The docks exhaled salt and oil, a sour breath that clung to Kairo De Luca's skin as he opened Salt & Smoke at dawn. The stall's wooden counter bore scars from yesterday's chaos, three sick customers, a crowd teetering on panic, and a silver coin left like a warning shot.
Il Ponte's mark.
Kairo's fingers traced the wood, his mind sharp as the knife he'd used to slice fennel. The System, his invisible edge, hummed in his vision, its voice like charred crust:
[Mission Complete: €1347 revenue achieved
Reward: +2 Skill Points, $3,000. Reputation Tier 2: Rising Firebrand.]
He smirked, ecstatic. A thousand euros, scraped from the city's underbelly, and the System tossed him pocket change and points it barely explained. Silver Curse, he called it, a half-joke for a System too stingy for Gold. But €1347 meant something. The docks buzzed with his name, whispers of the chef who gave food away, who turned tomatoes into miracles. The Farmland Realm's crates, tucked behind the stall, held his secret produce that tasted like dreams, richer than anything Naples could grow, but no different to the eye. Nobody questioned it. Nobody could.
The morning was a grind, the grill hissing as Kairo worked. Flatbreads sizzled, chili oil clean now, checked twice, dripped like fire. Egg tarts, golden and warm, vanished into calloused hands. The dockworker, grizzled, bronze-skinned, came back, tossing €5 for a lemon roll. "Keep feeding us, kid," he muttered, his nod worth more than the coin. Kairo slid a free tart to the skinny kid with mismatched sneakers, who lingered again, eyes darting like he expected a trap. Loyalty, maybe, or just hunger. Kairo didn't care which, as long as he kept coming.
By 10:00 AM, the line was fifteen deep, fishermen and mechanics elbowing for space. The System pinged:
[New Mission: Infiltrate an Il Ponte meeting to uncover their next move.
Reward: +2 Skill Points, $3,000. Penalty: Electrocution. Time Limit: 72 hours.]
Kairo's jaw tightened. Il Ponte. Those brown-shirted vultures had spiked his chili oil yesterday, Milo's hack confirmed it. Tainted supplies from a dockside supplier, just to choke his rise. Now they wanted him to dance in their den. The System didn't guide; it pushed, like a dealer slipping you a blade and saying, Cut or be cut.
The crowd thinned at noon, whispers of yesterday's illness lingering like damp rot. Kairo's hands moved, grilling, folding, serving, his mind elsewhere. The silver coin sat in his pocket, heavy as a promise. Il Ponte wasn't just watching, they were testing, pressing to see if he'd break or bend. He thought of Abele, the old cook, his tavern raided years ago, voice rough as gravel: "Naples loves you 'til it doesn't, kid. Stay sharp." Kairo's knife flashed, slicing garlic thin as paper. Sharp was all he had.
Milo slipped in at 1:00 PM, hood up, eyes red from a night on his laptop. "Found your meeting," he muttered, leaning against the stall, fingers twitching over a cracked phone. "Dockyard warehouse, midnight. Il Ponte's moving something counterfeit, maybe drugs. Small crew, not their boss." Kairo nodded, flipping a flatbread. Milo didn't know about the System, didn't need to. He was a slum kid like Kairo, wired for survival, his code as good as Kairo's hustle. "You in?" Kairo asked, voice low. Milo's grin was a blade. "For a lemon roll? Always."
The System flickered: [Trust Point gained: Milo. Objective Progress: 20%.] Kairo ignored it, his eyes on the docks, where a brown-shirted agent lingered, his stare cold as the coin in Kairo's pocket. The day dragged, Salt & Smoke pulling €450 by 3:00 PM. The kid with mismatched sneakers came back, taking another free tart, his silence louder than words. Kairo saw himself in him, hungry, wary, ready to run. He'd need runners soon, if Il Ponte kept pushing.
