Chapter 4 - The Discovery and the Shock
It took Marcus less than twenty-four hours to uncover what blind rage had hidden from Weston.
It was 2:00 AM on Thursday when Marcus walked into Weston’s private study at the penthouse, carrying a metallic evidence box and a tablet.
"Boss," Marcus said, his face pale, his tone unusually solemn. "You need to see this."
Weston, looking ragged, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, looked up from his desk. "Did you find her?"
"No. But we found out how the leak happened," Marcus said, placing the tablet on the desk. "Julian didn't just re-route the IP address. He installed a physical hardware splitter inside the primary junction box in the building basement six weeks ago. He was mirroring your private terminal directly to an unlisted server in Long Island City—a server owned by Viktor Vanev."
Weston’s breath hitched in his chest. He stood up slowly, the blood draining from his face. "What did you say?"
"Priya was completely innocent," Marcus revealed, his voice steady but heavy. "She never touched your server. The digital footprint on her laptop was a hard-coded mirror script pushed from Julian’s own phone thirty minutes before he handed you that folder."
Weston felt as if a heavy blade had been driven directly into his heart. The room seemed to tilt around him. He gripped the edge of his mahogany desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
I didn't do this, Weston. Her quiet, steady voice echoed in his mind, cutting through him with devastating clarity. He remembered her calm eyes, the lack of fear in her posture, and the terrible, absolute finality with which she had looked at him before stepping into the elevator.
"My God..." Weston rasped, a choking wave of agony washing over him. "What have I done?"
"There’s more, Boss," Marcus said quietly, reaching into the evidence box. "When my team swept the private bathroom off your bedroom... they searched the waste disposal unit that was overlooked by the cleaning crew the night you threw her out."
Marcus placed a small, white plastic object on the dark mahogany desk.
Weston stared at it. It was a clear, plastic pregnancy test. Two bright, undeniable red lines glowed clearly against the display window.
Silence descended upon the room like a physical weight—a suffocating, terrifying pressure that shattered Weston’s air.
He picked up the small plastic strip with trembling fingers. His hands, which had held weapons without shaking in the face of death, trembled so violently he almost dropped it.
"She... she was..." Weston couldn't finish the sentence. The memory of her standing before him in her silk robe, her hand resting against her stomach, came rushing back with agonizing force.
She wasn't holding her robe shut. She was protecting their child.
"She was carrying your baby, Weston," Marcus said softly. "You threw her out into a freezing gale, defenseless, with nowhere to go, carrying your heir."
A roar of raw, unadulterated agony tore from Weston’s throat. He slammed his fist into the wall, shattering the wood paneling, dropping to his knees on the marble floor, clutching the pregnancy test to his chest like a dying man clinging to his last breath of oxygen.
The grief, the rage, and the soul-crushing guilt tore through him like fire. He had destroyed the only real peace he had ever known. He had condemned the woman he loved and the child she carried based on the lies of a traitor he had raised in his own house.
"Julian..." Weston whispered, his voice transforming from broken grief into an icy, apocalyptic fury that made even Marcus take a step back. "Where is Julian right now?"
"He’s at the docks preparing the midnight haul," Marcus answered.
"Bring the tactical squad," Weston said, standing up slowly. His eyes were no longer those of a grieving man; they were the eyes of a demon awoken from the deep. "I am going to tear Julian apart piece by piece until he gives me every secret he holds."
Before Weston could step out of the room, his satellite phone buzzed on the desk.
Marcus picked it up, glanced at the screen, and froze. "Boss... you need to see this invitation."
A golden digital seal flamed across the screen—an ancient, legendary coat of arms featuring a crowned double-headed lion holding a silver blade. The seal of the Marchetti Dynasty—a bloodline thought to have been eradicated a decade ago.
The text below the seal read:
By order of Donna Odalys Marchetti, Sovereign Head of the Marchetti Dynasty. All Syndicate leaders of New York are summoned to the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel on Friday at 8:00 PM. Attendance is mandatory. Absences will be treated as an act of war.
Weston stared at the name on the screen. Odalys Marchetti.
He knew the legend. Ten years ago, the Marchetti family had been betrayed in Europe, their empire fractured, their princess hidden away or killed.
"Why would the Marchetti family emerge now?" Marcus asked, bewildered. "And why in New York?"
Weston looked at the pregnancy test in his palm, then at the golden double-headed lion on the screen. A strange, terrifying realization began to form in the darkest corners of his mind—a connection so wild, so improbable, yet so chillingly logical.
May you like
I don't know you well enough to be afraid of you. She had said that to him the first day they met.
Weston’s eyes narrowed into slits of dangerous, burning resolve. "Cancel the dock assault on Julian. Let him think he succeeded. We are going to the Plaza Hotel on Friday night."
