Chapter 232
Wesley
The basement reeked of stale beer and concrete dust, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes long after you'd left. I sat on a metal stool in the corner, flipping a butterfly knife between my fingers with practiced ease—open, closed, open, closed—the rhythmic click-click of steel against steel almost meditative.
Around me, the dim overhead bulb cast long shadows across the cramped space, illuminating the makeshift bar where Miles, Dante, and a couple of other guys were laughing too loud over cheap whiskey.
"Boss, you gonna just sit there all night playing with that thing?" Miles called out, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Or are you actually gonna drink with us for once?"
I caught the knife mid-flip and snapped it shut, slipping it into my jacket pocket as I stood.
The word Boss still felt foreign rolling off their tongues—hell, it felt foreign in my own head. A month ago, I'd been the family joke, the trust fund baby who couldn't keep a girlfriend or hold down a real job.
Now I was running this corner of Manhattan for the Brotherhood, pulling in more cash in a week than I used to blow through in a month. Marcello had handed me this territory himself after that warehouse raid, told me I'd earned it by not flinching when the bullets started flying.
Funny how almost dying could upgrade your résumé.
"Actually," I said, rolling my shoulders to work out the tension that had been building there all day, "we've got work to do."
Dante groaned, slumping dramatically against the bar. "Man, it's past midnight. What kind of work are we talking about here?"
I pointed at him, then at Miles, then at the two brick-shithouse guys leaning against the wall—Carlo and Jax, both ex-military types who'd drifted into the Brotherhood when civilian life got too boring. "You four. With me. Everyone else stays here, keeps the place running."
Miles straightened up, his grin fading into something more serious. "Middle of the night? What kind of business needs four of us at—" He glanced at his watch. "—one in the morning?"
"Not business," I said, shrugging on the leather jacket that had been draped over the back of my stool. The weight of it settled familiar across my shoulders, and I felt that shift happen inside me—the one where I stopped being the kid who used to apologize for existing and became someone who could walk into a room and make people nervous. "More like settling a debt."
"Where?" Dante asked, already reaching for his coat because he knew better than to argue when I used that tone.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make them sweat before I answered. "Lawson Estate."
The room went dead quiet. Even the guys who weren't coming stopped mid-drink, their eyes swiveling toward me like I'd just announced we were robbing Fort Knox.
"Target?" Miles said slowly, like he was hoping he'd misheard.
"Felix," I said. Then, because I might as well rip the whole Band-Aid off at once: "And Thomas."
"Fuck," Dante breathed, setting his glass down so hard it cracked against the bar. "Wesley—Boss—that place is a goddamn fortress. Infrared sensors everywhere, private security that makes the Secret Service look lazy, and they've got the NYPD on speed dial. One wrong move and we'll have half of Manhattan PD crawling up our asses before we can blink."
Carlo crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. "You sure about this? Like, sure sure? Because once we go in there, there's no pulling back."
I could feel their doubt pressing against me, heavy and suffocating, and for half a second I almost reconsidered. Almost.
Then I thought about Lance's voice on the phone earlier—tight, controlled, but with that edge underneath that meant he was barely holding it together. Felix killed Vanessa. Thomas is a threat And beneath all of that, unspoken but loud as a scream: If we don't end this now, Serena's next.
I cut that thought off before it could finish forming. Couldn't afford to think about what I owed her, what I owed Lance. Had to keep it simple, keep it cold.
"It's not about what I want," I said, injecting just enough steel into my voice to remind them who was in charge here. "This is the first time my uncle's ever asked me to do something for him. The first time he's trusted me with something that actually matters."
Miles raised an eyebrow, a grin already spreading across his face. "Uh-huh. And that's the only reason?" He leaned back against the bar, clearly enjoying himself. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've been gunning for Felix pretty hard lately. Almost like a certain art dealer's safety is keeping you up at night—"
I shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
Miles immediately straightened up, hands raised in surrender, his grin turning sheepish. "I mean—obviously there's a much bigger strategic reason here. Brotherhood business. Grand scheme." He shot me a quick, knowing look, eyebrows waggling just enough to say I'm covering for you, buddy. "I'm sure you've got it all figured out, Boss."
The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. Smart-ass knew exactly what he was doing—giving me an out while making it look like he was the one backing down.
I let the silence hang for a beat, then nodded slowly, playing along.
"Exactly. We take out Felix and Thomas, and Lance owes us. Big time." I looked around the room, making sure everyone was listening. "You know what it means to have one of the richest men in New York backing the Brotherhood? No more scraping by, no more looking over our shoulders every time the Italians flex. We'd be made."
That got their attention. Dante's eyes lit up with the kind of greedy hunger I'd learned to recognize. Carlo and Jax exchanged a look, already calculating the angles.
"And," I added, watching them lean in, "if we pull this off, I'm doubling everyone's salary. More territory, more guys under you, the whole package."
Dante straightened up, suddenly all business. "Double?"
"Double," I confirmed.
Carlo grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Well, shit. When you put it like that..."
Jax just shrugged, already heading for the door. "Let's get this over with."