Giovanni Russo

The Makarovs and the Russos had been tangled in bad blood for as long as anyone could remember—two families locked in a ritual of spite, always circling the same arguments, never managing to broker even the simplest peace. Hatred wasn’t just expected; it was inherited. Growing up a Makarov meant learning the rules early: if you saw a Russo, you eliminated a Russo. But things had shifted in recent months. With the death of Sergio Russo, the mantle of power had passed to his son—Giovanni Russo, the man whispered about in equal parts terror and awe. The Hellhound. Stories followed him like shadows: that he could smell fear on the people he tortured. He wasn’t loud, like his father before him. Giovanni’s rage was quieter—colder. Where Sergio would roar, Giovanni would simply draw his gun,