Chapter 152
Wesley
The warehouse floor creaked under my feet, each step echoing through the cavernous space. The darkness was thick, oppressive, broken only by slivers of streetlight filtering through grimy windows high above.
I should have been terrified. Should have turned around.
I kept walking.
My phone buzzed. Felix.
You there yet, Wesley? Remember what I told you. And one more thing—these are my father's old friends, but "friend" isn't a relationship you inherit. You have to earn their trust.
I typed back: I will.
The response came immediately: Good. Because kid, you're on your own now. You've lost everything. But that's perfect—you can't gain everything until you've lost everything first.
I smiled at the screen—cold, humorless—and pocketed the phone.
Then the lights slammed on.
Fluorescent tubes flickered to life overhead, revealing the true scale of the space. The warehouse stretched endlessly in every direction, filled with wooden crates, steel shipping containers, pallets stacked high with goods I probably didn't want to identify.
And in the center, a cleared space. Folding tables. Metal chairs. Seven or eight heavily tattooed men lounging around like they owned the place—which, I supposed, they did. Three or four women draped across laps and chairs, all curves and dangerous smiles.
"Wesley?"
The voice boomed across the warehouse. Deep. Commanding. Belonging to a man who looked like he'd walked straight out of a WWE ring—six-five at least, built like a tank, arms covered in ink that told stories I couldn't read from here.
This was the boss. Had to be. Felix's photos hadn't done him justice.
I walked forward, forcing my steps to remain steady even as my heart hammered. Stopped a few feet away from the table.
"Marcello." I kept my voice level. "My uncle Felix said I should come learn from you. Finally meeting you in person—you're even bigger than I expected."
"Uncle?" Marcello's eyebrows rose, and several of the men around him shifted. "First rule, kid. We don't talk about relationships here. Ever. Doesn't matter whose nephew or son or cousin you are. You understand?"
The rebuke landed like a slap. I felt heat crawl up my neck, old instincts screaming at me to apologize, to backpedal, to make myself smaller.
I swallowed it down. "Understood."
Marcello studied me for a long moment, then smiled—slow, predatory. "But you're a lot scrawnier than I expected, I'll give you that." He leaned back in his chair, the metal groaning under his weight. "I don't know if you can handle our lifestyle, kid. This isn't your country club."
Laughter rippled through the group. One of the women—a redhead with a smile like broken glass—looked me up and down with obvious disdain.
"Not just scrawny." A new voice cut in. Harsh. Mocking. "He looks pathetic."
I turned. The speaker stood to Marcello's right—shorter than the boss but whipcord lean, a jagged scar running from his left temple down to his jaw. His eyes were chips of flint.
"Look at him," Scar-face continued, grinning at his audience. "Eyes all red. Been crying, haven't you, rich boy?" He made an exaggerated sobbing gesture. "I heard about you. Your ex-girlfriend's living her best life now, huh? Flying high. And your current girl dumped your ass tonight." He laughed—cruel, delighted. "Shit, if I were you, I'd be crying too."
The words hit exactly where they were meant to. I felt my hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms.
Marcello watched me. Not intervening. Not stopping his man. Just... watching. Like he was waiting to see what I'd do.
Testing me.
I looked at Scar-face. Let a smile curve my lips—the same cold one I'd given my reflection earlier.
"Well," I said, conversational, "that's all in the past now. And honestly? Being able to say I dated women from two of New York's biggest families—that's not nothing." I tilted my head. "That's a privilege you can't buy with a knife to the face."
The warehouse went dead silent.
Scar-face's smile vanished. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me." I kept my voice pleasant. Easy. "I might have lost them both, but at least I had them. Had experiences you'll never understand. Connections you'll never make." I let my gaze drop to his scar, then back to his eyes. "No amount of street cred changes that."