Chapter 153
Wesley
"You little—" He took a step forward. Then another. Got right in my face, close enough that I could smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. "You know how I got this scar, rich boy?"
His hand moved to his belt. I saw the glint of metal. A knife handle.
"You got three seconds to tell me. Three. Or I'll give you one just like it."
The old Wesley would have apologized. Would have backed down, made a joke, defused the situation with self-deprecation. But that Wesley was dead. Buried under three years of humiliation and one final betrayal that had burned away everything except the core of who I actually was.
And who I was? I was fucking tired of being afraid.
I stepped forward instead of back, pressing my forehead against his. "I don't give a shit how you got it. But if you keep pushing me? Your face won't get the chance to scar again."
The warehouse exploded with noise—men shouting, women laughing, someone pounding a fist on the table. Marcello's expression shifted from assessment to something that might have been approval.
Scar-face's fist came out of nowhere.
I didn't have time to dodge. The punch caught me square in the jaw, snapping my head back and filling my mouth with the copper taste of blood. Pain exploded through my skull, but instead of backing away, instead of protecting myself, I swung back with everything I had.
My fist connected with his cheekbone. The impact sent shockwaves up my arm, but I didn't stop. I swung again, and again, each punch fueled by years of accumulated rage. Every time Lance had looked at me with disappointment. Every time Vanessa had made me the punchline. Every time Arthur had praised Wesley's "potential" while treating me like a liability.
Scar-face was bigger, more experienced, knew how to fight. His punches landed with brutal efficiency—ribs, kidney, solar plexus. Each blow should have dropped me, but I kept coming. Kept swinging. Because what the fuck did I have to lose anymore?
My knuckles split against his teeth. Blood ran into my eyes from a cut above my eyebrow. My ribs screamed with each breath. But I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Because in my mind, it wasn't Scar-face I was hitting—it was Lance.
Lance, who'd taken everything from me. Lance, who'd stolen Serena and turned her into someone I never got the chance to know.
"Fuck!" One of the men shouted. "He's not stopping!"
"Jesus Christ," another voice added. "Look at him. Kid's got no technique, but he doesn't fucking care. He's trying to kill him."
Scar-face's movements grew sluggish. Blood poured from his nose, his lip split open. He tried to grapple me, but I twisted away and drove my elbow into his temple. He staggered, and I saw my opening—
"Enough!" Marcello's voice cut through the chaos like a knife. "Both of you, stop!"
I froze, my fist pulled back for another strike. Scar-face stumbled backward, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, his eyes wide with something that might have been respect or might have been fear.
"Boss—" he started.
"Shut up." Marcello moved between us, his bulk forcing us apart. He looked at Scar-face first, then at me, his expression unreadable. "You know what you just did wrong?"
Scar-face shook his head, still trying to catch his breath.
"You picked a fight with someone who has nothing left to lose." Marcello's gaze shifted to me. "Men like that? They're the most dangerous kind. Because they'll burn everything down, including themselves, just to take you with them."
He turned back to Scar-face. "Next time you meet someone like Wesley here? Walk the fuck away. Because if you don't, you won't walk away at all."
Scar-face's jaw worked, but he nodded and retreated to the edge of the group, still bleeding, still glaring at me with murderous intent.
Marcello studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
"Welcome to the family, Wesley Lawson. You just proved you've got the only thing that matters in this business." He gripped my hand hard enough to make my split knuckles scream. "The willingness to bleed for what you want."