[Transition to: The Dukes' Clubhouse]

The clubhouse, a dimly lit, graffiti-covered garage in a rough corner of East Boston, was packed with members of The Dukes. The air was thick with smoke, cheap beer, and simmering resentment. All eyes were fixed on Santiago, their Jefe (BOSS), who stood defiantly in the center.

Author's note: This gang is Mexican and South American, so there will be some phrases in Spanish to add Some realism.

The atmosphere was tense. Sanchez, a burly Duke known for his ambition, had called the assembly.

"Listen up, Homes!" Sanchez shouted, his voice ringing with false authority. "We're here 'cause we got business to settle. Yesterday, the Jefe and his crew folded like cheap laundry to some rich-boy kid. This ain't how The Dukes roll!"

Muttering and cruel laughter spread through the crowd.

"Yeah, man! We ain't bitches!" someone yelled from the back.

Santiago met the hostile gazes with cold fury. "You wanna call me out, ese? Fine." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous snarl directed at Sanchez. "You talk tough, but I know what this is about. That landlord, the one who sold out to the kid? He was your friend. He was feeding you side money to personally protect his shithole—money you never reported back to The Dukes!"

The noise died down immediately. Sanchez's face paled beneath his dark skin.

"You're attacking me because you lost your little secret deal, pendejo!" Santiago declared. "But I'll tell you something, Homes. You're all mad we bent the knee to a kid? That 'kid' is way more dangerous than any of you clowns believe. If we had faced him, everyone here would be dead right now."

A wave of disbelief washed over the room.

"You talkin' shit, Jefe!?" Sanchez stammered.

Santiago ignored him and started pacing, his words hitting the gang like bullets. "Yesterday, when I went to confront him, I stayed in the park across from his house with my men, talking business. Then, guess what? The whole goddamn SWAT team rolled up with like five patrol cars. They busted down his gate! Even that bastard politician, Congressman Vance—the one running for Governor—showed up with his own people! And you know what happened, vatos (homies)? They all left with their tails between their legs, empty-handed!"

Santiago jabbed a finger into the air. "He has problems with a Congressman, and he wanted to kill the politician's bodyguard, and he couldn't do it even with the entire police force there! What kind of backup do you think our new boss has? What kind of power is that?"

He paused for dramatic effect. "And that's not even the whole pinche (fucking) story."

"This morning, I contacted his financial agent. His agente financiero! I didn't even have to give her a detailed explanation. I just told her I needed the money to get information and secure some orders for the boss. And you know what she did? She transferred ONE MILLION DOLLARS to my account!"

Santiago started yelling, his voice raw with fury and conviction. "What the hell have any of you done so far? You're just a bunch of low-level dealers who only sell the weed and coke our paisanos send across the border! How much do we earn from that, ese? Scraps!"

"When in your goddamn lives have you ever seen ONE MILLION DOLLARS!? You're just seeing the cartel's leftovers!"

He dramatically raised a card—a black, prestigious credit card—and slammed it down on a nearby table. "Here it is! ONE MILLION DOLLARS! You will never see this much money again if you fuck with me! I'm the one who reports to the boss, not you, you bastard! If you want to mess with me, you'll be dead! Because of you, we were almost all wiped out yesterday, you son of a bitch!"

The sheer sight of the card and the mention of the money—more than The Dukes had collectively seen in a year—shattered the remaining defiance in the room. They weren't fighting for territory anymore; they were fighting against a terrifying, invisible power. If Santiago was given a million dollars just to run errands, what would that new boss offer for their heads if they angered him? They were a simple local gang trying to take down a giant.

​"The shock wasn't just the amount," Santiago spat, his eyes blazing as he surveyed the cowed men. "It was the thought of it. If we were offered that million right now to eliminate Sanchez, every single one of you bastards would sell him out in a heartbeat. What hope did we have if this new boss got truly pissed off and offered that same million for all of our heads? The situation was beyond fucked for us homes they will kill us in one day."

​The realization hit them like a physical blow: they were completely fucked.

​The fury of the Dukes instantly redirected. They began screaming curses and insults at Sanchez, who had almost led them all to extermination just to protect his meager side-deal.

​"You fucking pendejo! (Asshole)"

​"He almost got us killed for a damn apartment building!"

​"Get him! He brought the heat on us, ese!"

​The shouts escalated into a violent surge. Blows rained down on Sanchez, a chaotic, angry flurry of fists and boots. They dragged him through the clubhouse doors, beating him savagely before throwing him out into the alley like trash. He was officially out of The Dukes.

​As the noise subsided, two other ranking Dukes, who had previously harbored ambitions for leadership, stood up. They looked at Santiago with a mix of fear and respect.

​"Jefe," one said, nodding curtly. "You saw the danger. You kept us alive. We cede our authority in the gang. You lead us."

​The second Duke, equally sobered, agreed. "You're the Jefe, Santiago. Lead us to that prosperity, man. We'd rather be an employee of a dragon than a tombstone without a name."

​The entire gang fell into line, their posture submissive. Their internal crisis was solved not by bullets, but by a wire transfer.

​As the door slammed shut on the beaten Sanchez, someone simply muttered: "Sorry, Homes. You brought this on yourself."

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