The air inside the warehouse was thick with the smell of oil, metal, and dust. The echo of machinery filled the space, a steady rhythm of work that never really stopped—not in a place like this. The Russo name ran through every brick and beam of the building. My father built the first one decades ago, back when our “business” still pretended to be legitimate. Now, this place was where real power moved—silently, efficiently, under the radar of anyone who mattered.

I walked between the rows of crates, the soles of my shoes clicking against the concrete. My men were scattered through the space, each one focused on their job—counting shipments, checking inventory, watching the doors. They knew better than to speak when I was around. Respect wasn’t something I demanded—it was something bred into them. Fear helped, too.

Stacks of boxes lined the walls, stamped with fake labels that meant nothing to anyone outside our circle. Inside them, though, was what kept the Russo empire running. Money, influence, leverage—our version of currency.

My four brothers had their own operations scattered across the city, each running a piece of the empire like clockwork. My mother managed the books. My father oversaw it all from his study, though he didn’t need to say much anymore. We all knew our roles.

I stopped near the loading dock, watching as one of the trucks backed up to the ramp. The sound of gears and engines filled the air. Everything here worked with precision, just like the family itself.

“Make sure it’s clean,” I said quietly to the nearest man. He nodded once, already knowing what I meant.

As I stepped outside into the late afternoon light, the hum of the city faint in the distance, I allowed myself a small smile. This warehouse wasn’t just business—it was the pulse of the Russo bloodline. And as long as it beat, the family stayed untouchable.