Chapter 373: Chapter 157 Federal Reality Check
Marcus’s POV
I’ve been trying to figure out how that incompetent son of mine Dominic managed to track us to that warehouse. When Gemma walked through those doors, I was certain she believed she was meeting him for some romantic reconciliation. Her presence confirmed she hadn’t spoken with that fool about my real intentions. Yet somehow, he discovered my plan and demolished everything I’d carefully arranged to reclaim my standing in the Thorne family.
What made matters worse was his arrival with that savage enforcer Isaac who immediately began beating me senseless. That muscle-bound thug had fists like sledgehammers; my ribs still ached from where he pummeled me against the concrete wall.
All I wanted was one night to break that defiant woman who dared to steal my son’s loyalty from the family bloodline. I had no intention of sharing my prize with that street rat Nick. Yes, I made an agreement with him to coordinate our revenge against Dominic’s woman, but I grew impatient waiting for some lowlife gangster’s permission to enjoy what should have been mine by right of family hierarchy. So I took matters into my own hands—borrowed funds from my old associates and executed my strategy. I recalled overhearing Gemma describe how Dominic used to send those pathetic anonymous gifts during their courtship—such sentimental weakness for a Capo! Nevertheless, it served my purpose perfectly as she fell for my deception. I would have claimed my victory and proven Dominic’s woman could be conquered if that ungrateful son hadn’t appeared with half the Thorne family’s muscle and ruined everything.
Now I’m rotting in this putrid federal holding cell for an extended period, denied what should have been my rightful revenge against the family that cast me out. At least the lead detective showed some respect for my former status and contacted my attorney. Let’s see how Kellen handles this mess. I’ve been locked up far too long—this humiliation has gone on long enough for someone of my former standing in the organization.
"Hey, you twisted old pervert, your shyster lawyer’s here," called a federal marshal approaching my cell.
"Watch your mouth when addressing a former Thorne family associate, you ignorant government lackey!" I snapped, furious at yet another reference to my age and current circumstances.
"Former associate? You understand where you are and what landed you here, yet you still think anyone gives a damn about your past connections? Keep running your mouth and your reputation as a Jack will spread through the federal system faster than wildfire. Then you’ll wish you were only dealing with me," the marshal warned ominously.
"Jack? What in God’s name is a Jack?" I asked, genuinely bewildered. These law enforcement types and their prison informants seemed to communicate in some incomprehensible street dialect that had evolved since my time running territory for the family.
"Jack means rapist in federal prison language, you perverted old-timer," the marshal chuckled with obvious satisfaction. "Now turn around and put your hands behind your back for transport."
"I refuse to turn around. I don’t take orders from government employees who wouldn’t last any time on the streets I used to control," I retorted to this smart-mouthed federal agent who had been antagonizing me since my arrest at the warehouse.
"Fine, then you can forget about meeting your high-priced lawyer," he replied, visibly enjoying watching a former mafia associate grovel in federal custody.
"That’s my constitutional right; you can’t interfere with legal counsel," I protested, knowing full well that federal detention operated by different rules than the street justice I was accustomed to.
"But you’re refusing to exit the cell according to security protocols," he pointed out with exaggerated bureaucratic precision.
"I never said I’m refusing to leave this cage," I argued, realizing I was losing this verbal sparring match.
"When you refuse standard restraint procedures, you’re refusing transport. Handcuffing is mandatory federal protocol for all detainees. Your choice, former big shot," the marshal continued mocking my fallen status.
Reluctantly, I turned and positioned my hands behind my back. The government thug secured the federal restraints and yanked them violently, causing my spine to slam against the reinforced cell bars.
"Understand something, Jack," he emphasized the prison slur deliberately, "the moment you landed in federal custody, your old family connections became worthless. Without connections, you lose protection, which means we control your world now. You sick old predator!"
He hauled me roughly from the holding area to a sterile interrogation room containing only a metal table and two uncomfortable chairs bolted to the floor. Kellen waited inside, looking far more nervous than during our previous meetings when I still commanded respect through family ties. The marshal seated me without removing the federal restraints. When I demanded their removal, he laughed and informed me they’d only come off upon my return to the cell block. I fantasized about having this worthless government employee disappeared the way we used to handle disrespectful problems in the old days.
"Calm yourself and stop fixating on protocol violations, Marcus. This is standard federal procedure for organized crime defendants," Kellen stated gravely, his usual confidence clearly shaken by the severity of my current situation.
"Procedure? This is deliberate psychological warfare designed to break down former family associates," I complained, still clinging to my past identity.
"Think whatever helps you cope, but heed my advice—follow all instructions without complaint, both here and in federal prison, unless you want your remaining years to become substantially worse than they already are," Kellen cautioned with unusual bluntness.
"Federal prison, Kellen? Stop right there—I’m not going to some government cage. You better secure my release immediately and remind them who they’re dealing with," I refused to consider incarceration in some deplorable federal facility far from my old territory.
"Marcus, Marcus." Kellen sighed deeply, adjusted his chair closer to the table, and leaned forward. "Let me explain your predicament with complete honesty—your situation is catastrophic! I warned you when I secured your previous release that another federal offense would make freedom virtually impossible, especially for someone with your background in organized crime."
