The Gangster’s Billionaire Husband

The van reeked of sweat and cheap cologne, the kind that tried to mask the tension but only made it worse. Inside, six men sat shoulder to shoulder, the faint hum of the engine filling the cramped silence. Wesley, sitting at the back near the doors, had his head tilted down. His fingers drummed against the aluminum bat wedged between his legs. He wasn’t nervous—no, Wes didn’t do nervous—but the stillness before chaos always had a way of making him itch. He inhaled sharply, eyes flicking open. “Alright, listen up,” he said, voice low but commanding. “Once we’re there, no hesitations. No messing around. Get in, bash heads, and let them know why we’re here.” A few murmurs of acknowledgment followed. One of the guys, Tony, grinned and muttered, “Got it, boss.” The van slowed as it approached their target—a run-down warehouse with flickering lights barely illuminating the parking lot. The driver killed the engine, and for a second, the van sat there, heavy with silence. Wes gripped the bat, his knuckles whitening. “Let’s go.” The second the van’s doors swung open, the group spilled out like a pack of wolves. Wes led them straight to the warehouse entrance, his boots slamming against the pavement. Without breaking stride, he lifted his leg and kicked the door so hard it flew open with a deafening bang, the metal frame quivering. Inside, a handful of men lounging around a poker table jumped up, startled. Chips and cards scattered across the table as chairs clattered to the ground. One guy fumbled to pull a gun from his waistband, but Wes was faster. The bat swung through the air with a vicious crack, knocking the weapon clean out of the man’s hand. “Evening, gentlemen,” Wes snarled, stepping over the guy now writhing on the floor. Chaos erupted. Wes’ men surged forward, fists flying, boots stomping, chairs crashing. The room was a whirlwind of grunts and shouts. One guy lunged at Wes with a bottle, but Wes ducked, the glass shattering harmlessly against the wall behind him. He came up swinging, the bat slamming into the guy’s ribs with a sickening thud. But Wes wasn’t here for the grunts. He was here for Jackson Feng. His eyes darted across the room, scanning through the fray until they locked onto a figure bolting up the stairs at the far end of the warehouse. “Jackson!” Wes bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. Feng didn’t look back. He was already halfway up, taking the stairs two at a time. “Coward,” Wes spat, dropping the bat and sprinting after him. The second floor was a maze of narrow hallways lined with dusty crates and old machinery. Feng weaved through them like he’d done it a hundred times, but Wes was relentless. “Think you can outrun me, huh?” Wes shouted, vaulting over a crate Feng had shoved in his path. Feng glanced over his shoulder, panic etched across his face. “Stay the hell away, Wes!” “Too late for that!” Feng threw a rusted toolbox, but Wes sidestepped it easily, closing the gap between them. He launched himself forward, grabbing Feng by the collar and slamming him against the nearest wall. “Why’re you running, huh?” Wes growled, his forearm pressed against Feng’s throat. “I thought you wanted to send me a message.” Feng squirmed, his hands clawing at Wes’ arm. “Jesus, Wes, let go! It wasn’t me!” “Oh, it wasn’t you?” Wes yanked him forward before slamming him back into the wall. “Then who was it, huh? Your guys just decided to jump my crew for fun?” “Our boss!” Feng choked out. “It was our boss’ call! We were just following orders!” Wes stared at him for a moment, his jaw clenching. “Well, guess what? Now it’s my turn to send a message.” Before Feng could respond, Wes pulled back his fist and drove it into Feng’s gut. The air left his lungs in a pained wheeze as he doubled over. Wes grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up so their eyes met. “You tell your boss—” But before Wes could finish, the distant sound of sirens cut through the air. His head snapped up, listening as the wailing grew louder. “s**t!” Wes hissed, releasing Feng, who crumpled to the floor. He bolted back down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “COPS!” he shouted as he reached the main floor. His crew, some still mid-fight, froze at the word. “Let’s move!” Wes barked, and like a well-oiled machine, they scattered, rushing for the exits. The warehouse doors slammed shut behind them as they piled into the van. The driver didn’t wait for everyone to buckle up before peeling out of the lot, the sirens now just around the corner. Wes leaned back in his seat, breathing hard, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Guess they got the message,” he muttered. But just when they thought they were in the clear, the van screeched to a halt, jerking everyone forward in their seats as a police cruiser came flying out of nowhere and skidded sideways, blocking the road ahead. “Sh*t!” the driver yelled, yanking the gear into reverse. The tires screeched again as the van lurched backward, but the retreat was cut short as two more cruisers slid into position behind