2The Mafia Boss Thought A Maid's Daughter Was Just A Poor Child — Until Her Old Doll Exposed The Crime That Haunted Him For Years.

The grand ballroom emptied in minutes, leaving only Weston, Silas, Marcus, and a ring of silent, armed guards standing under the glaring lights.

Marcus slowly raised his hands, his face drained of all color as he realized there was no escape. The laser dot remained locked on his chest.

"Is it true, Marcus?" Weston asked softly, releasing Silas and turning his cold, dead gaze toward the man who had stood by his side for fifteen years. "Did you take Marchetti gold to turn my daughter into ash?"

Marcus swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "You were going soft, Weston. You wanted to legitimize the empire. You wanted to walk away from the streets. We built this syndicate with blood, and you were ready to hand it over to bankers and politicians. I had to secure our future."

"Our future," Weston repeated, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He simply walked toward Marcus with slow, methodical steps.

Marcus lunged, drawing a hidden switchblade from his sleeve in a desperate, suicidal dash—

Bang.

A single gunshot echoed through the cavernous ballroom.

Marcus dropped to his knees, the knife clattering across the marble floor. He clutched his shoulder, gasping for breath as blood soaked through his white shirt, before collapsing face-first onto the polished tiles.

Weston stood over him, looking down with absolute emptiness.

"You didn't just kill my family, Marcus," Weston whispered. "You killed your own soul."

He turned his gaze back to Silas Marchetti, who was trembling against the marble pillar, wetting himself in absolute terror.

"Your war is over, Silas," Weston said, adjusting his cuffs. "Your assets are frozen, your men have surrendered, and your daughter’s engagement ring is in the trash. You have twenty-four hours to leave this city, or I will finish what should have been done three years ago."