All Chapters of The Night Boss: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The BossThe cameras blinked red. The room was hushed, not even the scratching of pens from the journalists seemed loud. Every officer leaned forward, some with arms crossed, others with jaws clenched.Rico sat hunched in the chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table like a man bracing for a storm. His voice was worn down by hours of speaking, but his eyes were alive, restless, filled with memory.He swallowed, glanced once at the inspector standing by the wall, then began.“That following morning, the world felt strange to me. My body was stiff. My eyes… swollen from the restless night. I didn’t even know where I had slept. Maybe it was one of those couches in the back of the shop. The room smelled of detergent and oil, and my clothes smelled like I had been buried in smoke. But it was still better than the alleyways I had wandered through hours earlier, running from Kroos and from my own shadow.”A low murmur rippled across the press bench, pens flying faster. The word “Kroos”

The night still weighed on me, though the lights of the Boss’s Shop burned bright. I had learned quickly that in this place, darkness didn’t necessarily mean the absence of light—it was an atmosphere, a pressure, something invisible that clung to your skin and pressed against your chest until breathing felt like labor.By then, I had fallen into routine. I scrubbed tires until my knuckles cracked, polished bodywork until chrome gleamed like mirrors, fetched tools for men who didn’t thank me, and carried errands that were never spoken of outside these walls. On the surface, I did what every other boy did. But I wasn’t like them. They obeyed because they feared him. I obeyed because I was hiding—from Kroos, from Sandra Danso’s ghost, from myself.And yet, no matter how hard I tried to fold myself into the rhythm of this place, I could not ignore him. The Boss. His strange affection haunted me, following me like a shadow that breathed. I felt it in his eyes when they lingered on me longe

The City BleedsThe city did not sleep after Rico spoke.It shuddered.By the time dawn arrived, his words had been replayed on every station, uploaded to every feed, analyzed by talking heads who suddenly spoke about the underworld with the reverence of priests dissecting scripture. The tape of his interview ran like contraband, passed from phone to phone in schoolyards, offices, nightclubs, prison yards. Even the children of the city were mouthing his sentences like playground chants.“The three of them,” he had said. “Kroos, Marquez, and the Boss. Blood is their ink. We are the signatures.”The phrase became graffiti within hours. Sprayed on walls, under bridges, across cars in dripping black paint: Blood is their ink.News anchors who once smiled like mannequins now stared into cameras with grim eyes. They cut from Rico’s interview to shaky footage of past murders, drug busts, warehouse fires—suddenly re-interpreted as evidence of what he had confessed.One channel looped a side-

The Lion CorneredSalvatore Marquez had always believed that silence was the most powerful weapon in a man’s arsenal. Words could betray, but silence? Silence turned into legend. He had built an empire out of unspoken rules, out of glances that promised death, out of loyalties bound by the fear of breaking silence.But Rico’s voice had shattered that silence.And now the whole city was staring at him.The walls of his villa seemed to shrink, their expensive paintings and marble floors suffocating him. He sat in the dining hall, his cigar burning down to ash, untouched food cooling on trays. The news was everywhere—television anchors dissecting Rico’s every word, newspapers carrying images of Kross with captions that screamed betrayal, and whispers in every café, in every backroom, in every alley of the city:Marquez is finished.He slammed his fist against the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “Kross…” he hissed the name as if it were poison.He had trusted that man. He had bl

The Bait of TruthThe precinct’s briefing room felt like a crucible. The room smelled of burnt coffee, stale cigarettes, and the weight of unfinished truths. At the front of the room, the chief Inspector stood, one hand gripping the edge of the podium as though the wood might split beneath the burden of the decisions he was about to outline.On the board behind him, pinned photographs told a story no one could deny anymore—Kroos, Marquez, the Boss, and Rico. Their faces stared back like a rogues’ gallery of betrayal, each image carrying a weight of rumor, blood, and whispered power. But it was the boyish face of Rico, caught in light, that seemed to mock them all. A kid who had pretended to be a victim’s relative, begging for help, only to twist the truth until it was almost unrecognizable.“Gentlemen,” the inspector began. “We’ve reached a point where there’s no more guessing. Kroos started this entire game when he came through our doors with a story about a missing boy. He played t