At 4:15, trouble came knocking. Not a fist, but a crate, delivered to the stall's back. Unmarked, heavy, smelling of metal and oil. Kairo pried it open, his gut twisting. Inside, stacks of euros, crisp, too perfect. Counterfeit, obvious to anyone who'd seen Naples' dirty cash. Il Ponte's move: frame him to scare him off or shut him down. The System hummed: [Secondary Objective: Neutralize the counterfeit threat without exposure. Reward: +1 Skill Point.]Kairo cursed under his breath. Neutralize. Like it was that easy.
He called Milo back, the hacker slipping through the dusk like a ghost. "They planted this," Kairo said, nodding to the crate. Milo's eyes narrowed, scanning the bills. "Sloppy," he muttered. "Serial numbers are off. Cops would eat this up." Kairo's mind churned, Abele's voice echoing: "Turn their game against them." He'd worked docks, seen how raids moved. Plant the crate somewhere else, let Il Ponte's dogs bite them.
By 6:00 PM, Salt & Smoke hit €680, and the crowd was steady despite the illness scare. Kairo grilled, served, and watched. The brown-shirted agent was gone, but another took his place, leaning against a lamppost, casual but deliberate. Kairo's knife moved faster, citrus tea brewing sharp and bitter. He'd need to move tonight, before the cops sniffed the crate. Milo had a plan, swap it to a rival stall, one Il Ponte, already squeezed. Risky, but Kairo's code held: bend the rules, don't break them.
Santo Russo rolled by at 7:00, his seafood cart rattling, fish frying in the evening haze. He didn't stop, just glanced at Kairo, his burn scar catching the streetlight. "Il Ponte doesn't play clean," he said, voice flat, like he was reading the tide. "They break what rises too fast." No threat, no offer, just a fact, dropped like a stone. Santo's knowledge was a shadow, not a weapon, but it cut all the same. Kairo nodded, silent. He didn't trust Santo, but he didn't need to. The man saw Naples' strings, and that was enough.
Night fell, the docks a maze of crates and lamplight. Kairo locked Salt & Smoke, the counterfeit crate hidden under a tarp. Milo met him at 10:00, carrying a bag of tools: lockpicks, a USB drive, a burner phone. "Rival stall, two blocks east," Milo whispered. "They're Il Ponte's lapdogs. Drop the crate there, cops'll think it's theirs." Kairo's lips twitched. Milo's brain was worth more than the System's cash.
They moved through the alleys, shadows among shadows, the counterfeit crate heavy between them. Kairo's hands were steady, his knife tucked close, ready for trouble. The rival stall was dark, its owner a greasy vendor who'd sneered at Salt & Smoke's crowds. They slipped the crate behind his cart, Milo rigging a cheap lock to make it look untouched. The System pinged:[Secondary Objective Complete: Counterfeit threat neutralized. Reward: +1 Skill Point.]Kairo's smirk was cold. Il Ponte's move, flipped.
Back at the docks, Salt & Smoke stood quiet, its shutters locked tight. Kairo's revenue hit €810 by closing, the €1000 mission done, but the System's new and pre-existing mission loomed: infiltrate Il Ponte's meeting. Midnight was hours away, and the warehouse waited, a squat beast in the dockyard's gut. Milo had the address, the plan slip in, listen, slip out.
As he and Milo moved toward the warehouse, the System flickered: [Objective Progress: 50%. Infiltration imminent. Fail, and enjoy the wonderful taste of electricity, Operator.] Kairo's pulse quickened, not from fear but from the game. Il Ponte thought they could frame him, choke his rise. They didn't know he played dirtier, with a System they couldn't see.
A shadow moved ahead, not Milo's. Kairo froze, eyes narrowing. A brown-shirted agent, alone, stood by the warehouse door, a radio crackling in his hand. The System's voice cut through: [Mission Critical: Avoid detection.] Kairo's hand tightened on his knife, the docks silent but for the lap of water and the hum of his blood.