10. Isaac

CHAPTER 10

ISAAC

Shortly after the Russians leave, the door to my office clicks shut, and the silence that clings to the air when he enters is thick and devoid of oxygen, and I feel like I'm suffocating. Dallas stands across from me, his blue eyes sharp under the yellow light, piercing the haze with something urgent.

"Marina... She mentioned a man with a golden tooth," he begins, voice low, as if the walls themselves are eavesdropping. "Said he was the one who took her passport."

"Is that so?" I probe, leaning back in my chair, feeling the leather creak beneath me.

"She was terrified," Dallas continues. His jaw is set tight when he pauses for a moment. "She wouldn't say much, but it was clear she's seen some stuff."

I nod slowly, digesting the information. "She's been through hell and back. I'm aware."

"You understand what it means, right?"

I nod again.

"You knew when you sent me to get her passport?"

"I knew bits and pieces. I didn't know who was behind it." My fingers drum on the wooden desk, an uneven rhythm that mirrors my racing thoughts. It feels like things are starting to come full circle. I grab my phone and dial Jeremy, asking him to find Marina and send her over.

A few minutes later, there's a knock. The door edges open and Marina steps inside, her gaze flitting between me and Dallas, mistrustful.

"Hawk's okay," I assure her, watching her shoulders drop a fraction and reminding myself not to forget to use his cover identity name with my crew. "Tell me what you told him about the man with the golden tooth."

"His name is Shtyk," she whispers. "He took my passport when I came to America. He said it was for safekeeping. Then he said he'd help us find jobs but instead…" She trips over her own words, goes silent for a second. "He made us have sex. And he told us we had to practice… with him first."

Although I know what she did before she came here, the rage in me is immediate. I feel it spread through my insides, heating up my blood. It's like my own nightmare all over again.

"I'm sorry, Marina, that happened to you," I choke out. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off—relax a little."

Her relief is palpable as she backs away with a string of thanks, throwing Dallas, who's leaning against the wall, another side-eye before disappearing beyond the door.

The office breathes out the silence she leaves in her wake.

"This Shtyk, he's probably one of Solovey's enforcers," Dallas says quietly from across the room, only reaffirming my suspicions.

The Russians are dirt. Greedy bastards. Ready to sell their own children for money. Solovey is involved in human trafficking in some form or another. I can sense it. It's too much of a coincidence for his bruiser to be the one who took Marina's passport. The entire operation—flying people across the ocean—couldn't be done without someone very influential pulling the strings.

"Looks that way," I mutter at Dallas, the pieces forming a sinister picture in my head. My hands clench, knuckles whitening as the urge to smash something roars within me.

Dallas watches me from the shadows of the office, soundless as if understanding dark currents without needing to swim in them.

"So Solovey's not just pushing drugs and guns," I growl. "He's trading lives."

Dallas folds his arms across his chest, eyes hard as flint. "Marina wasn't the only one," he admits, voice low and even. "When I picked up her passport, there were others. Many others. I passed them on to my handler, but it's been dead air since then. I don't know who's in charge of that investigation. If at all."

"Others?" The question is a bullet, fired point-blank into the meat of my conscience. My mind whirls with the implications, each more monstrous than the last. "How many?" I rise up from the chair.

"A dozen." He pushes off from the wall, stepping closer. His blue eyes are Arctic oceans, cold and deep.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"You're forgetting who I'm reporting to," he husks out closing the distance between us with several measures, purpose-filled strides. "Besides, I didn't exactly know what was happening. I thought you were the one involved in this."

"You better take it back." I round my desk to face him, my fists itching to hurt him, every muscle in my body screaming for a fight.

We're locked in a wordless exchange, each man daring the other to break first.

"And thanks for reminding me that you're a fucking rat," I spit out.

"I'm just doing my job."

I desperately want to look away but he's holding my gaze hostage, quite literally and metaphysically, if need be, and something churns in the pit of my stomach.

"You had an opportunity to find a dozen kids, but instead you chose to give that opportunity to your fucking Bureau. Do you know what happens to those kids out in the streets?"

"Don't pretend to be some kind of a savior, Isaac."

"Maybe I don't play by the rules, but at least I act swiftly. I don't bury the cases in a pile of other paperwork or wait for fucking red tape to unroll itself so that I could start doing what needs to be done—look for those kids."

"Are we going to argue about the things we can't change?" he asks, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Or should we focus our energy on the future narratives we can control?"

"If you're trying to tell me you're part of it, Agent Bradley, you're mistaken. If I don't come up with two million in a week, it's my family who'll suffer. Not yours. I'm alone bearing this cross."

He waits a second or two, then rasps out gently, "You're not alone, Isaac."

I fail to come up with a worthy retort on time because I'm taken aback by his confession. My stupid heart bounces in my chest, slamming itself against my ribs.

"Speaking of money," Dallas adds quickly, tone changing to all-business. "Do you have the amount you owe to Solovey?"

