Chapter 154
Wesley
The warehouse felt different now.
Not smaller—it was still the same cavernous space with its rusted rafters and oil-stained concrete—but the air itself had changed. The weight of everyone's stares had shifted from contempt to something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like respect.
I wiped blood from my split lip with the back of my hand, tasting copper and adrenaline. My ribs screamed with each breath, my knuckles were hamburger meat, and somewhere between the third and fourth punch, I'd stopped being the man who apologized for existing.
"Sit, sit!" Marcello gestured to an empty chair, still grinning like I'd provided the evening's best entertainment. "Someone get this maniac a drink!"
I dropped into the chair—metal, uncomfortable, but I didn't care. My ribs screamed in protest. My jaw throbbed. Blood had dried sticky on my face and hands.
I'd never felt better.
A woman materialized beside me. The redhead from earlier. Up close, she was all dangerous curves poured into a dress that left nothing to imagination. She leaned over to pour whiskey into a glass, her breasts swaying deliberately, inches from my face.
Old Wesley would have pretended not to notice. Would have made some self-deprecating joke to prove he wasn't a threat. Would have waited for permission—from Vanessa, from the room, from anyone—before he dared to want something.
Fuck that.
I reached out and grabbed a handful of her ass—firm, perfect—and squeezed.
She didn't flinch. Just smiled wider, all sharp edges and promise. "Thirsty?"
"Very." I took the glass from her hand, knocked back the whiskey in one swallow. The burn felt good. Real. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins, making everything sharper, clearer. Even the pain from the fight was fading into something almost pleasant.
Proof I'd survived. Proof I'd won.
Marcello laughed—a booming sound that echoed through the warehouse. "Your uncle said you had potential, kid. But shit—I didn't expect to dig up a fucking gold mine tonight!"
I set the glass down, met his eyes. "You're too kind, Marcello. But seriously—anything you need, I'm in. Whatever it takes."
His smile shifted. Less amused, more calculating. "Funny you should say that. Because as it happens, we've got something going down tonight."
I straightened slightly. "Tonight?"
"Right now, actually." He leaned back in his chair, the metal groaning. "We're doing a deal with some friends from south of the border. Mexicans. Good product, better prices." His eyes never left my face. "They'll be here in about ten minutes with the merchandise."
The whiskey turned to ice in my stomach. I set the glass down carefully, forcing my voice to stay level. "What do you need me to do?"
Marcello's grin widened. "That's what I like to hear. You'll find out soon enough, kid. Just sit tight."
I nodded, but something in Scar-face's expression—a smug satisfaction despite his swollen eye and split lip—made my instincts scream.
One of the women—a brunette draped across Marcello's shoulder—leaned in close to his ear. Her voice was pitched low, but in the concrete-and-metal acoustics of the warehouse, I caught every word.
"Boss, you sure about this? First night and you're throwing him into—"
Marcello waved her off, but the damage was done. Whatever "this" was, it was dangerous enough that even hardened criminals thought it was too much for a newcomer.
Perfect.
I snapped my fingers at the redhead. "More."
She sauntered over, bottle in hand, and as she leaned down to pour, I reached up and grabbed a handful of her ass. Firm. Round.
She yelped, then swatted my hand away, laughing. "Jesus Christ, honey. You're bleeding from three different places and about to walk into a goddamn firing squad." She traced one manicured nail along my swollen jaw, her touch feather-light over the bruise. "And this is what you're worried about?"
I grabbed her again, harder this time, pulling her onto my lap. "I'm done worrying. If I'm gonna die tonight, might as well enjoy the view."
Her eyes widened—then she laughed, low and wicked, settling her weight against me. "You really are out of your mind."
"Completely." I took the bottle straight from her hand, didn't bother with the glass. "So keep me company while I still can."
---
The main door rolled open with a metallic screech. A convoy of beat-up trucks and SUVs pulled into the warehouse, headlights cutting through the dim space. Doors opened. Men piled out—a dozen at least, all wearing variations of the same uniform: jeans, boots, leather jackets. Wide-brimmed hats. The kind of guys who looked like extras in every cartel movie ever made.
And at their center, a man who had to be the boss. Older than the rest, maybe fifty, with a neat mustache and eyes that had seen too much. He spotted me immediately, and his face split into a grin.
"Ey, Marcello!" His accent was thick, musical. "You got fresh meat tonight? Look at this one—clean-cut, pretty face. What is he, college boy?" He laughed, gesturing at me like I was a particularly amusing puppy. "Man, you really don't discriminate, do you?"