The door of the tavern creaked open. A young kid, barely twenty, walked in. He was wearing a designer tracksuit, but his eyes were hollow. In his hand, he swung a heavy, chrome-plated chain—a modern fiară .
But the latest article mentioned a name that made his blood run cold: Sandu .
Luca sat in a dimly lit corner of "La Bordei," a tavern where the air smelled of stale tobacco and unwashed regrets. On the scarred wooden table lay a piece of heavy, rusted rebar wrapped in duct tape—the literal fiară de bandă (gang iron) that had earned him his reputation. It wasn't elegant like a blade; it was blunt, honest, and unforgiving.