"No. Georgie spent most of the club money on that stupid renovation." The admission rips from me, raw and bitter. "I have some, but I don't have enough. Not nearly. But I'll get it."

"Isaac—" he starts, but I cut him off with a hard stare.

"Listen, we've got bigger sharks circling now. Toro doesn't play careful games, not like the Russians. He smells blood in the water, he comes. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't contacted me yet."

Tension sizzles in the space between us.

As if sensing it, sensing the danger of my proximity, Dallas steps back. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll figure it out. I need to be alone."

As he departs moments later, the door shuts with the finality of a death sentence verdict, and I'm left standing in the silent judgment of my own private hell.

The Thoreau mansion looms, massive and breathtaking, and I have to remind myself again that its decadent facade is simply a mask for the rot within. I lived in the same house—pretty on the outside and terrifying and filled with nightmares within its walls.

I step through the threshold like a man marching to his own execution, each footfall an echo in the grand hall. In the study where Maurice always takes visitors, I'm offered a chair and nothing else. A subtle hint that my presence is never truly welcomed here.

"Look at you," Maurice greets me with that rare shark's grin of his when he finally enters the study and settles in the chair behind his desk. "You look good, Isaac, considering you've been shot."

I nod, playing my part in the farce. "Thanks. It's been... eventful."

"Ah, the desert." His voice slithers over the word. "Heard about your little scuffle with the ATF. One of your guys caught in their net?"

"Caught, but not broken," I reply, the lie smooth on my tongue. "He's got a good lawyer. He'll be fine."

But in the pit of my stomach, doubt gnaws. Ten years for firearms trafficking—the sentence hangs over Flynn like a knife, and I can't shake the feeling it's about to fall.

"Anyway, I need to talk to you about something else," I venture, steering us toward the topic I dread to bring up. I don't like being in anyone's debt. Not even my family's. "It's about money. I need two million dollars, Uncle."

Maurice barks out a laugh. "You owe a mad Russian for the confiscated guns and you come to me?" He punches up his thick brow and stares at me, and I feel like a speck of dust under his gaze. It's not quite as scary as Jacob's pinning glare, but the genes apparently speak for themselves—my stomach still twists.

"I'll pay back every penny," I insist.

"I'm sure you have the best intentions but this will be a no."

"Georgie spent the majority of the club's money while I was gone. It's only fair I get some help since he's your protégé."

"Isaac, Isaac." Maurice shakes his head, feigning disappointment. "You made your bed without the family. I never explicitly told you to make deals with the new players in town. On the contrary. Now you have to find the cash on your own."

Heat rushes to my face, anger boiling beneath the surface like a volcano ready to erupt. Yet, I swallow the fire, keep my expression stone. "Understood," I say, but the single word is a tombstone on the grave of my hopes. "Uncle."

Silence descends.

"Anything else?" Maurice's voice cuts through the air, indifferent as if we're discussing the weather, not my life unraveling.

I grind my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, needing to push this fury that's on the surface down. I can't lose face in front of him. My reputation is all I have now.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. There's, Uncle," I grit out. "Recognition… I need you to acknowledge what I'm capable of. Not privately."

"Why should I do that?"

"Maybe because while I was away, Georgie—the fat, dumb pig—started redecorating Purgatory. My club. On my dime. And you know the consequences of that. You know what that money was for."

"Georgie has just as much right to look after the club when you're gone as I do."

"We both know he's unfit to make the right business decisions. Decisions that benefit the entire family, not just his oversized ego."

Maurice chuckles, a sound that grates against my fraying nerves. "Oh, Isaac. Striving so hard to be something you're not. Remember you're no Thoreau, not the real deal. You've always been our errand boy. Always will be. If Georgie made a mistake during your absence, I'm sure you'll fix it. That's why I allow you to live."

"Fuck you, Uncle," I hiss, but it's like spitting into the wind.

"Careful," he says, his tone suddenly cold. "Push too far and I might just forget to keep you and your dirty little secret."

I stand, paralyzed for a fraction of a heartbeat. The threat is real. Without a word, I turn on my heel and leave. His chuckle follows me out, mocking, cruel.

The windy evening slams into me as I step outside, but it's nothing compared to the ice in my veins. I think of Dallas then, his offer to vanish, and a bitter regret curdles in my gut. I should've disappeared when I had the chance.

Later that evening, when darkness sinks her teeth into the city, I find myself perched at the upstairs bar of Purgatory, a glass of whiskey my only company. The amber liquid washes down my throat easier with each sip until I'm intoxicated enough not to notice its burn anymore.

Ricky's form sidles up, all concern and furrowed brows. "Boss, you good?"

"Fuck off, man," I mutter, my voice mixing with the pounding of the music.

He retreats with a grunt, and I return to my drink and my brooding.

Seven is next, his approach more cautious, less obtrusive. "Blade?"

"Ricky put you up to this?" I ask, the words slurred.

"You don't look so good, boss."

"I deserve a night off, don't I?"

