15. Isaac

CHAPTER 15

ISAAC

"I'm not running a charity here," I tell Seven when we're in my office. I'm seated behind the table, my notes spread out in front of me. Lists of people who received favors and need to pay back now. "If they've got green to blow at Purgatory, then they've got dough to clear their tabs."

"I'll put the squeeze on 'em. Not gonna let anyone stiff you," Seven replies.

"Make sure they understand. You don't pay, you're spitting in my face. And I don't take kindly to disrespect." I don't like to be an ass, but a lot of people in this city owe me and it's time they pay those debts.

"Word is bond, boss. They'll get that message loud and clear." Seven's dark eyes flash with an understanding that's bred from life on these unforgiving streets.

Before I can respond, the door bursts open. Jeremy stands there, chest heaving, his scar a jagged line cutting across his face like a trail in the wilderness. "We need to talk, Isaac. Now."

"Give us a sec, Seven," I say, my voice steady despite the drumbeat of unease starting to pound in my chest. I can't lose my cool now.

Seven nods once, sharp and precise, then exits the office.

Jeremy wastes no time. As soon as the door shuts, he goes for a kill, his voice is a low hiss, "Hawk's a fucking FED, Isaac…"

The words hit me like a stray bullet—sudden, shocking, uninvited. My mouth dries up, but my face remains impassive, a mask carved from the darkest and strongest marble.

Is Jeremy playing a hunch, or has he heard me and Dallas talking?

"Where's this coming from, J?" I ask carefully after a long pause, rising from my chair. I keep my tone level, betraying none of the mayhem that's starting to churn inside me.

"Did you fucking hear me?" Jeremy growls, stepping closer as I round the table. "Hawk. Is. A. Fucking. FED."

I'm silent, staring him right in the eyes, trying to understand if he really knows and if he does, how he found out.

"Blade?" Jeremy whispers, edging closer. The distance between us shrinks to several inches and I can sense his anger, his paranoia, his fear. It's a horrible combination for someone with an explosive personality like J's.

"Why would you think that?" I finally manage to ask as I shove both hands in the pockets of my slacks. I'm a glacier of composure on the surface while my insides start to quake.

"Enzo tipped me off. Said the Italians know." He fishes out his phone, thumbs over the screen with a trembling urgency, then shoves it at me. It's an ID—Dallas's face stares back, but the name reads something else, Issued in the State of Colorado.

A chill scythes through me, leaching the warmth from my skin. I know it's expected—to see him like this. Looking back at me from a phone screen as a complete stranger, but my heart thrashes against my ribs anyway.

"We both know Italians have friends in high places. They got blue bloods in their pockets." Jeremy's eyes are like flints sparking anger. "They ran a deep check on that motherfucker after one of the guys saw the footage of him putting down their guard at that storage place you had him go."

I always have an answer when someone throws shit in my face.

But I don't have one right now.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" Jeremy growls. "Let's end the motherfucker."

"No." The command rolls off my tongue before I realize what I'm saying. "I need him for now."

He starts pacing, every muscle taut with fury. "You need him? For what?"

"I just do, J."

He stops and looks at me, our gazes engaged in a silent battle of wills and then Jeremy's face contorts, rage and betrayal twisting his features. "You knew, didn't you?"

Then he's on me, hands grabbing my collar, slamming me against the wall. The world tilts, a dizzying rush of plaster and paint. His breath is hot against my face. "You're a fucking traitor, Isaac! You knew that pig was law and you sat on it!"

I've never been manhandled by Jeremy before, but right now, his grip is iron, his anger a force that eclipses my own shock. I feel the sting of his accusation, the bite of truth laced with venom. I feel it, yet I don't want to do anything about it. In a way, I deserve this.

"Jeremy, I repeat—I need him." I try to anchor myself in the present.

"Need him for what, Blade? Need him for what?"

To keep me sane. To remind me I'm not completely bad. To remind me I'm still human. "Since when do I need to explain myself to you?" I push the words through clenched teeth.

"So, it's like that now, huh?" He holds my gaze before his grip loosens and he steps back, leaving a ghost of constriction around my throat. I rub it, right there, where the scar that almost killed me if not for Jeremy marks my skin.

