Trios Match
The Dogs of War vs. The Syndicate

The Syndicate: A Game of Power
Las Vegas, Nevada – The Abandoned Arcadia Casino

The neon lights of the Vegas Strip flickered faintly in the distance, but here, on the outskirts, the Arcadia Casino sat in complete darkness. Boarded-up windows, dust-covered blackjack tables, and the echoes of a long-dead jackpot filled the air with a ghostly ambiance. Once a paradise for high rollers and desperate dreamers, it was now nothing more than a forgotten relic of greed and bad decisions—much like the men who occupied it tonight.

A single candle flickered on a poker table, casting long shadows over four figures seated around it. Adrian Cole, the sharp-dressed bruiser with a devil-may-care smirk, leaned back in his chair, flicking the ashes from his cigarette into an empty whiskey glass. Across from him, Giancarlo Mazzanti, the Italian tactician with slicked-back hair and a perpetual sneer, drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing the broken roulette wheel in the distance. Donovan Di Niro, the quietest of the three, sat with his arms folded, his cold, calculating stare drilling holes into the table’s surface. And standing behind them, like a shadow looming over their empire, was their handler—Victor Gotti, known only as "Mr. Providence," a man whose words carried the weight of a death sentence.

Their presence in this decayed casino wasn't random. It was symbolic. Just like this building, their next opponents—the so-called Dogs of War—were about to become relics of the past.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Look at this place," Cole mused, exhaling smoke into the dimly lit air. "Y'know, there was a time when Arcadia was the hottest joint in Vegas. Big money. High stakes. But what happened? Same thing that always happens when the weak try to run the game—they lost control."

Mazzanti chuckled, picking up a cracked poker chip and spinning it between his fingers. "History repeats itself, doesn’t it? Everybody thinks they can sit at the table, play the game, and walk away with their heads still attached. But the house always wins… and we?" He pointed at himself, then to Cole and Di Niro. "We are the house."

Di Niro, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the air like a razor blade. "The Dogs of War think they're gonna march into GHW Border Wars and put us down like some stray mutts. That’s their first mistake."

Gotti, his tailored suit pristine despite the dust-covered ruins around him, slowly walked around the table, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor. He adjusted the gold watch on his wrist, checking the time as if this entire conversation bored him.

"Gentlemen, let’s talk about these… Dogs," Gotti said, his voice smooth yet venomous. "Tobias Creed, Marcus Slade… Two men with grit, with that military background. I’ll give them credit—they’re tough. Disciplined. But discipline doesn’t mean a damn thing when you step into our world. War? Please. We’ve waged more wars before breakfast than they have in their entire careers."

Cole grinned, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "That’s the thing, Vic. These guys? They think we’re just another obstacle. Just another match. They don’t get it. They don’t understand that when you cross The Syndicate, you don’t just lose a fight—you lose everything."

Mazzanti leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "See, we don’t fight for honor, for pride, or any of that fairytale bullshit. We fight for control. For power. For the fear that creeps into a man’s bones when he realizes he’s standing across the ring from something bigger than himself. Creed and Slade? They’re soldiers. They follow orders. But we?" His smirk widened. "We write the orders."

Di Niro reached into his coat and pulled out a deck of playing cards, slowly shuffling them with the precision of a professional dealer. Without looking up, he muttered, "They’re walking into our world. And they don’t even know it yet."

Gotti exhaled, shaking his head. "This is the problem with guys like them. They think war is about strategy. Tactics. But war is about something much simpler—it’s about knowing who you are when the world is burning around you. And trust me, gentlemen… we’re the ones holding the matches."

Cole flicked his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it under his heel. "So let’s break it down. What’s their angle? Creed is the muscle. He’s got power, got the intensity, but he’s predictable. A straight-line brawler. That’s where we gut him like a fish. And Slade? He’s the technician. But technique means jack shit when your brain is scrambled from a few well-placed shots to the skull."

Mazzanti smirked. "And that’s exactly what’s gonna happen. We’re not just gonna beat them. We’re gonna make them question why they ever stepped into the ring with us."

Di Niro dealt out three cards face up. The Ace of Spades. The King of Diamonds. The Queen of Hearts. Then he dealt two more face down, tapping them twice with his fingertips.

"Blackjack," he muttered.

Gotti smiled. "And they? They’re sitting on a pair of threes, hoping to God the dealer busts."

Cole laughed. "But the house never busts."

Mazzanti cracked his knuckles. "Border Wars? It’s not gonna be a match—it’s gonna be a goddamn execution."

Gotti adjusted his cufflinks, then placed his hands on the back of Cole’s chair, leaning in close. His voice dropped to a whisper, but the weight of his words was undeniable.

"When the dust settles, when the Dogs of War are lying broken in that ring, and they finally understand what it means to go to war with us… what happens then?"

Di Niro picked up the cards, shuffling them again. "Simple. They become a story. A warning."

Cole leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. "The Dogs of War? They’ll still exist, sure. But after Border Wars, they won’t bark. They won’t bite. They’ll just… whimper."

Mazzanti grinned. "And when they do? We’ll be standing over them, making sure they know exactly who holds the leash."

The four men sat in silence for a moment, the candle’s flame dancing against the shadows of the past. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the casino’s broken windows, carrying with it the ghostly echoes of old bets placed and lost.

Gotti reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver pocket watch. He checked the time, then closed it with a soft click.

"Gentlemen… it’s almost time."

Cole, Mazzanti, and Di Niro stood up, each adjusting their suits, their eyes cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of mercy.

Gotti smiled. "Let’s go remind the world why The Syndicate always wins."

And with that, they walked out, leaving nothing behind but the flickering candle and the certainty that, at Border Wars, the Dogs of War were about to be put down for good.