Chapter 275
Wesley
The laughter that had erupted from Salvatore Mancini's chest was deep and genuine, the kind that made his whole frame shake. It wasn't the reaction I'd expected when I called him Thomas's lapdog.
Behind me, still crouched behind overturned machinery and shipping crates, my men were losing their minds.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispered. "Did you see that? The boss just called him a fucking dog and he's laughing."
"I swear to God," another voice hissed, "when Wesley first joined up, I thought he was the biggest joke I'd ever seen. Rich boy playing gangster. But now? Shit, man. He's got balls the size of church bells."
"Shut the fuck up," a gravelly voice snapped—Torres, one of our veterans. "Let him work. We need every second of rest we can get. If we can't negotiate our way out of this, we're fighting to the death. And if that's what it takes, then I'm going down with the boss. Fuck the Italians."
The words hit me harder than any bullet could have. These men—bloodied, exhausted, half of them probably concussed—were ready to die because I'd led them here. Because I'd refused to retreat when Elijah begged me to. Because Miles had died covering my escape and I couldn't let that sacrifice mean nothing.
I looked back at Salvatore, at the calculating gleam in his dark eyes even as that smile played across his lips. This man hadn't survived forty years in the Philadelphia underworld by being stupid. He was weighing options, measuring costs. And if I wanted any of us to walk out of here alive, I needed to give him a reason to choose mercy over revenge.
"You know what?" I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my hands wanted to shake. "I think you're getting old, Salvatore. And stupid."
The smile vanished.
Behind the Italian, his men tensed. Hands moved toward weapons. Someone muttered something sharp in Italian that I didn't catch but definitely wasn't friendly.
Behind me, I heard Elijah's strangled gasp. "Boss, what the fuck—"
But Salvatore just raised one hand—a small gesture, but it froze every one of his soldiers mid-motion. He tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of interesting insect. Then he made a small rolling gesture with his fingers: continue.
My mouth had gone dry, but I'd already jumped off this cliff. No point trying to grab the ledge now.
"I'm not attacking your intelligence as a person," I said quickly. "But your judgment? Your decisions? They're making me wonder if age has dulled your edge. You came all the way to New York—risked your men's lives, wasted your family's resources—just to do Thomas Lawson a favor? To help him settle a personal grudge?"
I gestured around us at the carnage, at the bodies scattered across the warehouse floor. "You know as well as I do that you're not taking New York territory. Even if you kill me, even if you wipe out every last one of my men, the local crews will never let the Italians back in. This city's moved on. You get that, right? So what are you getting out of this? Thomas's gratitude? A handshake and a pat on the back?"
I took a step forward, ignoring the way Salvatore's closest bodyguard shifted his weight. "You came here for nothing. No profit. No territory. No strategic advantage. Just the satisfaction of knowing you paid back a debt to a man who's probably going to be dead or in prison within the year anyway. That's not smart business, padrino. That's just stupid."
For three heartbeats, nobody moved.
Then Salvatore's mouth twitched. Just barely—a flicker at the corner, like he'd tasted something unexpectedly sharp. He tilted his head slightly, studying me the way you'd study a rabid dog that had somehow learned to speak.
One of his men muttered something in Italian under his breath. I didn't catch all of it, but I heard "pazzo" clear enough. Crazy.
Another soldier snorted and added something that made a few others exchange glances. I caught "coraggio"—courage, maybe—and what sounded like a question.
Salvatore's eyes never left mine, but he responded to them in Italian, his tone almost conversational. Whatever he said made the scarred guy bark out a short, incredulous laugh.
Then Salvatore switched back to English, his voice dry as desert sand.
"My men are wondering how you've survived this long with a mouth like that." He paused, letting that hang in the air. "Honestly, kid, I'm starting to wonder the same thing."
But he still hadn't given the order to fire. And that meant I had him thinking.
"You're right," he continued, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "I don't give a shit about New York. Too many cops, too much heat, not enough profit margin. This city's a headache I'm happy to avoid. And yeah, I'm here because Thomas called in a favor. You know how it is—sometimes paying back a debt hurts worse than paying back money."