"Want me to take you to your place or wanna crash upstairs?"

I know their concern comes from the place of care. I understand this with the part of my brain that still somewhat functions, but alcohol has put its dangerous spell on me, a spell of anger and resentment. That's why I'm being a dick.

"Don't you have a fucking job to do, Seven?" I blurt out, not really looking at him but squinting at the crowd swaying throughout the club.

"You're drunk, boss. Not a good look."

"I'll be fine," I mouth at him, the words slurred, as I give him a sloppy pat on the back.

"Okay. Whatever you say. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He fades back into the sea of people, another shadow among many.

But a sense of unease lingers within me, as if someone is watching my every move. I take a moment to close my eyes and let the whiskey consume my thoughts.

Then I stumble toward the bar to get another glass. The bartender tries to intervene, probably on the orders of Ricky or Seven. What an asshole. All of them .

I don't do this often. Mostly never. But I have to pull the boss card.

"Pour," I bark at the guy. "Or you'll be out of a job."

Shaking his head, he complies.

I grab the glass and weave through the crowd until I find a quiet spot by the railing. From there I resume my favorite activity—observing my domain. The one Georgie thought he could get his hands on while I was away.

I'm pissed more and more as the liquor winds its way through my system. But even as my vision blurs to the point of blindness, my mind won't shut up, won't stop replaying Maurice's disdain, the threat.

I realize that I'm trapped in a web of my own making.

The music pounds, a heartbeat discordant with my own. Lights flash, strobe-like, mimicking the chaos in my skull. My fingers grip the glass, knuckles white, the only anchor in this storm.

How the fuck do I get out of this hole?

How do I make sure neither Solovey nor Toro touch my family?

"Isaac," says a voice, deep and resonant, cutting through the noise. A voice I'd recognize anywhere and in any condition. A hand lands on my shoulder, gentle and familiar. I don't have to look up to know it's Dallas, and his presence is a fire I both crave and resent.

My world tilts on an axis lubricated by too much whiskey. Then a glass shatters somewhere below, the sound a jagged crack in the night's canvas. Neon lights smear across my vision like paint on a drunk artist's palette when I look at my hand where my drink was. It's no longer there.

"Isaac," he says again. Fucking Agent Bradley. Standing there with those piercing blue eyes that see too damn much.

"Looks like you're having one hell of a night," he observes, his tone careful, the words hovering between us like smoke.

"Fuck off, won't you?" I grit out, my limbs suddenly heavy.

"Celebrating something?"

"Do I look like I'm celebrating something?" I scoff, the letters blending into a sloppy jumble. "Do I look like someone who's got all his shit together?"

"Never said that," Dallas replies, the lines of his body all casual grace and hidden strength against the backdrop of Purgatory.

"Then why ask a dumb question?" My chuckle is a hollow echo, bitterness etched deep into every syllable.

"Because sometimes people need to hear themselves say it," he counters, watching me with an intensity that feels like it could burn holes straight through my defenses. Or whatever is left of them anyway.

"Say what? That Maurice is a manipulative bastard? That I'm spiraling down a fucking abyss with no bottom in sight?" Immediately I'm swaying like a ship in rough waters. "Or maybe that I'm sick of being everyone's pawn?"

Dallas doesn't flinch. "You could start with the fact that you're not okay."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," I snarl, slamming my palm against his chest so hard my vision jolts. Apparently, he's made of rock because he hardly reacts. Or moves.

"Isaac, talk to me," he insists. Something in his voice chips at the ice encasing my fury.

"What's the point? The great Isaac Thoreau, errand boy extraordinaire, couldn't even get a dime from dear Uncle Maurice for all the shit he's done for the old fart." I spit the words out like vomit, my throat burning with more than just alcohol.

"Then fuck Maurice," Dallas says sharply, surprising me.

"And what do you suggest I do, huh? Rob a bank?" The laugh that follows is a ghost, haunting the spaces between us. "We don't live in the nineties action movies, Agent Bradley."

"You should probably keep it down. I'm still undercover."

"Right. I forgot. Doesn't take away the fact I'm short at least two mil. And I still need to make it good with Toro. How do you suppose I do that?" The room begins to spin in earnest.

"Maybe you let someone help you." There's a glint in his gaze that looks dangerously close to mischief. Or madness.

"Is that someone you?" I snort out a laugh. I can taste the irony, metallic and thick on my tongue.

"Isaac." Dallas steps closer, eliminating the space between us altogether, and his hand grazes mine—electric, unwanted, yet undeniably comforting. "You're drunk. Let me take you home."

"Home," I repeat, the word foreign and shapeless in my mouth. But there's a pull in my chest, a yearning for solace, even if it's found in the arms of the man who should be my enemy.

"Come on," he urges gently, wrapping an arm around my waist as I stumble.

"Fine," I concede, surrendering and letting Dallas guide me through the maze of bodies and out into the chill of the desert night.

I can't fight it. I tried. I failed again, knowing who he is, knowing what he stands for.