them, effectively boxing them in. Wes slammed his fist against the side of the van. “Goddammit!” he growled, shoving the door open. “Scatter! Go!” He didn’t need to say it twice. They poured out of the van like ants from a kicked-over anthill, darting into the surrounding darkness. Flashlights cut through the night, the beams bouncing wildly as the cops gave chase. Wes sprinted into the woods, the sounds of his crew crashing through branches and heavy breathing fading as he focused on getting away. His boots pounded against the forest floor, the uneven terrain threatening to trip him up with every step. Roots clawed at his feet, and branches snagged at his clothes, but he didn’t stop. In the distance, he saw the faint glow of headlights streaking across a freeway. Freedom. He pushed harder, his lungs burning, his legs aching, but he finally broke through the tree line and stumbled onto the edge of the road. Panting, Wes straightened up, waving his arms to flag down a passing car. “Hey! Stop!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. But just as the car slowed, a shadow darted out from the side and tackled him to the ground. Wes hit the asphalt with a grunt, the weight of someone pinning him down. “Don’t move!” the cop barked, pressing a knee into Wes’ back as he struggled. “Get off me!” Wes spat, thrashing beneath him. The officer pulled his arms behind his back, snapping cuffs onto his wrists with practiced efficiency. Wes was forced onto his knees, glaring up at the man towering over him. “You’re under arrest, Wesley Creed,” the cop said, catching his breath. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to come with me down to the station.” Wes snorted, his lip curling into a defiant smirk despite the situation. “You afraid? Don’t be. You’ve got me now, right?” The officer ignored the jab, hoisting Wes to his feet and leading him toward a waiting squad car. Wes glanced over his shoulder as the red and blue lights illuminated the woods behind him, catching glimpses of his crew being rounded up one by one. Wes let out a low chuckle as he was marched toward the squad car. “Well, look at that. Round of applause for Officer Hero here. Managed to catch a guy who tripped over tree roots and bad luck. Bet you’re feeling real proud of yourself.” The cop didn’t bite, his grip firm on Wes’ arm. “Save it for the judge, Creed.” “Oh, don’t worry, I will,” Wes shot back, grinning as they approached the car. “But let me guess, this isn’t about me, is it? This is your big break, huh? ‘Local cop nabs criminal mastermind.’ You’ll be shaking hands with the mayor in no time. I might even watch the news just to see you cry during your acceptance speech.” The officer opened the back door of the car and shoved Wes inside with a little more force than necessary. Wes leaned back against the seat, feigning hurt. “Careful there, Officer. I’d hate to file a complaint about police brutality. Wouldn’t want to tarnish that shiny badge of yours.” The cop slammed the door shut and moved around to the driver’s side. Wes watched him through the window, still smirking. “Guess that means you’re not getting five stars on Yelp,” Wes muttered to himself. As the officer slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, Wes continued, his voice rising just enough to be obnoxious. “So, what’s the plan, huh? Take me down to the station, slap me on the wrist, and let me go? Or are you hoping for a confession? Because spoiler alert—I’m innocent. Scout’s honor.” The officer shot him a glance in the rearview mirror. “You think this is a joke?” Wes tilted his head, grinning wider. “I mean, it kinda is. A bunch of cops chasing me through the woods? It’s like the world’s worst game of tag. If I knew it was bring-your-kid-to-work night, I would’ve brought snacks.” The cop didn’t respond, but Wes could see his jaw tightening. He leaned forward, his cuffs clinking as he rested his elbows on his knees. “What, no witty comeback? No ‘you have the right to remain silent’ speech? Come on, man, this is boring. At least make it entertaining.” The officer finally sighed. “You talk a lot for a guy in handcuffs.” Wes grinned. “And you don’t talk enough for a guy who probably still lives with his mom. What, she pack you a PB&J for tonight’s big arrest?” The cop’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, but he said nothing. Wes leaned back again, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll tell you what,” Wes continued, his tone mockingly magnanimous. “When you take me to lockup, I’ll sign an autograph for you. Something like, ‘To my biggest fan, Officer Grumpy. Love, Wesley Creed.’ How’s that sound?” The cop finally glanced back at him, his eyes narrowing. “You think you’re funny?” “I don’t think, pal—I know,” Wes shot back, flashing his teeth in a grin. “And you? You’re my opening act. So keep the audience entertained, would ya?” The cop muttered something under his breath, turning his attention back to the road. Wes settled into his seat, smug and satisfied. He might be in cuffs, but he was still in control—if only of the conversation.