Chapter 276

Chapter 276
Wesley
 
I felt something unlock in my chest. He'd admitted it. Thomas had pulled strings, called in old markers, but even Salvatore knew this whole operation was a waste of his time.
 
But knowing that didn't change our situation. My men were still outnumbered, outgunned, and running on empty. I glanced back at them—Torres with a crude bandage around his thigh, Elijah's face streaked with blood from a scalp wound, at least a dozen others slumped against cover trying to catch their breath.
 
I'd done this to them. Led them into this meat grinder because I was too angry, too stubborn, too stupid to cut our losses and run when we had the chance. If I'd listened to Elijah hours ago, we'd all be safe right now. And if I'd listened to Miles back at the estate—if I hadn't been so goddamn reckless, so desperate to prove something—he never would've had to take that bullet for me in the first place.
 
I couldn't lose any more brothers. Not when their blood was already on my hands.
 
The weight of that realization settled over me like a lead blanket.
 
I turned back to Salvatore, forcing myself to stand straighter. "You came here for Thomas. That means the target is me—not the Obsidian Brotherhood, not these men. Just me."
 
I gestured at the bodies littering the warehouse floor. "Look around. Fifteen, maybe twenty of yours already down, and half my crew is still standing. Keep pushing, and it'll cost another two dozen coffins back to Philadelphia. Or let them walk, take what Thomas paid for, and call it professional. That's the smart play, padrino."
 
"Wesley, don't—" someone started behind me.
 
"What the fuck are you doing?" Torres snarled.
 
"Boss, we're not afraid to die!" another voice called out.
 
"We'll take these Italian bastards with us!" someone else shouted.
 
I whirled on them, letting every ounce of fury and grief and desperate determination pour into my voice. "Shut up! Who's in charge here? Me or you? Because last I checked, I'm still your goddamn boss, and as long as I'm breathing, you do what I tell you to do. Unless you want to quit the Brotherhood right here, right now?"
 
Silence.
 
I'd never used that tone with them before. Never pulled rank like that. But something had shifted in me over these past months—maybe it was Miles's death, maybe it was everything that had happened with Felix and Thomas and Lance. But I wasn't the scared kid anymore who needed everyone to like him. I was the man who'd gotten us into this mess, and I'd be damned if I let them die for my mistakes.
 
I turned back to Salvatore, who was stroking his beard thoughtfully. He exchanged a few words in Italian with his second-in-command—a stocky guy with a scar running down his neck. The man seemed to be arguing, gesturing sharply at our position, but Salvatore cut him off with a sharp phrase that made the guy's mouth snap shut.
 
Then Salvatore pulled off his sunglasses, folding them carefully before tucking them into his jacket pocket. His eyes, when they met mine, were shrewd and surprisingly gentle.
 
"You're willing to sacrifice your hand to protect your men," he said slowly. "Tell me something, kid—do you think I'm any less protective of mine? You're right that I came here for Thomas. But you're also right that killing all of you would cost me. Even wounded, cornered, half-dead—you've still got fight in you. And desperate men are the most dangerous kind."
 
He glanced at his own soldiers, then back at me. "Thomas asked me to kill Wesley Lawson. He didn't say anything about wiping out the whole Obsidian Brotherhood. And honestly? Once you're dead, we're going back to Philadelphia. Nobody left to come after us for revenge."
 
Something cold and final settled in my stomach. This was it, then. The deal.
 
"So here's what's going to happen," Salvatore continued. "You give me your word that you'll stay and face what's coming. And I give you my word that your men walk out of here untouched. We square?"
 
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. We're square."
 
I turned back to my crew one last time. They were all staring at me with expressions ranging from fury to desperation to something that looked uncomfortably like grief.
 
"Listen up!" My voice rang out across the warehouse. "Everyone leaves. Now. This is between me and the Italians. You don't owe me your lives—you've already given me more than I deserved. When I'm gone, you elect someone who can actually lead this family the right way. Someone smarter than me. Someone who won't get half of you killed."
 
"Boss—" Elijah's voice cracked.
 
"And whatever you do," I continued, my throat tightening, "you stay united. You follow the code. You don't betray each other. You remember what Marcello taught us—what Miles died for. This Brotherhood is bigger than any one person. Even me."
 
I pointed at Elijah, who was openly crying now, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "You. You know my uncle Lance better than anyone here. You know the family business. When I'm gone, you make sure he's protected. Him and Serena both. Don't let Thomas or Felix or anyone else touch them. You understand?"
 
Elijah tried to speak, failed, then just nodded sharply and saluted.
 
I looked at the rest of them—my brothers, my family, the men who'd followed me into hell because I'd asked them to. "Get out of here. That's an order."
 
For a long moment, nobody moved.
 
Then, one by one, they started to rise. Torres was first, limping badly but standing straight. He met my eyes, gave me a single nod, then turned and headed for the exit. The others followed—some leaning on each other, some moving slowly, all of them looking back over their shoulders.
 
Elijah was the last to leave. He stood there for a few seconds, jaw working like he wanted to say something. Finally, he just whispered, "It's been an honor, boss."
 
Then he was gone.
 
I waited until I couldn't hear their footsteps anymore. Then I pulled out my phone and typed out a message to Lance, my fingers surprisingly steady:
 
Goodbye, Lance. Take care of Serena. I'm sorry I couldn't be the nephew you deserved.
 
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
 
Then I raised my gun, aimed it squarely at Salvatore Mancini's chest, and smiled.
 
"Alright, padrino," I said. "My men are clear. But don't think for a second I'm going to make this easy for you. You want me dead? Come and fucking take me."