Chapter 4 - The House of Serpents
The Marchetti estate sat on the northern bluffs, a sprawling neo-classical fortress of white stone and manicured hedges that looked more like a museum than a home. Armed guards in tailored black suits stood at every corner of the perimeter, their hands resting casually near their holstered sidearms.
Weston’s black sedan didn't stop at the gates. It crashed through them, the reinforced bumpers snapping the iron locks like dry twigs before screeching to a halt on the grand gravel courtyard.
Before the guards could even unholster their weapons, Marcus and four Kade enforcers poured out of the secondary vehicles, weapons drawn and aimed with clinical precision.
The front doors of the mansion swung open, and Silas Marchetti stepped out onto the marble portico. He was an older man with silver hair combed back meticulously, wearing a bespoke cashmere sweater over an open-collared shirt. A smug, untouchable smile played across his lips.
"Weston, my boy," Silas called out, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming a favorite son. "What is the meaning of this barbarism? You'll ruin the landscaping, and—"
Weston stepped out of his car, moving with the terrifying speed of a striking predator. Before Silas could finish his sentence, Weston crossed the courtyard, grabbed the older man by the collar of his sweater, and slammed him against the massive stone pillar beside the front door.
Gasps echoed from the Marchetti guards, but a wall of Kade barrels kept them frozen in place.
Silas choked, his hands instinctively grabbing Weston's wrists. "Have you lost your mind? We are family now! Genevieve is—"
"Shut your mouth," Weston hissed, his face inches from Silas's. His eyes were wild, blazing with an incandescent rage that made even seasoned killers step back. "You blew up the docks four years ago. You killed Liam Vance, framed my family, started a war that cost dozens of lives, and then you used the fallout to worm your way into my estate."
Silas’s eyes flicked wide with genuine panic, but he forced a weak, nervous chuckle. "You’re... you’re talking nonsense, Weston. The Marchettis and the Kades agreed to a truce. You have no proof—"
"Vince Rossi sang," Weston interrupted, tightening his grip until Silas's face turned a bruised purple. "He told me about the detonator codes. He told me how your man Sal handed them over."
Silas stopped struggling. His smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hardened glare. He let out a harsh, rattling laugh. "So what if I did? Vance was a stubborn fool who stood in the way of progress. And look at you now, Weston. You’re angry? What are you going to do? Kill me? If I die, the truce shatters. Every crew from here to the coast will be at each other's throats by nightfall. You'll burn your own empire to the ground over a dead dockworker?"
Weston’s expression didn't waver. He stared at Silas with absolute contempt. "You think I care about the empire?"
Before Silas could answer, Weston drew his sidearm and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against Silas's forehead.
"Mr. Kade!" Marcus shouted from the edge of the courtyard, stepping forward. "Wait! If you pull that trigger here, the syndicate will fracture. Think of the fallout."
Weston’s finger tightened on the trigger. The hammer clicked back, a crisp, final sound that echoed off the stone walls. Silas stopped breathing, sweat beading on his forehead as he stared down the barrel of his own execution.
"Let him burn," Weston whispered.
May you like
Just as the pressure on the trigger reached its breaking point, the heavy glass doors behind Silas flew open, and a sharp, desperate voice cut through the tense air.
"STOP!"
