18. Isaac

CHAPTER 18

ISAAC

The air in the upstairs VIP room of Purgatory feels like a thick curtain of tension, almost tangible, suffocating. It's an intimately lit cocoon of deep red velvet and leather, hidden from the immediate pulse of the club outside these walls where neon lights will dance on eager faces in less than an hour. But right now, this room is for shadowed dealings and power plays.

Ten minutes ago Shtyk materialized at the downstairs bar. Currently, his crew is fanned out behind him, silent, hands locked together, eyes on me and my own crew. My men almost mirror the formation, like an unspoken choreography of the underworld.

Dallas lurks in the peripheral haze, trying not to draw attention to himself.

Jeremy throws him another side-eye, sharp enough to slice through the fog of cigarette smoke and suspicion inside the room. But his lips are sealed. Even amidst distrust, the code of silence reigns supreme.

"Mr. Blade," Shtyk greets me, his tone mocking. He doesn't wait for an invitation, claiming a seat across from me.

I slide the duffel bag across the table, trying very hard to hide my disappointment that my request I sent yesterday to speak to Solovey in person isn't satisfied. Instead, I'm meeting up with his bruiser again.

The bag's contents are well known to all of us. Shtyk unzips it with deliberation, fingers digging into stacks of bills, inspecting. He motions to two of his men and they get to counting. Each flip of paper cuts through the silence like a hot knife through butter.

I wait, my chest tight. I know Shtyk's not going to like what he eventually discovers. But it is what it is for a reason. And that reason is to anger Solovey enough to lure him out. At least that's my hope. Because I couldn't come up with anything better.

Once the counting is done, Shtyk's man leans in, mutters something into Shtyk's ear—words meant only for him, yet somehow they echo louder than anything spoken aloud.

"You're light." Shtyk's eyes lock onto mine, void of emotion. "One hundred thousand."

My heartbeat doesn't falter, but the walls seem to lean in closer. "I need another week," I say, the words steady despite the quicksand beneath my feet. "And I need guns. Upfront, for the next shipment."

His gaze is oppressive, a physical force pressing down on me, testing, threatening to crush. "You're asking for more when you can't even settle your tab?" Shtyk grins savagely, his tooth glinting under the dim light. "You've got balls, Blade. I'll give you that."

"Let's not make this complicated," I counter. Every muscle stiffens, ready, though my exterior remains composed. "Business is business. You know how it works."

Laughter spills from Shtyk like oil over water—slick and dark. His hulking figure leans back, the leather of the chair groaning under the mass of his body. He shakes his head. "Isaac," he says, my name a low, nasty growl from his lips, "you want guns? You can't even pay for bullets."

"I'm good for it."

"No, you're not. You're short right now."

The Russian beside him, a wiry snake of a man, with bulking arms steps forward. Ricky moves to stand in front of him.

"Maybe you need a reminder, da?" the Russian mutters, voice deceptively soft.

Everything happens too fast. Bodies move inside the room. Weapons flicker. Next thing I know, Ricky's pinned down to the floor by two Russians, his hand clamped to the table. A blade glints—almost like a sliver of moonlight in a starless night—as the Snake Man traces a circle around Ricky's finger.

"Let my man go," I say, my voice loud, filling every little crevice of this space. "He has nothing to do with this."

Shtyk continues to smile, the madness in his eyes evident. "I'll have the rest of your money. I need one week to collect what I owe you and another week to collect a payment for the next shipment."

"Promises, promises." Shtyk leans forward, he's holding his gun out in the open now. For him, it's not a weapon, it's a toy. "Little Isaac, always playing grown-up games."

His words are blades and I'm bleeding internally, rage boiling beneath my skin. But I've learned to wear my poker face—not just for cards, but for life.

"I'd like to get back on track with our business arrangement," I state. "I think your boss would be more agreeable. I'd like to talk to him directly."

"Your confidence is amusing," Shtyk chuckles, "but your operation is shit."

I swallow the acid rising in my throat, my mind racing for solutions in this game where the board is rigged against me. Ricky's hand is released and he stumbles back. Seven is there to hold him up. Hector and Ocho are like shadows with their Glocks out and ready to strike. But bloodshed is the last thing I want in my club. Or in general.

"You think we're duraki? Idiots?" Shtyk barks out, waving his gun at no one in particular. His accent thickens as he raises his voice. "FEDs are sniffing around you like hungry dogs. You think Yuri would risk his neck to meet up with some boy? From now on, you talk to me, Blade."

My jaw tightens, but I push on, "My deal was with Solovey. Not you."

"You're crazy." Shtyk rises up, grabbing the bag. "This is not charity. This is business. You come up short, you pay in flesh. Two days." The finality in his voice chills the air, colder than the steel of a gun barrel pressed against warm skin. "Get me the rest of my money, or your men will pay. And it won't be just a finger."

And with that, Shtyk exits, leaving a trail of dread in his wake.

The door slams behind the three of us, a thunderclap in the quiet of my office. The whiskey bottle feels alive in my grip as I unscrew the cap and tip it back. Fire slides down my throat, but it doesn't touch the ice in my veins.

"Isaac, man, what the hell happened?" Jeremy's voice is a distant echo, filled with both confusion and concern.

I glare at him through the haze of fury and booze. "Money's gone," I spit out.

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"It's all gone down the drain." I shake my head.

