The struggle lasted weeks, but eventually, the syndicate realized the cost of fighting Bruto was higher than any profit they could make. They moved their project elsewhere.
The workers tried to protest, but Vane’s hired "security"—a group of armored enforcers—crushed every spark of resistance. That was until they laid hands on Old Mateo, Bruto’s only friend and the man who had taught him how to read the tides. The Awakening
Bruto worked the heavy lifts where the machines couldn’t reach. While other men used forklifts, Bruto hauled rusted anchor chains over his shoulders, his veins tracing maps of struggle across his arms. He spoke rarely, his voice a low rumble that sounded like stones grinding in a riverbed. The Conflict The struggle lasted weeks, but eventually, the syndicate
In the rust-caked docks of Old Genoa, there was a man known only as . He wasn’t a villain, but he wasn’t a hero either. He was a force of nature, standing six-foot-five with hands that looked like they had been forged in a shipyard rather than grown in a womb.
Terrified by a man who seemed more iron than flesh, Vane’s security retreated. The sight of the "Raw One" standing tall gave the other workers the courage to stand with him. They formed a wall of bone and muscle that no corporate permit could break. That was until they laid hands on Old
He reached the front line and stopped. He looked at Vane, who sat safely behind the tinted glass of a black SUV. Bruto didn’t use a weapon. He reached down, gripped the bumper of the two-ton vehicle, and with a grunt that seemed to shake the very foundations of the pier, he tilted it onto two wheels.
"Leave," Bruto rumbled. It wasn't a request; it was a physical law. The Resolution He spoke rarely, his voice a low rumble
When Bruto saw Mateo being shoved into the mud, something shifted. He didn’t scream; he didn't charge. He simply walked. Each footstep cracked the pavement beneath his boots. The enforcers stepped forward, batons raised, but Bruto moved through them like a gale through tall grass.