Chapter 4 - The Unmasking of the Insider
The fluorescent lights of the holding room buzzed with a low, irritating hum. Nobody moved. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of an inevitable collision.
I didn't look at Victor anymore. My eyes remained locked on Marcus.
"You approved the service gate deliveries yesterday morning," I said quietly, pacing slowly toward him. "You signed off on the pastry crates from Manhattan."
"Standard protocol, boss," Marcus replied, his voice steady, though a faint sheen of sweat had formed across his forehead. "Every crate is inspected by two officers before entering the kitchen."
"Except the crates that arrived at eleven o'clock," I countered, stopping two feet away from him. "The ones delivered by a replacement courier service because our regular driver was supposedly sick with the flu."
Marcus didn't blink. "The dispatch called us at ten. It was cleared through the logistics desk."
"There was no dispatch call," I said, pulling a folded printout from my inner jacket pocket. "I spoke with the delivery company’s regional manager twenty minutes ago. Their driver wasn't sick. And no replacement courier was dispatched to the Moretti estate yesterday."
Marcus remained silent. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. Victor was still whimpering on the floor, while Chef Gustave stared back and forth between us in sheer confusion.
"You didn't just let the package in, Marcus," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper. "You provided the security override code. The same code required to bypass the biometric scanner on the cold room door. Only three people in this entire estate possess that master authorization code: myself, Dr. Harris, and you."
Marcus let out a slow, deliberate breath. The rigid posture didn't break, but the professional mask finally slipped, revealing a cold, cynical smile.
"You always were too thorough for your own good, Dominic," Marcus said smoothly, his voice losing its deferential edge.
Vincent, standing near the door, instantly drew his pistol, leveling the barrel directly at Marcus's chest. "Don't move an inch."
Marcus didn't even look at the gun. He kept his eyes fixed on me. "You think you rule this city, Dominic. You sit in your Westchester mansion behind stone walls and armed guards, playing feudal lord while the world moves on. The old ways are dead. The Brighton syndicate offered a new partnership—one based on modern logistics, global shipping integration, and mutual profit. All we had to do was eliminate the heir, force your attention onto internal chaos, and take over the Manhattan port authority."
"You tried to murder my son," I said. The words weren't loud. They were dead. Empty of rage, filled only with the finality of an executioner's verdict.
"He was collateral damage in a corporate restructuring," Marcus replied coldly.
Before the last word had even left his mouth, I moved.
I didn't draw a weapon. I crossed the two-foot distance between us with explosive speed, grabbing Marcus by the lapels of his suit jacket and slamming him backward against the reinforced concrete wall with enough force to rattle the overhead pipes.
Marcus grunted, the wind knocked out of him, but he didn't fight back. He just laughed—a dry, raspy sound.
"You can kill me, Dominic," Marcus choked out, blood trickling from his lip. "You can feed me to the fishes in the Hudson. But the syndicate already has copies of every secure file, every offshore routing number, and every political bribe your family made over the last decade. If I don't check in with their regional handler by noon today, the data goes public. Your empire collapses by sunset."
I held him suspended against the wall for three long seconds, my fingers digging into his wool lapels, my knuckles white. Every instinct screamed at me to snap his neck right there on the concrete floor.
Instead, I slowly loosened my grip, letting him drop back onto his feet. I smoothed down my cuffs, adjusting my jacket with absolute, chilling composure.
"Vincent," I said without looking back.
"Boss?"
"Take Marcus down to the deep sub-level vault. Chain him to the wall. Do not let him speak to anyone, do not let him touch a phone, and do not let him die until I say so."
"Understood."
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"As for Victor," I glanced down at my cowering cousin, who was still trembling on the floor. "Pack a single bag. By sunrise, you will be on a one-way cargo flight to South America. If you ever set foot on North American soil again, I won't wait for federal prosecutors. I'll handle it personally."
As Marcus was dragged away, cursing and shouting threats into the concrete corridor, I turned toward the exit. The traitor within the house had been unmasked, but Marcus's final warning hung in the air like poison. The Brighton syndicate still possessed our files. And they were coming for everything we built.
