All Chapters of The Night Boss: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Salvatore Marquez sat in his black Maserati, a cigar burning between his fingers, the smoke curling like ghosts in the confined space. His driver, Marco, glanced at him through the rearview mirror, hesitant to disturb the silence that weighed like a slab of marble. The car idled outside a decrepit warehouse on the south edge of the city, where his men were gathering with the usual urgency of dogs waiting for their master’s scraps.Rico’s absence gnawed at him. Days had passed, and still no sign. He had expected the boy to surface somewhere, at least a whisper on the streets, a rumor in the bars, a shadow on the corners. But nothing. Not a single breadcrumb. And that silence worried him more than an open confrontation.“Boss,” Marco finally muttered, “the men are inside. They’re waiting for you.”Salvatore crushed the cigar against the ashtray, his jaw tightening. “Good. Let’s not keep them waiting. Time is slipping through our fingers, and with every second we lose, someone else gain

The television screen in the lit offices flickered with a strange kind of desperations. The images of Salvatore Marquez filled the city, his features half-hidden by the light of the cameras, his voice carrying an unusual mix of command and plea. The press conference had just finished, but it already carried weight, every sentence carefully designed to reverberate through the underground corridors of the city.The Boss sat back in his leather chair, one hand clutching a half-empty glass of bourbon. His eyes narrowed as Marquez’s words rolled out. He wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t negotiating. He was calling out for Rico. Publicly.The reporters were leaning forward, microphones shoved close, their faces hungry for scandal.> “Rico,” Marquez’s voice carried, deliberate. “Wherever you are, you’re listening. I know you’re listening. I don’t care who has you, or what lies you’ve been told. Come back. I need you back. And if you don’t… then the truth about who you really are will no

The city was still buzzing, restless under the weight of Marquez’s words. His interview had stirred something that was not just about Rico anymore—it was about power, loyalty, and the scars left behind when men tried to play gods in the underworld. Everyone had an opinion. Some thought Marquez’s public desperation was weakness, others believed it was a cunning move, a chess piece dropped deliberately to draw Rico out into the open.The Boss had spent the last two days pacing the grand living room of his mansion, his head foggy from cigarettes and whiskey, his mind working like a engine that refused to shut down. He had watched Marquez’s press release a dozen times on the little television in the corner, every word, every gesture, every sigh etched into his memory.“He’s begging,” The Boss muttered, standing at the wide window that overlooked his garden. “The mighty Salvatore Marquez, begging a boy to come back. Using his past like a dog with a bone.”One of his lieutenants, Franco, le

Kroos sat in the backroom of the billiard hall he had claimed as his temporary hideout, his eyes fixed on the old radio sitting on the table. The Boss’s gravelly voice still replaying over and over in his head. It was strange hearing the man so public, so desperate, practically pleading for Rico to come out of the shadows. And then there was Marquez—his press interview still trending across the newspapers, talk shows, and even the city streets.Two powerhouses, once thought untouchable, were now chasing the same ghost. And Kroos felt that ghost slipping through his fingers.For weeks, he had poured everything into hunting Rico. He had leaned on his contacts, shaken down informants, and spread money like a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet Rico, street-smart and slippery as oil, had managed to stay one step ahead. And now? The whole city seemed to be talking about him—Rico the survivor, Rico the prize, Rico the one who held the secrets of all three empires.Kroos rubbed his temples and let out

Words traveled fast now, like wildfire on a dry plain. By noon the whispers had already stretched across the blocks, leaking out of the coffee shops, slipping through the alleyways, and being passed like poisoned candy among street hustlers and cab drivers alike: Kross had gone to the police.No one knew exactly what he said, but the mere idea that he stepped foot into a precinct was enough to stir unease. The man had built his name on grit, loyalty, and silence. Silence was his currency. If he was willing to exchange that for words to the law, then the balance of power was trembling.The first to hear was The Boss.He was sitting in his office, cigarette smoke circling the ceiling fan like a ghost refusing to leave. Papers lay scattered across his desk—blueprints of nightclubs, ledgers of shipments, scraps of intelligence about Marquez’s movements. His men had been in and out all morning, reporting on the city’s response to his radio broadcast. Some praised it, some mocked it, but a