Chapter 157
Wesley
Behind me, cops were following. But cautiously. Warily. Treating me like a real threat instead of Lance's disappointment nephew.
The back of the warehouse came into view. Engines rumbling. Light cutting through the darkness.
Almost there. Almost—
A pickup truck idled in the loading zone, men standing in the open bed. The headlights caught me, and I saw their faces clearly.
Marcello. Scar-face. The redhead. All of them staring.
But not with mockery. Not with indifference.
With shock. Respect. Almost... awe.
"MOVE YOUR ASS, WESLEY!" Marcello's voice boomed. "Carlos and his crew already bounced! We've been waiting on you—don't make us all get pinched!"
I sprinted the last yards, adrenaline drowning out the pain. More sirens wailed in the distance, converging.
"Holy fuck," Scar-face breathed as I got closer. His swollen face split in a disbelieving grin. "You actually closed the front gate? I didn't think you'd—I thought you'd just run—"
"One guy against an entire police raid?" The brunette woman shook her head. "Are you stupid or just insane? You got a death wish?"
The adrenaline was still singing through my blood, making everything too bright, too loud, too real. I grabbed the truck bed's edge, muscles screaming as I hauled myself up.
Hands grabbed my jacket, my arms, pulling me the rest of the way. The truck lurched forward before I'd even fully landed, tires squealing.
I collapsed into the truck bed, gasping. My hands were shaking now—delayed shock, probably. The gun felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
I forced myself to sit up. Met Marcello's eyes.
"So." My voice came out rougher than expected. "Am I really one of you now?"
Marcello's laugh was genuine. Delighted. "One of you? Kid, you're way more than that." He clapped my shoulder hard enough to make me wince. "That deal we just closed? Five percent is yours."
I blinked. "Five percent?"
"Hundred grand." Scar-face's voice held something I'd never expected from him. Respect. "Not bad for one night's work, rich boy."
A hundred thousand dollars.
More money than I'd ever earned. More than Lance had ever trusted me with. Money I'd earned with blood and bullets and sheer fucking insanity.
But even as the number sank in, all I could think about was Serena. Lance. The radio announcements of her success.
Why didn't you see I could do this? The thought burned like acid. Why did you both treat me like I was worthless? Like I couldn't create value?
"Yo." Marcello snapped his fingers in front of my face. "You still with us?"
I focused. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... processing."
"Process later." His expression turned serious. "You proved yourself twice tonight. First with Scar. Now this." He gestured back toward the warehouse district, now lit up like a war zone. "Nobody's gonna question your place anymore. Plus, with your connection to Thomas Lawson—" he emphasized the name deliberately, "—you're valuable to us. Real valuable."
He paused, eyes glinting in the darkness. "So I'm making it official. You're my second-in-command now. My right hand. Effective immediately."
The words didn't compute. "Second—what? I've been here for three hours—"
"And in three hours, you did more than most of these fuckers—" he jerked his thumb at the other men, "—have done in three years. You fight like a demon. You don't panic under fire. And you're connected to one of New York's most powerful families." His grin widened. "Plus, you're clearly batshit crazy. That's useful."
Scar-face leaned forward. "He's right, college boy. You earned it." He extended a bloodied hand. "I'm not dumb enough to compete with someone who locks himself outside during a police raid just to buy us time. That's next-level psycho. I respect it."
I shook his hand, still feeling like I'd fallen into some alternate reality.
"Number two," I repeated. Testing the words. They felt foreign. Dangerous.
Perfect.
The brunette whistled. "Welcome to the Obsidian Brotherhood, sugar. You're family now."
"Obsidian Brotherhood?" I looked at Marcello.
"That's us." He spread his arms wide. "And you're second-in-command now. Which means—" his smile turned predatory, "—you got resources. Manpower. Connections. Whatever you need."
He leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Felix—Thomas's son—" the phrasing was deliberate, emphasizing bloodline over name, "—mentioned you might have some... unfinished business. People who need a lesson taught. Scores that need settling."
My pulse quickened. "He told you that?"
"He did." Marcello's eyes never left mine. "So now that you're my number two, with all our resources at your disposal—" his smile was sharp as broken glass, "—you got debts to collect? People who need reminding that fucking with you was a mistake?"
The truck hit a pothole. Everyone swayed. But I barely felt it.
Because suddenly, I was seeing it. All of it. The possibilities that had opened up in the last three hours.
Lance. Controlling my trust fund. Treating me like a child. Stealing Serena.
Serena. Building her empire with my uncle while I'd been nothing.
My hands curled into fists.
"Yeah," I said quietly. Too quietly. "I've got business to settle."