Chapter 8 - The Trap at the Grand Gala
The annual Autumn Charity Gala at the downtown Grand Meridian Hotel was the social event of the year—a dazzling display of wealth, power, and hidden daggers where politicians, CEOs, and syndicate bosses mingled under crystal chandeliers.
Silas Marchetti stood near the VIP balcony, sipping scotch and smiling smoothly as cameras flashed below. Beside him stood Genevieve, looking immaculate in a crimson gown, though her eyes darted anxiously toward the grand entrance.
"Where is Weston?" Silas muttered, checking his gold pocket watch. "He said he had an announcement to make tonight. If he’s backing out of the wedding—"
"He'll be here, Father," Genevieve hissed. "And when he arrives, make sure your men are in position. Something is wrong with him. He knows something."
At that exact moment, the double doors at the front of the ballroom swung open.
The murmurs of the crowd died instantly.
Weston Kade walked down the grand staircase alone. He wore a tailored black tuxedo, but his hands were bare, and his stride carried the heavy, deliberate momentum of an executioner. Behind him, two dozen elite security guards fanned out, sealing every exit of the grand ballroom.
Silas Marchetti’s smile tightened. He set his glass down and stepped forward to intercept Weston as he reached the floor.
"Weston, my boy!" Silas boomed, forcing false warmth into his voice. "Quite an entrance. Are we ready to announce the merger of our families tonight?"
Weston stopped three feet away from Silas. He didn't smile. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out the micro-cassette recorder and the digital drive, and dropped them onto a small silver serving tray held by a passing waiter.
"Play it, Silas," Weston said smoothly. "Let our guests hear the truth about who blew up my family three years ago."
Silas’s face paled beneath his tan. "What is this nonsense? Are you drunk?"
From the edge of the crowd, Marcus—standing near the service exit with his hand resting near his jacket holster—suddenly went rigid. He realized the trap had sprung. He turned sharply to run toward the door—
Click.
The red laser dot of a sniper rifle settled squarely between Marcus’s shoulder blades.
"Don't move, Marcus," came a voice over the room's PA system—controlled entirely by Weston's tech team. "You take one step, and your brains paint the wallpaper."
The ballroom erupted into sheer panic. Socialites screamed and scrambled for the exits, only to find the doors blocked by Weston’s armed guards.
Silas Marchetti tried to back away, but Weston grabbed him by the lapels of his designer suit, slamming him against the marble pillar with enough force to rattle the crystal chandelier above.
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"You and your goons framed the war," Weston snarled, his voice carrying across the silent, terrified room. "You thought you could destroy the Kades from the inside out."
"It wasn't just us!" Silas gasped, choking for air as Weston’s grip tightened. "Ask your precious shadow! Ask Marcus! He’s the one who took our payout to plant the C-4 under your wife’s car!"