"What's going on, boss?" Jeremy's gaze bounces between me and Dallas, who is standing in the corner, trying to blend with the darkness as if needing to be invisible.

"The money." I point a shaking finger at Dallas. "His money."

Jeremy's eyes continue to flicker between us, lost in the crossfire of this revelation.

"You got the money?" he asks Dallas.

Dallas is silent, ignoring the question.

"I thought we covered it all," Jeremy shouts. "We collected, boss. What the fuck do you mean by ‘his money?' What the fuck do you mean?"

"Leave." My word slices through the room, commanding solitude. "Both of you, fucking leave me alone." I top my request off with another swig from the bottle.

Jeremy hesitates, staring at me like it's the first time he's seeing me this pissed off. "The fuck with you two!" he mutters and rushes out of the office.

"Get out," I snarl at Dallas, who remains, an immovable force in his spot. The whiskey burns a trail through my insides, a path to nowhere. My head is starting to get all fuzzy. The alcohol is working through me, finally. It helps that I'm not much of a drinker and can't remember the last time I ate.

Dallas just watches, eyes like shards of sky on a stormy day. I lunge, shoving him hard with one hand, a futile attempt to displace my own despair. He doesn't budge, doesn't even blink.

"Idiot," I seethe. "Giving me everything you had? What were you thinking?" I'm mad. I haven't been this mad since my high school days leading up to my father's untimely end. Things didn't go as planned and the clock on both sides is ticking.

Dallas's voice is steady, a counterpoint to my ragged tone. "It doesn't matter. We get Solovey, and we're square. Everything will be fine."

"Square?" The laugh that escapes me is bitter and ugly. "Nothing will be fine." I pause. "Didn't you hear what the Russian pig said? All of Vegas knows about the Feds. They all know I'm burnt."

Then he's close, too close, prying the bottle from my fingers. The absence of warmth from the glass leaves me colder, emptier.

I spring for the bottle, but Dallas anticipates the move, his reflexes rooted deep into his military past working. We grapple. Our struggle is wordless save for the harsh breaths in the air between us. His grabs at my wrist and something in me snaps.

"Let go," I hiss, but it's not the whiskey I'm fighting for—it's control, slipping through my fingers like sand in an hourglass of betrayal. Control of my entire fucking life.

Dallas's gaze is on mine, those blue eyes making my stomach lurch. "You need to stop, Isaac."

"Stop?" The concept feels foreign, drenched in irony. I laugh—a guttural sound—as I wrench the bottle back, but our tussle is less about the drink and more about the shit that happened between us. The secrets. The lies. The worst kind of backstabbing.

And then, our faces are inches apart, breaths suddenly hot, intimate. Without thought, without reason, our lips crash together in a collision that's both destruction and salvation. His mouth is firm against mine, insistence paired with something that feels like anguish. It's a kiss that speaks volumes, a language of raw need and forbidden connection.

For a moment, I forget who we are—enemies caught in a game where lives are the chips on the table. In this breathless space, there's only Dallas and the way he makes me feel alive in ways I never thought possible. His hands frame my face, a touch that should repel me, yet it anchors me. The man I hate has the ability to take me to the one place where I find peace amidst all this mess.

Our tongues meet in a relentless dance, fighting a battle neither one wants to really win.

The ringtone shatters the moment like glass under a boot heel. Reality rushes back, cruel and indifferent. I pull away, every muscle tense as I snatch up the phone from the desk.

"Isaac," a voice comes through. One of Maurice's assistants. "Uncle wants to see you."

"When?"

"Now."

"Fine." My reply is mechanical, empty.

"Everything okay?" Dallas asks when the call ends. The concern in his features is out of place somehow. He shouldn't care. Yet here he is, wanting to know how I'm doing.

"I have to see Maurice," I mutter, feeling dread.

Uncle doesn't like me. Doesn't invite me over often. We do our best to avoid each other. Him wanting to see me twice in one month is odd.

"Stay here," I rasp, slipping the phone into my pocket. The taste of him still lingers like a phantom on my lips. Tangy and sweet and all man with a hint of cinnamon. It's a strange combination.

"Like hell I will," Dallas replies.

I'm at the door already, my hand hovering over the knob, but his words stop me in my tracks. I glance back, and there's a fire in those piercing eyes, a determination that matches the chaos of my own heart.

"Listen to me, Isaac." He strides across the room, all purpose and power. "You're walking into the lion's den, and you think I'm just going to sit here twiddling my thumbs?"

"Your job—" I start, but he's right in front of me now, close enough to touch and it's messing with my mind.

"Fuck the job," he says. "This isn't about the job anymore."

My chest tightens. There's more at stake here than I want to admit, more than money or allegiances, more than the fragile thread of trust we've been tugging at since the beginning. It's terrifying, this need that swirls around us both, binding tighter with every shared breath.

"Fine," I concede. "But if things go south—"

"They won't," he interrupts, steady as a heartbeat. "Not with us together."

And maybe it's the adrenaline, or the remnants of our kiss, or the sheer impossibility of everything that's led us here, but I believe him. In the face of the impending apocalypse, in the shadow of this empire I've built crumbling around us, I believe in the 'us' that's somehow emerged from the wreckage.

"Let's go then," I say, my resignation laced with something that feels dangerously like hope.

"Let's do it." He nods with a poker face. "I just need to make sure I'm armed."

"That's not going to be a problem."