Chapter 11: Chapter 11

The bedroom was a tableau of ruin, a stark betrayal laid bare under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Wesley stood frozen, his polished exterior crumbling as he stared at the blood-soaked sheets, the unconscious stranger, and Annie, her tear-streaked face buried in her hands. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the lingering musk of her infidelity, a gut-punch to the man who’d built his life around control. His jaw clenched, his eyes glassy with shock, and after an eternity, he muttered, “What… fuck!”

“Wesley, I’m so sorry,” Annie sobbed, kneeling on the bed, the duvet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her voice broke, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I messed up. I swear, this was the last time. It’ll never happen again. Please, forgive me.”

Wesley’s gaze lingered on her, a stranger in his wife’s skin. His eyes, usually sharp with calculation, flickered with a storm of emotions—confusion, betrayal, rage, and a cold, murderous glint. His fists tightened, knuckles whitening, as he forced his voice to remain steady, a calm before the tempest. “Jason, there’s a bottle of your favorite 20-year-old Scotch whisky at the bar downstairs. Go try it. You won’t be disappointed.”

The words were devoid of warmth, a chilling monotone that promised violence. Jason caught the undercurrent, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. He nodded, his grip firm on the suppressed Glock. “Alright,” He said, turning toward the stairs, his boots soft against the hardwood.

The downstairs bar, nestled beside the dining room, was a shrine to excess—rows of bottles gleamed under the dim, amber glow of an incandescent bulb, each one worth at least a grand. Jason flicked on the light, its warm hue casting long shadows across the mahogany counter. He scanned the shelves, muttering, “Whisky, whisky… there you are.” His fingers closed around a bottle of aged Scotch, its label promising a smoky depth that could dull even the sharpest edges of this night.

As he uncorked it with a satisfying pop, a piercing scream tore through the house—Annie’s voice, raw with terror. Jason’s hand paused, the bottle hovering mid-pour. The sound didn’t faze him; he’d heard worse in his years of bloodshed. ’Wesley hasn’t killed in a while,’ he thought, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. ’Hope he hasn’t lost his touch.’ He dropped a few ice cubes into a tumbler, the clink of glass a small rebellion against the chaos upstairs, and poured himself a generous measure. Settling onto a cushioned barstool, he sipped the whisky, its rich, peaty burn warming his throat as Annie’s screams crescendoed, then fell silent.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, slow and heavy. Wesley descended, his movements stiff, as if his soul had been wrung out. His suit was pristine, but his face was a mask of devastation, eyes hollow, jaw tight. He sank onto the barstool beside Jason, the leather creaking under his weight. “Tastes good, doesn’t it?” Jason said, sliding an empty tumbler across the counter and pouring a quarter-fill of whisky.

Wesley snatched the bottle instead, filling his glass to the brim and downing it in one desperate gulp. The tumbler hit the counter with a heavy thud, his fingers gripping it so tightly the glass threatened to crack. He slumped forward, head bowed, eyes shut, his breathing ragged, a man teetering on the edge.

Jason said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Some wounds no one could fix—you either drowned in them or swam. He refilled Wesley’s glass, then his own, swirling the amber liquid as he savored its slow burn. They drank quietly, the only sound the faint clink of ice and the distant hum of the city outside. Half an hour later, the bottle was empty, its contents a temporary balm for the night’s brutality.

Wesley finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “Jason, I’m sorry you had to see that mess.”

Jason shook his head, a faint grin breaking through. “No need to apologize. I had a front-row seat, and it was one hell of a show.”

“FUCK YOU!” Wesley’s laugh was strained, a bitter twist of his lips. “If you ever bite the dust, I’ll have your dick cut off and stitched to that smug mouth of yours.”

“Wasteful,” Jason chuckled, leaning back. “I’d pickle it in a jar of this whisky. Better legacy.”

“Shit, that’s disgusting,” Wesley said, but the tension in his shoulders eased, a flicker of camaraderie piercing the gloom. They clinked glasses, draining the last drops of Scotch.

Wesley’s expression sobered, his eyes narrowing. “Alright, you bastard, what the hell did you do? I’ve never seen Kingpin this pissed.”

“Just a little thing,” Jason said, twirling his empty glass, his tone deliberately casual.

“What kind of ’little thing’?”

Jason met his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. “I slept with Vanessa.”

Wesley froze, his jaw dropping. “What? That’s your idea of a little thing? Jesus Christ, I told you your cock would get you killed one day.”

Jason waved him off, irritation creeping in. “Spare me the lecture. I need to know how Kingpin found out about me and Vanessa.”

Wesley shook his head, his face grim. “He didn’t tell me shit. Not about Vanessa, not about any of it. Just said you betrayed the gang and ordered me to put a bounty on your head. Every crew in New York’s looking for you.”

Jason’s smile was cold, unsurprised. He’d expected as much—hence the burner phone, the disguise, the constant vigilance. “What’s the price?”

“Million bucks dead, three million alive.”

Jason whistled, impressed. “Big spender. Can I turn myself in?”

“Be my guest,” Wesley said, standing and adjusting his suit, his movements mechanical. “I’ve got a mess to clean upstairs. You can go. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see you tonight.”

“Wesley.” Jason’s voice stopped him cold. He set down his glass, pulling the Glock from his jacket and leveling it at Wesley’s chest. “You’re not walking away without answers. Or you can try your Beretta 92 and see if you’re faster.”

Wesley’s hand twitched toward his holster but froze, his eyes wide with surprise under the bar’s dim light. The two men locked gazes, one standing, one seated, each with a gun in hand, the air crackling with tension. Seconds stretched, heavy and silent, until Wesley relented, his hand falling away.

“Jason, I told you, I don’t know,” He said, his voice tight with frustration. “Kingpin didn’t give me details.”

Jason’s laugh was sharp, cutting. “We’ve been friends and partners for years, Wesley. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re holding out.”

Wesley’s face darkened, his silence damning.

“Fine, let’s make it clear,” Jason said, leaning forward, the Glock steady. “Kingpin’s too proud to call Vladimir himself—he hates those Russian bastards. So who tipped them off? Who gave them my exact address?”

Wesley’s expression shifted, guilt flickering in his eyes. He sighed, slumping back onto the barstool. “I’m sorry, Jason. I—”

“No apologies,” Jason cut in, his voice calm but firm. “You were just following orders.”

“Thanks,” Wesley muttered, running a hand through his hair. “When Kingpin called yesterday, I knew you’d slept with Vanessa. Goddamn, I thought I was losing my mind. You’re a reckless son of a bitch.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Jason said, grinning.

“I’m not flattering you!” Wesley snapped, his voice rising. “Your damn libido’s turned Hell’s Kitchen—no, all of New York’s underworld—into a fucking warzone. People are going to die because of this!”

Jason shook his head, his grin fading to a sneer. Wesley was Kingpin’s disciple through and through, parroting his mentor’s grand vision. From the start, Kingpin had dreamed of a utopia—a New York where he ruled every gang, enforcing order to eliminate random killings, robberies, and chaos. He’d shared that dream with Jason once, and while Jason had nodded along, he’d scoffed privately. ’What a load of bullshit.’

He locked eyes with Wesley, his voice low, serious. “You really buy Kingpin’s fairy tale, don’t you? It’s laughable. Evil’s evil, good’s good. As long as scum like us are breathing, New York will never be ’stable.’”

Wesley bristled, defensive. “Under Kingpin, Hell’s Kitchen’s crime rate is lower than ever. That doesn’t mean something?”

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