21. Isaac

CHAPTER 21

ISAAC

Despite the fall already here, the sun sears the desert without mercy, turning the horizon into a shimmering mirage, as if the earth itself is sweating out its sins. The ghost town looms, a few skeletal structures of ambition long abandoned, eroded by time and neglect. Dallas and I stand outside one of these relics, a half-built monument to failure, our shadows pooling at our feet like dark omens.

"Think Vlad's got an ace up his sleeve?" Dallas asks, voice edged with the kind of tension that makes the hot air feel even hotter.

I take a drag from my cigarette—my third one—and let the nicotine work its way through my lungs first before answering. "Not sure." I flick ash to the ground. "But whatever it is, it can't be good." My lips twist bitterly. "It never is when it comes to sons and fathers not getting along. And I can tell something's going on between Yuri and Vlad. Otherwise, Vlad wouldn't have asked for a private meeting."

Instantly, the images of Jacob resurface.

I push them down, into the furthest corner of my mind. For a second, I believed he was a chapter I'd slammed shut, but I guess some stories refuse to stay buried. No matter how hard you try to kill them. They cling to you, cling to your scars.

A speck appears in the distance, growing into an all-black Navigator, rolling toward us like a harbinger of something deadly. Dust billows behind it, spirals rise and furl on the road.

Dallas and I are wordless, absorbed in our waiting game. I wonder what he's thinking but I'm too nervous to ask, too nervous to say something that would push him away.

The vehicle edges closer, decelerating with an uncanny patience before coming to an absolute standstill. The doors swing open. Out steps Vlad. His silhouette is flanked by two muscle-bound watchdogs with shiny steel toys.

Despite the heat, Vlad is wearing a suit and a tie. His hair is slicked back. The man keeps it classy. If the circumstances were different, I could have appreciated his need to always look sharp like he just walked off the front page of GQ. But with things what they are, his sense of fashion doesn't matter to me.

"Isaac," he greets, his face reveals nothing as he extends a hand for a shake while his eyes roam my face.

"Vlad," I reply, holding his gaze.

The man's handshake is firm and feels eerily like slipping your head voluntarily through a hangman's noose.

He's polite. He greets Dallas next with the same courtesy. I have to give these Russians some credit. They have manners. Never mind these manners are sometimes death disguised as customary decorum.

"Why the cloak and dagger? Your father know you're here?" I ask.

"Let's just say this conversation requires discretion," he replies, cryptic as always, eyes scanning the desolation around us.

This only confirms my suspicion. Solovey Senior and Solovey Junior aren't on the same page.

"Discretion or desperation?" I push, tasting the pungent edge of doom on my tongue.

Without preamble, he lays his cards on the table. "I want you to kill my father for me."

My head begins to spin.

Did I hear him correctly?

I step closer, squinting past the mirage of heat haze, my pulse uneven. "Come again?"

"Yuri needs to disappear, permanently. And I'm asking you to make that happen." Vlad's gaze doesn't waver, but his eyes are two dark pits, endless and consuming, and I don't like this. Don't like that I can't read them, can't read him. "The money you still owe to him will be forgiven."

Laughter bubbles up my throat. "Bold move, for a mere hundred grand."

"Protection is part of the deal," he offers, his face a stone. "I know about your... predicament. Your uncle cast you out. You've got a target on your back, Blade. But your crew? Who will keep them safe from Maurice Thoreau and his wrath?"

Vlad's glance flickers to Dallas, who stands a silent guardian at my back.

Does he suspect?

Does he know who Dallas really is?

But I let the question remain unasked. "I can take care of myself," I lie smoothly, though doubt gnaws at me. I'm the exact opposite of what I'm claiming right now. Still, his offer is tempting. Protection for my boys is important to me. But Vlad and I have never done business. Trusting a man I don't know with my family is almost like suicide.

"I'm well aware you can but who'll take care of your men?"

It's like the motherfucker just read my mind, yanked my fears out of me with a mere trick of the mind. "Why me?" I pause, sizing him up. "I'm not a killer for hire."

"But you've done it before," Vlad supplies. "Thirty-three stab wounds and Jacob Thoreau is ancient history."

My insides curl at the mention of that night, the night I ended the piece of shit.

"Get one of your soldiers to do it for you," I throw out a suggestion. "Don't you have a private army?"

"If I could do it myself, I wouldn't be asking now, would I?" His lips tilt up a little, and a smirk that looks more like a predator's scowl appears on his face for a second. "I need an outsider. If it ever comes back to me, his fanatics will kill me and my little brother."

My heartbeat is drumming in my ears now, faster and faster.

"Is this what you're going to allow?" Vlad continues without waiting for my answer, his voice is a blade, cutting deep. "The old man's turned trafficking into an art form. Smuggling girls and boys past the border, turning them into prostitutes. All because he likes money and power too much. That's not my style. You want to keep your family safe. I can understand that. I want to keep my brother safe too."

My mind is racing. To extinguish a life isn't easy. I know it. I'm still seeing nightmares and in those nightmares, I'm choking on Jacob's blood. Even if this was the only way to survive, it haunts me—that kill. To end a life again, a life that has sown seeds of misery and watered them with tears and blood isn't something I want, but if Vlad is true to his word…

"Fine," I concede, the decision like a brick tied to my neck right before I'm dumped into the ocean. "And if I'm not in the picture after the deed is done, will you keep your word? Will you protect my people, the club?"

