Chapter 4 - The Unwelcome Guest
The afternoon sun was interrupted by the sudden roar of a heavy engine grinding up the private gravel driveway of the Hargrove estate.
Two black Cadillac Escalades—vehicles belonging to the Syndicate's northern branch in Boston—punched through the security gates without stopping, their tires throwing wet gravel against the pristine azalea bushes.
Inside the study, Weston didn't even look up from his desk. But the heavy silver fountain pen in his hand stopped moving.
Tristan pushed away from the bookshelf, his hand instinctively dropping toward the Sig Sauer hidden beneath his suit jacket. "That's Salvatore's crew. They weren't scheduled to arrive until Thursday."
"Salvatore is getting impatient," Weston said coldly, rising from his chair. "He thinks because my focus has been on Mary, my grip on the docks has slipped."
The heavy oak doors of the study flew open without a knock.
Vince Salvatore—a bulky, middle-aged capo with slicked-back gray hair, an expensive diamond ring on his pinky, and a smile that looked like a shark sizing up a wounded seal—strode into the room. Two armed enforcers flanked him, their suits ill-fitting over bulky shoulder holsters.
"Weston!" Salvatore boomed, spreading his arms wide as if he were greeting a long-lost brother. "Look at you. Still playing hermit in this mausoleum. I'd offer my condolences about the dock tariffs, but business doesn't wait for mourning."
Weston didn't move. He stood behind his desk, his posture rigid, his gray eyes locked onto Salvatore with a terrifying, frozen stillness.
"You're early, Vince," Weston said, his voice level. "And your manners haven't improved with age."
"Times are changing, kid," Salvatore said, pulling out a chair uninvited and dropping his heavy frame into it. He lit a thick Cuban cigar without asking permission, blowing a cloud of gray smoke toward the crown molding. "The council in Chicago isn't happy with how you've been running the northeastern corridor. Too much charity. Too many closed ports. We need that shipping lane open for cargo that doesn't go through customs."
"The port of New York is closed to narcotics, Vince," Weston said softly. "We discussed this in Boston. My answer hasn't changed."
Salvatore's smile vanished. His face mottled into a dark, ugly red. He leaned forward, slamming his palm against the mahogany desk. "You think you're untouchable because you live in a castle, Hargrove? You forget who put you in this chair! Without us, you're just another widower drowning in grief!"
Before Weston could speak—before Tristan could draw his weapon—the study door clicked open again.
Everyone froze.
Holly stood in the doorway. She was holding a small silver tray with a cup of chamomile tea meant for Weston. She had evidently misjudged where the men were meeting, thinking the study was empty. Her thrift-store sweater was slightly dusted with hay from the stables, and her hair was pulled back in that loose, careless braid.
She took one look at Salvatore, smelled the cheap cigar smoke mixed with cheap cologne, and instantly recognized the type. He was every abusive landlord, every loan shark, and every corrupt dock foreman she had spent her entire life trying to run away from.
Salvatore turned his head, his eyes roaming up and down Holly's slender frame with crude, open appreciation. He licked his thick lips.
"Well, well, well," Salvatore purred, leaning back in his chair with a greasy grin. "What do we have here? I didn't know the Ice King imported his nannies from a roadside diner. Hey, sweetheart—you working the night shift too? I pay better than Weston."
The temperature in the room dropped so fast it felt like a physical blow.
Tristan drew his gun, leveling it straight at Salvatore's forehead. "Say another word, Vince, and I'll scatter your teeth across this Persian rug."
Salvatore's enforcers instantly reached for their holsters.
"Lower your weapon, Tristan," Weston said.
His voice wasn't loud. But it carried a lethal, trembling fury that made even Tristan hesitate.
Weston walked slowly around the desk. Every step he took sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. He didn't look at Salvatore. He looked past him, his eyes fixing on Holly, who stood frozen by the door, her knuckles white as she gripped the silver tray.
"Holly," Weston said, his voice softening just a fraction, though his eyes remained fixed on the Boston capo like a predator staring down a dying rabbit. "Take the tea to the kitchen. Close the door behind you."
Holly didn't move for a second. Her dark eyes met Weston's. In that brief exchange, no words were spoken, but an entire lifetime of understanding passed between them. She nodded once, turned, and slipped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind her.
Weston slowly turned back to Salvatore.
May you like
The smile had completely vanished from the older man's face. The barrel of Tristan's gun was still aimed dead at his nose, but it was Weston's eyes that made Salvatore's breath catch in his throat.
"Vince," Weston whispered, resting both knuckles on the desk and leaning over until his face was inches from the capo's. "You just made the biggest mistake of your miserable life."
