12. Isaac

CHAPTER 12

ISAAC

Sunlight pours through the windows like a harsh reminder of the night's sins. I peel my eyes open and stare at my surroundings. The headache is pulsing inside my skull. The room spins as I sit up, shards of memories piercing the fog of a hangover. Slacks wrinkled, shirt clinging to my skin, I note my shoes, too damn neat at the foot of the bed—someone took care of me. Because I simply couldn't have done that.

Jacob's name echoes in my head, a ghostly whisper that spikes my terror. Dallas knows something , the quick thought claws at my insides. I told him things. I don't remember what exactly, but I remember him bringing me here. I remember his smell and the feel of his hard, warm body.

Fuck.

I shudder, pushing back the pillows, standing on shaky legs that feel more like theory than working bone and muscle. The secret squirms within, dark and venomous—he can't know, no one can. Jacob's revolting touch—though he's been dead for years—still brands me. Still haunts my dreams.

I shuffle to the door, steadying myself against the frame. A clatter from beyond it draws me forward. My hand is on the knob before I realize I'm moving, turning it, the scent of something cooking reaching out, wrapping around me.

What the actual fuck?

The living room blurs into focus, and there he is—Hawk, or Cody—No, Dallas. He's at my stove, working a pan with ease, his back to me, sleeves of his shirt rolled up. Sunlight catches the ink etched into his skin, stories in black that trail down lean, muscled arms. His hair falls like a raven's wing across broad shoulders. It's grown longer.

"Morning," he says without turning, his voice a rough draft of the night before.

"What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?" The question grates, raw and bewildered.

"Making breakfast." He stirs something in the pan—a casual display of domesticity that has no place here. Not in my wretched life.

"Didn't take you for a cook," I manage.

"Well, I'm full of surprises," he replies, a hint of humor threading through the words as if we're normal, as if my own existence isn't a tapestry of threats and blood oaths. "Scrambled okay?"

"Ah… sure… Where did the food come from, anyway?" I distinctly remember that I didn't have the eggs or the bacon. I don't cook. I eat at the club or out.

"Fridge was as empty as a church on Tuesday. Got some basic groceries delivered while you were sleeping," he supplies matter-of-factly. Then he plates the food with practiced ease and sets them on the breakfast nook. It's an offering, a peace treaty laid out in scrambled eggs and bacon.

My stomach churns, not just from the alcohol but from the realization that he's peeled back another layer of me. I want to ask him about last night, about the things he might have heard. Did I tell him my secret? Does he know what Jacob did? Or was it only a dream? Was I talking to an imaginary friend?

"Thanks," I say instead, because my mother—may she rest in peace—didn't raise a complete monster, because even in this twisted world, manners are important.

"Anytime."

I sit. The fork feels foreign in my hand as I spear a piece of bacon, the silence wrapping around us like a cloud while he sips coffee and taps away on his phone.

I'm halfway through my plate when the ringtone of my own phone cuts through the stillness. The sound comes from the bedroom. I rise, the chair scraping against the floor, and stride toward the sound.

The digital display mocks me with its anonymity—unknown number.

But I'm already guessing who it may be. Been in this game way too long. Know how it's played.

"Yes," I answer.

"Cabrón, where are my guns?" Toro's voice is dark and foreboding.

"I'm working on it," I say, each word measured, careful not to trigger his patience.

"I don't care that you're working on it, Isaac. We had a deal and you're not keeping up your part of that deal."

"I'll get your guns. Two weeks," I say, unsure if I will. I need to close the debt with the Russians first.

"Are you fucking with me, cabrón?" he grits out. "Because if you do, you and I can't be friends anymore."

"I'm not fucking with you, man. I've got ATF on my tail." The lie just rolls off my tongue. "And word on the street it's all because of you. I've never had problems with the law. Ever. This heat after me is on you." I need to scare the fucker even if Solovey is the target. Buy me some time.

"Are you saying it's my fault you got busted, pendejo?"

"I'm saying you need to watch your back. Two weeks. Can't risk getting caught again. And we need a new meeting spot. Think about it while I'm getting your guns."

"órale, cabrón. I'll trust you this once."

"And I appreciate it."

The line goes dead. I stand there, the phone's silence suddenly deafening, the weight of the ultimatum settling on my shoulders like the first clods of dirt on a coffin.

Returning to the living room, I see Dallas waiting, his expression unreadable. He doesn't ask, but his eyes—they're question marks, demanding answers I'm not sure I have.

"Toro wants his guns," I finally tell him. "We have two weeks."

Dallas sets down his coffee cup with a soft clink. "What do you want to do?"

"I need to clear the debt with the Russians first and then buy Toro his shipment." It feels like I'm confessing.

"In other words, you need double of what you owe the Russians?"

"I have some but it's not nearly enough. I think by now the entire Vegas knows Georgie appropriated some of those funds."

"Can you ask him to return it?"

That makes me laugh. "What Georgie touches turns to shit."

"Maybe there's something I can do to help," Dallas offers meekly, his face all hard lines and hidden thoughts as he approaches.

I laugh some more but this time the sound is hollow in the tension-filled room. "Yeah? What are we going to do, rob a bank the old-fashioned way?" The bitterness stings my tongue.

"Maybe not a bank—" Dallas begins.

I cut him off, "Or sell Purgatory, which isn't even mine to sell."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't." I shove a finger at his chest. "Don't you fucking feel pity."

"Just trying to see what I can do."

"You can get me off the hook with the Feds to begin with."

"You know I can't do that," he whispers, voice shaky.

God, I hate his guts. Hate him for dragging me into the middle of this mess.

But as I look at him, something shifts inside me. In his eyes, there's a flicker of...something. It's not really pity. Dallas doesn't do pity, I realize. It's anger.

"Let me look into it on my end," he says simply without any explanation, and I can tell he means every word.

And that's when it hits me. I've let him in again, let him see the fears I keep buried.

"Thanks," I manage to mutter, although gratitude is a foreign language on my lips. It's just a reflex.

He nods.

Fuck. Why can't I let him go? I made a mistake, trusting this man again, allowing him back into my life, into my heart. Or maybe, he never left my heart to begin with. Maybe he's been living there rent-free since the moment we met.