"You have my word, Blade." His response is ironclad, a promise forged in the fires of hell itself.

We shake on it, our hands clasped in a covenant that seals our fates, binding us together in this desolate theatre of despair.

Embers crackle in the hearth, their whispers blending with the scrape of metal on metal as Dallas methodically cleans his Glock over the kitchen counter. The main room of the cabin is steeped in a somber twilight. Trembling shadows stretch across the wooden floorboards and clutch at the bag of guns and ammo that lies before me, wide open.

"Hey," Dallas begins, without looking up from his task, "that bit about you not being in the picture while you were talking to Vlad—what was that?"

"I'm not sure yet," I admit, running my hand over the light stubble on my chin, feeling the roughness like sandpaper against my palm. "But I'm considering all exits."

"Like?" he probs, a detective in his own right. Sneaky motherfucker who's living rent-free in my mind.

"Like vanishing to Thailand with you." My voice doesn't waver, but there's a tremor deep inside me—a quake threatening to bring everything down. I hate this, the emotions this man wrings out of me. I hate feeling so much. But I love it too. I missed it, I realize, missed being human.

Dallas pauses his task and strides over to the couch where I'm sitting. When I look up, his blue eyes meet mine. "Are you serious?"

"Depends on what Jeremy says about the pulse back home." I lean back into the worn leather of the couch, the familiar scent of smoke and pine filling my nostrils. "After I end Solovey, there might be too much heat. Might be our only play… Leaving the country for good."

The burner phone buzzes, shattering the silence. Snatching it from the table, I answer with a curt, "Yeah."

Jeremy's voice filters through, steady and low. "Boss."

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"And Jessica?"

"She's alright."

"Did you go see Shonda and the kids?"

"I did."

"Flynn's family?"

"That too. They're good. Nervous but good."

"How's the club?"

"Club's solid," Jeremy's confirms. "Vlad's boys are keeping the peace. Keeping Georgie's guys away. But Maurice—he's been spinning tales. You're the rat now. Working for the Feds. You got haters all over Vegas."

"Old fuck." Should have killed him along with his brother.

"There's another rumor going around. That you stole from him."

"Son of a bitch," I mutter. Then, hesitating, I ask the question nibbling at my insides. "Anything on Hawk?"

There's a pause—a breath held, a heartbeat skipped—before Jeremy answers. "We both know that's not his real name."

"Doesn't matter," I snap back, sharper than intended. "What's the word?"

"He there with you right now?" Jeremy's cautious, treading lightly.

"Yes," I reply, sparing a glance at Dallas, who is watching me intently, waiting.

"Fucker's face... it's everywhere. News is saying he went rogue," Jeremy finally drops the bomb. "They have a reward and all."

"Shit," is all I can manage.

"Be careful, Isaac," Jeremy says. "And you know what I mean. He lied to you once. He'll lie again." The line goes dead, leaving behind a void filled only by the crackling fire and the unspoken fears that linger in the air like smoke.

I pry the SIM card from its slot, snap it between my fingers like a twig in winter—its edges sharp against my skin. The phone meets the floor with a death rattle of plastic; my boot comes down, a final judge on its pitiful existence. As I bend to retrieve the corpse, Dallas is already there, leaning in to grab the pieces and give them a proper funeral in the flames.

For a moment, the room is filled with the stench of burning plastic.

"What did he say?" Dallas asks.

"The club's holding. Vlad's got it under control." I pause. "But… they've made you the fall guy. Your face is on every screen."

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, the words almost a prayer, a plea to a God we both know isn't listening.

I rise, bridging the gap separating us, my hands reaching for him, though touch is a language I'm still learning again. "Hey, hey… It's fine. We'll make it fine." I can't pinpoint why, but there's an urgency in me to soothe him, protect him. Is this what it's like when you care for someone?

"Will we?" His voice cracks, the sound splintering the stillness of the cabin, and in that moment, I know there's no turning back from the path I'm on. Be it toward freedom or death.

Even if he's lying to me again. I want this. I want to be Isaac, not Blade, one last time.

I bring my face to his and erase that useless bit of space between us. His scent hits me, soft and familiar, and impossible to ignore. My body reacts instantly—little fires spark everywhere, all over my skin. Our lips meet in a collision of desperation and fear. It's a kiss born of necessity rather than desire, fueled by an unstoppable burst of adrenaline. Suddenly, his hands are everywhere and we tumble onto the couch together. I straddle him, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. I find myself tearing at his jeans, seeking to release something far more profound than physical need. My own hands move with enthusiasm, freeing his cock, jerking him off.

The intensity of sex with him is a furious storm—a wild clashing of bodies and limbs, and fingers and lips—that seeks to drown out the reality awaiting us beyond these walls. And for a brief, fiery moment, we lose ourselves completely. We are nothing more than the sum of our carnal pleasures.

Later, when time still has no meaning, the ring of the phone cuts through the post-sex haze and brings me back to reality. It's Vlad, his voice cold and precise. "Yuri will be at Orion in two days. Only chance for a while if you are up for it, Blade."

"Okay," I rasp out, my throat still tender from all the cocksucking I did a little while ago. "Thanks for the tip."

"How do you say it here?" Vlad chuckles on the line. "Ditto."

"That's right."

"I'll reach out with more details soon."

The line clicks dead, and I'm left staring into the flames in the fireplace, their dance a mocking reminder that this domestic bliss doesn't truly exist outside this cabin.