Chapter 1473: Chapter 695: He’s Just a Dog I Keep

Italy, Naples.

In the narrow, damp alleyways, garbage piles up like mountains, the walls are covered with mottled graffiti, and rats can be seen scurrying back and forth.

This was once the traditional turf of the Camorra gang, with various scents lingering in the air all year round.

But recently, a new “scent” has begun to mix in, a strange sweetness laced with a chemical odor, coming from that “Extraterrestrial Object”!

Its price is exorbitant, far surpassing cocaine and heroin, but it’s said to bring an even more intense, purer pleasure, enticing thrill-seekers and party animals alike.

And those who’ve tried it say it feels like being in Heaven.

The price isn’t cheap either, nearly 130 Euros per gram, far higher than others.

High profits mean a bloody struggle.

How many people die from drugs each year?

The Mexicans know, but the Europeans don’t.

Naples is the absolute domain of the old Camorra boss, Salvatore Mallo.

But the appearance of the “Extraterrestrial Object,” like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pond, offers profits so high they are shocking, enough to turn the most cautious into desperados, and the old rules start to falter before astounding wealth.

Grabbing turf!!!

Grabbing more turf means more potential customers, and all of them are money.

The fight starts from the edge neighborhoods, with small-scale skirmishes and warning shots turning into large-scale shootouts.

The night has completely fallen, the broken streetlight at the corner flickers occasionally.

Suddenly!

“Bang! Bang!”

The crisp sound of rifles shatters the night’s silence, coming from the rooftop of a nearby apartment building.

Almost simultaneously, more intense gunfire erupts from another alleyway, the familiar burst of 9mm Beretta submachine guns, bullets hitting the brick walls of the opposite building and the rusted rolling shutters like splashing water, sparking and shattering debris.

“It’s Costello’s people!” a hoarse voice screams in the alleyway.

The battle instantly heats up.

“Iron Hand” Mallo’s people react swiftly.

They swarm out from hiding in cafes, and back rooms of barber shops, counterattacking with the narrow terrain as cover.

.38 revolvers, Glock pistols, submachine guns, and shotguns all open fire, their firepower considerable.

Bullets ricochet wildly in the narrow alleyway, the thud of gunshots, the whistle of bullets, the sound of glass shattering, curses and screams in Italian all blend together.

A young man just pokes his head out from behind a door when a bloom of blood explodes from his chest, and he falls silently.

But this is just the beginning.

“Boom!”

A tremendous explosion shakes the entire block!

A crudely made pipe bomb is tossed into the porch of what is considered an important stronghold of Mallo’s men, flames and thick smoke rise into the sky, splinters of wood and bricks flying everywhere.

“Heavy stuff! Flush them out!” someone on the attacking side shouts.

From the other end of the alley, engine roaring, a license-less Fiat Uno races in crazily, someone leans out from the passenger window, surprisingly with an old M79 grenade launcher on their shoulder!

These are relics from the Vietnam War era, older than age, but old is gold, isn’t it?

You like women in their thirties and forties too, don’t you?

“Thump—” A dull firing sound.

The grenade arcs in a low trajectory, directly into a constantly firing second story window.

“Kaboom!!”

The entire window and half the wall are blown away, flames surge up into the sky, mixed with falling human fragments and furniture debris.

The attackers break into wild cheers.

However, Mallo still has a strong foundation.

The rooftop sniper adjusts the target.

“Bang!”

A precise rifle shot.

The guy with the M79’s head snaps back violently, blood and brain matter splattering on the Fiat’s windows, as the body goes limp.

The driver is scared stiff, and the car crashes into a wall.

“Damn it! Take out that bastard on the roof!” the leader of the attackers, a big guy with a knife scar on his face, roars.

More automatic weapons start pouring bullets at the roof, suppressing the sniper.

Meanwhile, gunfire erupts in another adjacent alley.

Both sides have deployed more manpower, practically shooting face-to-face, shotguns showing terrifying power at close range, blasting people off their feet.

The gunfight drags on for almost twenty minutes.

Until the sharp sound of sirens comes from afar.

The attackers retreat rapidly like a tide, taking the wounded and bodies, disappearing into the maze-like alleyways, leaving behind a scene of devastation: burning vehicles, collapsed walls, shopfronts riddled with bullet holes, shattered glass, and bodies lying around in pools of blood.

The police don’t venture deep, quickly setting up caution tape, sealing off the scene.

“Holy Mother Mary.” A young officer looks at a mangled body hit by a shotgun, and can’t help but gag.

The experienced chief Falko wears a stern expression, using his shoe tip to nudge aside the scattered shell casings, “AKs, 9mm Parabellum, .38 special rounds, and… God, 40mm grenade launcher casings? Did they steal them from a museum?”

He squats down, picking up a piece of hot metal debris, “No, it’s new, these bastards got their hands on military-grade weapons.”

The crime scene investigation lasts all night.

The body count rises to nine, with countless injured, already dragged away by both factions’ men.

Chief Falko’s preliminary report, along with shocking photos and videos from the scene, is urgently sent off to the Naples Police Headquarters before dawn.