Chapter 63
I wanted to go alone.
A group that small was no real threat to me. I'd faced down enemies with more men, more weapons, more brains than the Eastside Crew could ever hope to muster. They were children playing at war, and I didn't need company to remind them of their place.
But Romano insisted, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying that worry he thought I never noticed.
"You've been out of it," he said. "Too out of it. I'm coming." He wasn't asking. He was telling.
I wanted to argue, to tell him I was fine, that I didn't need a babysitter, that I could handle a handful of wannabe thugs without someone watching my back.
But I knew Romano. He'd been at my side since before I could remember, had stood through things that would've broken lesser men, and I knew that look on his face.
I gave in, grudgingly. He wasn't entirely wrong.
The club was loud, bass thumping through the walls hard enough to rattle your teeth. The air smelled of sweat, alcohol, and something chemical I didn't care to name. I shared a look with Romano.
Youth, I thought. Nothing but youth.
Bodies pressed together on the dance floor, drinks sloshing, laughter ringing out over the bass. No one noticed me as I walked to the centre of the room.
I raised my hand and fired a single shot into the ceiling.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. The music stopped. The dancing stopped. Everything stopped.
Silence. Eerie, complete, absolute.
I lowered my gun and looked around at the frozen faces, dozens of them, young, stupid, high on their own importance.
"Whoever thinks they can defeat me and take my empire," I said, my voice carrying through the quiet, "stay. The rest of you, if you value your lives, get out."
For a moment, no one moved. They just stared, wide-eyed, caught off guard.
Then someone screamed.
The crowd erupted, people ran in every direction, pushing, shoving, clawing to get to the exits. Drinks fell, glass shattered, and the club emptied in seconds.
When the chaos settled, only a handful remained. The Eastside Crew. The ones who thought they were brave enough to stay. They tried to look tough, but their eyes gave them away.
"So you are THE Westside Crew," I said.
I knew it was Eastside. I just didn't bother remembering the name. It wasn't worth the effort.
A few of them peeled off after the fleeing crowd, their nerve evaporating like morning dew. I let out a chuckle.
"Impressive camaraderie." I said, condescension dripping from every word.
Romano stayed put, eyes on the exits, watching for anyone stupid enough to try something. He knew better than to interrupt. I needed this, needed to feel something other than the hollow ache that had taken up permanent residence in me.
I didn't need help. These men were nothing. A joke. A pack of wannabes who'd watched too many movies and thought they understood how the world worked.
I pulled out my gun and got to work.
The first came at me with a knife. I disarmed him before he could blink, twisted his arm behind his back, and sent him into the wall. The second swung wide, I ducked under his fist and drove an elbow into his ribs. He crumpled. The third pulled a gun. I shot him in the shoulder before he could aim.
The room dissolved into a blur of fists, blood, and cracking bone. I moved on instinct, years of training taking over while my mind stayed somewhere else entirely.
Then I saw him.
The Moretti grandson. I recognized him from the files. Pale-faced, wild-eyed, clearly high on something that made him reckless and stupid.
He stumbled toward me, gun wavering in his hand, shouting, something about his grandfather, about how I'd pay, about how the Moretti family would destroy me.
I didn't listen. I just watched him.
A drug addict. A waste of space. A stain on his family's name. Everything I hated about this world: the entitlement, the arrogance, the complete lack of respect for what it actually took to survive.
He laughed. Actually laughed. Pointed the gun at me and said something about my nephew, that he wouldn't spare any of my family members, not even my little nephew. That he'd find him, and do unspeakable things to that baby, just to get back at me for his dead men.
I shot him in the forehead before he could finish the sentence. Fucking piece of shit. We don't bring women and children into this. He should've known better. He crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
I stood there a moment, chest heaving, vision red. Then I lowered the gun and wiped the muzzle on my sleeve.
Romano sighed, walked over, and nudged the body with his foot, expression tired.
"This is going to be a pain..." he said.
I didn't even glance at him. "That old man should thank me for cleaning up his mess."
Romano was quiet a moment. Then: "What do you want to do with the body?"
I thought about it. The Morettis would want answers. Revenge. But I wasn't afraid of them. I wasn't afraid of anyone.
"Send it to his grandfather," I said. "With a note. 'Be with better pod.'"
Romano nodded slowly. "That's a message."
"It's mercy."
Romano didn't argue.
We were about to leave when Romano noticed the blood on my sleeve, the tear in the fabric, the wound beneath it, blood seeping through.
"You're shot," he said.
I looked down. I hadn't even felt it. Adrenaline, rage, the satisfaction of a job done, it had numbed everything.
"It's just a scratch."
"You need a hospital."
"I need a shower and a drink." I pulled my jacket tighter over the wound. "I'll patch it up at the mansion."
Romano opened his mouth to argue, but I was already walking. I didn't look back.
The night air was cool against my skin, a welcome relief after the club's stifling heat. I walked to the car in silence, my mind already elsewhere, drifting, as it always did these days, to the only place it ever went.
Her.
I wondered if she was asleep. If she was thinking about me. If she had any idea what I'd just done, what I was capable of, how far I'd go to protect what was mine.
She probably didn't. Maybe that was for the best.
I got in the car. Romano slid in beside me and started the engine.
I stared out at the dark city, the lights blurring past, the world moving on without me.
I had a wound to patch and a phone to check.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd finally reached out.
She hadn't.