Chapter 223
Serena
I stared at him, my stomach churning. This was the same Wesley who used to cry over rom-coms and apologize for taking up too much space in a room. Now he was calmly dissecting a murder like it was a business transaction.
Lance's jaw clenched. "The person behind this," he said slowly, "isn't hard to guess."
"Felix," I said flatly. "Who else would be that vicious?"
"But we don't have proof," Lance muttered, more to himself than to me. He turned sharply to Vincent. "Starting now, I want eyes on Felix. Twenty-four-seven. And his father, Thomas. I don't care if they're taking a piss—I want to know about it."
Vincent nodded, already pulling out his phone.
Wesley, however, let out a low, dark laugh. He stood, brushing off his hands, and fixed Lance with a look that was equal parts amused and predatory.
"Surveillance?" Wesley said, shaking his head with a sharp laugh that held no humor. "Uncle, no offense, but that's exactly the problem. You're always playing defense. Always reacting instead of acting."
Lance's gaze flicked to the two hulking men flanking Wesley—broad-shouldered, tattooed, and radiating the kind of quiet menace that made my skin prickle. His eyes narrowed, reading the subtext in Wesley's tone.
"You're saying you have a better idea?"
Wesley's grin widened, but it was all edges. "After we took down the Italians, my brotherhood's reputation went through the roof. We've been pulling in new members, expanding territory, building networks across the city. I have resources now, Uncle Lance. Real resources. The kind that can dig up answers in places your corporate investigators can't even touch."
He took a step closer, voice dropping to something cold and final. "Give me forty-eight hours. I'll find out who poisoned Vanessa and trace it straight back to whoever gave the order."
His smile turned razor-sharp, eyes going flat and dangerous.
"And if it's Felix?" He let out a low, humorless laugh. "Then he won't live long enough to regret it."
A chill ran down my spine. The way he said it—so calm, so certain—made it clear he wasn't talking about legal consequences.
"Wesley," I said sharply, my pulse spiking. "Don't do anything stupid."
He glanced at me, and for a second, I saw a flicker of the old Wesley—the one who used to look at me like I was the only person who mattered. Then it was gone, replaced by that same unsettling calm.
I turned to Lance, desperate. "Lance. Come on. Say something. You can't seriously let him go down this road. This is—this is organized crime. He's talking about the mob, for God's sake."
Lance didn't answer right away. He just looked at Wesley, really looked at him, and then he sighed.
"Let him?" Lance said, voice quiet but edged with something sharp. "Serena, look at him. Does he look like the same kid who spent three years apologizing for taking up space? You think he's asking for permission?"
I opened my mouth to argue, but Lance wasn't done.
"You think this is some reckless phase? A thrill?" He gestured at Wesley, who stood there with his arms crossed, watching us with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable. "He knows exactly what world he's walking into. He's chosen it. And frankly?" Lance's jaw tightened. "I don't think God himself could stop him now."
I stared at Lance, then at Wesley, my mind racing. He was right. I hated that he was right, but he was.
Wesley's smirk widened, slow and dangerous. "See? Uncle Lance gets it. He always did understand me better than you, Serena."
He turned away, snapping his fingers once. His men moved instantly, lifting Vanessa's body with the kind of cold efficiency that made my stomach turn. Wesley climbed into the backseat of his car, pausing only to lean out the window and flash me a grin that was almost—almost—the boy I used to know.
"The brotherhood?" he said, voice lighter now, almost fond. "That's my family now. Those guys in there? Best friends I've ever had. Loyal. Real. No bullshit." His grin sharpened into something darker, more satisfied. "And honestly? Turns out I'm really fucking good at this."
"Wesley—"
"Save it," he said, waving me off with a lazy flick of his wrist. "No time for the whole 'please don't throw your life away' speech. I've got a corpse to deliver and a cause of death to nail down."
His expression shifted then, humor draining away like water through a sieve, leaving behind something cold and lethal.
"And if Felix is the one who ordered this?" His voice dropped, quiet and final. "He'd better hope I don't find proof. Because if I do?" He smiled, but there was nothing human in it. "There won't be enough left of him to bury."