"Control the narrative, J. Or it controls us," I supply but it's a little too late. My explanation doesn't have the desired effect. Anger boils behind Jeremy's eyes as he runs both palms over his short hair.

"And keep it to yourself," I grit out an order. "That's my only play against the Feds." The lie comes so easy and I wonder if it was the same for Dallas—lying to me all those months. Lying to me when we were together, when he kissed me, when he took my cock in his hands.

For a moment, Jeremy looks like he might do something we'll both regret. But the fury subsides, fades into the hard lines of his face, and he releases a loud angry sigh.

I straighten up my shirt and attempt to shake off the feeling of his fingers imprinted on my skin.

"Fuck, Isaac... you're playing with fire," he mutters, stepping away from me some more, giving me just enough space to breathe but not enough to forget the weight of his distrust.

"Fire's the least of our worries right now." I'm conflicted between loyalty to my crew and my own desires. The memory of Hawk's—no Dallas's—touch scorches through the chaos in my mind, igniting something in me. A longing that I despise myself for harboring. I remember it vividly now—the drunken kiss the night he drove me to my condo, the night I told him things. His lips… they felt the same. His name was different but the electrical current that rushed through my body when I pressed my lips to his was still strong and fucking mind-blowing.

"Remember who you are, Blade, and what we stand for," Jeremy says a warning. "If you're going to give this motherfucker a pass, hoping to fool the Feds, you're not as smart as I thought you were."

"I need you to trust me," I reply, knowing full well that trust is just another word for betrayal waiting to happen. "Hawk's untouchable unless I say otherwise."

Jeremy nods once, sharply, and without another word, he turns and leaves me alone in the room where the walls feel too close and my thoughts feel too loud.

On the rooftop of Crown Tower, the night sprawls out before me in the shape of neon dreams and vices hidden somewhere beyond glass and concrete.

I take a drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke spiral around me like a fleeting caress. The city buzzes—alive and indifferent to the war raging inside my head.

The time ticks by. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. And soon Solovey's bruisers will come to collect and I'm nowhere near where I need to be.

The nicotine hits, but it's no match for the storm under my skin. Each inhale is an attempt to draw calm from the ember's glow, each exhale a release of more than just smoke—a silent scream into the void.

Dallas stands beside me, his presence a force, pushing and pulling at the edges of my self-awareness. He watches the city too and I'm curious if he thinks of it as I am or if his brain is wired differently. From the corner of my eye, I can spy his perfect profile drawn like a promise against the skyline. There's silence between us, as always heavy and charged. We're two men caught in a web of lies and half-truths. Two men bound by something that feels a lot like a common goal.

Frankly, I don't know why I wanted him here or why I texted, why I asked him to come up. The more time we spend together, the weaker I am. And now that Jeremy knows who he is, we have to be twice as careful what we say and where we say it.

"I need more money," I say, my voice a raw whisper lost in the expanse of the city below us. "The Bureau can shuffle papers, tap wires, but can it make cash appear? I'm short, Dallas. The debt's not going away and there's not enough to cover it, let alone front for another shipment for Toro."

Dallas turns to me, his gaze pauses on my cigarette for a moment and then shifts to my face. "We can protect you, but...what you're asking isn't a favor. We need something in exchange."

"Like?" I press, feeling the weight of every second ticking by. A couple more days and I'm going to be just another dead body in the desert. People like Solovey don't mess around, don't give out forgiveness.

"The Bureau needs Solovey caught red-handed. In the act. You need to ensure he shows up at the exchange. It's the only way the Bureau will play. If we catch his associate only, you know those guys don't crack."

"Solovey's a ghost, Dallas," I counter, frustration boiling over. "You're asking me to lasso smoke. Now that the entire Vegas knows your buddies are onto me, he'll never stick his neck out."

"Try, Isaac," he urges, blue eyes piercing through the darkness. "Because if this falls apart, everything we've done is wasted. And you..." His jaw tightens. "You'll end up behind bars."

"Right, prison." I scoff, crushing the cigarette under my boot, the ember winking out like a distant star. "I'd rather kiss the Reaper than get caged again."

Without another word, I turn my back on Dallas and walk away, leaving him—and the fragile illusion of salvation—behind on the rooftop of Crown Tower.