He Called Her a Traitor and Threw Her Out Into the Storm — Then Learned the Quiet Woman He Lost Was Born to a Mafia Dynasty.

PART 8

While the Marchettis closed their hands around Marcus Voss’s empire, Weston moved more carefully within his own.

He placed Silas under silent surveillance. Security cameras captured Dario with his arm in a sling, shouting while Silas attempted to calm him.

Weston listened to the recovered audio alone.

“You never said she was a Marchetti,” Dario snapped.

“That’s impossible.”

“I saw Everett with my own eyes.”

“The Marchettis were wiped out.”

“Not all of them. Your precious Priya is Odalys Marchetti, and she told me to give you seventy-two hours.”

Weston stopped the recording. The office tilted around him.

*Odalys.*

The name unlocked details he had noticed but never understood. He searched private intelligence archives. An old photograph appeared on his screen — a girl at eighteen, standing beside her father at a charity gala in Palermo.

Priya’s eyes.

Marcus entered without knocking and stopped when he saw the photograph. “Who is that?”

“Odalys Marchetti.”

His brother went still. “You’re certain?”

“Yes. Whatever she asks.”

“Did you threaten her?”

Weston did not answer.

“You did.”

“I thought she had betrayed us.”

“You thought, or Silas told you what to think?”

“I am going to correct it.”

“How?”

“I will find her.”

“And then what? Apologize until she forgets you threatened to put a bullet in her head?”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Every hour since she left.”

Before Marcus could respond, an alarm sounded. One of their Brooklyn warehouses had been breached. Silas was gone. The betrayal was no longer hidden.

—

By the time Weston reached the warehouse district, Voss’s men had already cut communications and blocked the street. Weston entered with twelve guards, but Silas had provided the building plans.

The battle lasted less than four minutes. Weston’s remaining guards were disarmed or wounded. He was struck across the ribs, thrown to the concrete, and dragged into the center of the warehouse.

Marcus Voss stood beneath the industrial lights, smoking a cigar. Silas waited beside him.

“Why?” Weston asked.

“Because loyalty is expensive, and you expected mine for free.”

“I made you wealthy.”

“You made me useful. There is a difference.”

“You framed Priya.”

“It was necessary.”

“Her name is Odalys.”

Silas’s face tightened. Weston saw the fear and understood that Odalys had already won.

“You know who she is now,” Weston said.

Voss removed the cigar. “A dead family’s spoiled daughter hiding behind an old man.”

“You believe that?”

“I believe names are only powerful while men fear them.”

Weston laughed despite the pain. “Then why are your hands shaking?”