Chapter 7 - THE CONFRONTATION AT THE WAREHOUSE
A figure stepped out from the dim shadows of Warehouse 4, flanked by three armed thugs holding silenced pistols. It was Marcus Moretti, the slick, arrogant cousin of the syndicate boss Weston had dismantled six months earlier. Marcus wore an expensive wool overcoat, a smug grin plastered across his face despite the guns trained on him by Weston's men.
"Kade," Marcus mocked, clapping his hands slowly. "I must admit, you're more persistent than a stray dog. Leaving your dying son all alone in the NICU just to chase a crooked doctor out in the cold? Tsk, tsk. Bad parenting."
Weston didn't blink. His posture remained like solid granite, but his eyes narrowed into two slits of pure, unadulterated fury.
"You tried to kill my wife," Weston said, his voice echoing off the damp concrete. "You failed. Then you sent your lapdog doctor to murder my son by inches while he lay helpless in a glass box."
"Business, Weston," Marcus shrugged, adjusting his collar. "You took our territory; we take your bloodline. It's simple arithmetic. And honestly? That brat of yours was going to die anyway. Voss made sure of it."
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Weston moved with terrifying, blinding speed.
He didn't reach for his gun. Instead, in two massive strides, he crossed the distance between them, grabbed Marcus by the lapels of his expensive coat, and slammed him against the brick wall of the warehouse with a bone-rattling thud.
The thugs accompanying Marcus raised their pistols, but before their fingers could touch the triggers, Weston’s security detail opened fire with pinpoint precision. Three silenced cracks echoed through the night, and all three Moretti gunmen dropped instantly to the asphalt, their weapons clattering away.
Marcus choked for air, his smug expression instantly vanishing, replaced by sheer, primal terror as Weston’s massive hands locked around his throat.
"You touch my son," Weston whispered, his face inches from Marcus's, "and I don't just kill you. I erase your name from history."
"Boss," Dante called out, stepping forward cautiously. "Hold on. We need him alive to give us the financial routing numbers for the offshore accounts. If we hand him and the doctor over to the federal task force with the digital logs Priya pulled, the whole syndicate network goes down permanently. Federal prison is a lot longer and colder than a quick bullet."
Priya walked up beside Weston, placing a gentle hand on his broad shoulder. Her touch acted like an anchor, pulling him back from the dark edge of absolute rage.
"Listen to Dante, Weston," Priya said softly, her voice steady and clear. "Let the law take them. Let the world see what they did through irrefutable medical and digital proof. Save your hands for Owen."
Weston stared down at Marcus, whose face was turning a alarming shade of purple. Slowly, with deliberate control, Weston loosened his grip and let the syndicate heir slump to the ground, coughing violently.
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"Dante," Weston said, turning his back on Marcus. "Tie them up, bundle them into the trunk, and call Agent Vance at the Federal Organized Crime Task Force. Tell him I have a complete confession, physical lab proofs, and a signed digital audit trail waiting for him at St. Jude Memorial."
"Right away, Boss," Dante nodded.
