before the storm.
Before Miller could react, Rocky kicked the desk with a grunt, sending it crashing into the Sergeant’s knees. Miller buckled, the gun clattering to the floor. In a blur, Rocky lunged—no guns, no empty threats, just the raw, practiced power of the “Hammer” at work.
Two swift, brutal strikes sent Miller sprawling, unconscious before his head hit the wood. The room was silent again, save for the rain.
Rocky ignored the diamonds for now, snapping photos of the ledger’s entries. Each click of his phone captured years of corruption, the ink glistening darkly in the storm’s glow. Instead of stealing the ledger for Falcone, he chose to expose the truth.
He sent the files to every news outlet in the state with one hand, the blue glow of the screen painting his knuckles white.
While the evidence was uploading, Rocky opened the Don’s emergency stash, his fingers closing around cold, hard diamonds. He pocketed them with practiced indifference, his face unreadable in the half-light. Outside, the city braced for the storm his actions would unleash.
By morning, the North Side empire was unraveling. Detectives swarmed the Don’s mansion, and the underworld buzzed with rumors of betrayal. Rocky was already gone, his name whispered with awe and fear.
Rocky[/@ch_1] leans against a battered car, flicking a diamond to a wide-eyed young man—Joey.]
Rocky lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He watched Joey fumble the diamond, wonder and worry warring in his gaze.
"Move to Vegas, Joey," "And stay away from the tables." The advice hung in the early morning air—part warning, part blessing—as Rocky turned away, the road stretching out before him.
