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23. Isaac

CHAPTER 23

ISAAC

I stand face-to-face with Vlad in the back of Purgatory. There's definite tension between us. After all, I'm leaving my life in Vegas—my legacy—in his hands.

"Vlad, you've got people to keep this place safe, to keep it going," I say, my voice firm despite the storm of emotions inside me. "I trust you won't betray me when I've gone through with your ask."

Vlad nods, his gaze sharp and calculating, bouncing between me and Dallas who stands in the back, observing from a distance. I can feel his presence, can feel him here with me and it makes everything a little better, even if I'm giving up the one thing that's mine, the thing I built with my own hands and wits.

Prison taught me some tough lessons but mostly how to separate trash from gold, and I have this hunch about Solovey Junior. He's been waiting for this, an opportunity to prove himself beyond the shadow of his father's legacy. And I'm ready to help him grab that opportunity.

"I won't let you down, Isaac," Vlad assures me in his accented voice. "If you do what you promised, I'll do what I promised as well. I'll keep your people safe, keep the club and the operation thriving. Toro will be handled. Besides—" he pauses and glances around, "—I like it here. Vegas is fun." He tops it off with the toothy grin that appears like lightning in the sky and immediately disappears.

I tip my chin slowly, offering an answering smile. "Seems like we are in agreement." My heart clenches but I need to let go. Need to let go to survive.

"Then consider it done," Vlad declares, the finality in his tone echoing around us.

"Done it is," I supply, shaking his hand.

But even after we leave the building and head over to the warehouse, my chest aches, aches with guilt of secrets I'm tucking away like cards up my sleeve, hoping Dallas will forgive me for the hand I'm about to play.

The scene shifts like a sequence of rapid cuts in a film, moving through time until we're gathered in the Hellhounds' warehouse—a cathedral of steel where my boys count on me for direction. The air smells of oil and metal, a scent that's somehow become synonymous with home. And now I have to part with it. For good.

Seven's brow furrows as he steps forward, the overhead lights casting deep shadows under his eyes. "Boss, what's the deal? We noticing a lot more Russians at the club. That part of some new strategy?"

"When are you back, boss?" another voice asks from the back.

Hector juts his chin at Dallas, suspicion etched into every wrinkle of his face. "Got something to do with the Fed over there?"

A burst of panic spreads through me, but it fades away just as quickly while I glance at Jeremy with a silent question in my gaze.

Jeremy shrugs. "Don't look at me, boss?" he grunts out in disdain. "Special Agent Fucking Bradley is all over the news, considered armed and dangerous."

"Everyone watches the news. We know," Ocho adds. His eyes flicker with unease, a challenge awaiting my response.

But this meeting is not about Dallas. After tomorrow we won't matter anymore.

"The question is why you keeping this fool around, Blade?" Ricky snarls.

The weight of my silence settles around us, nearly tangible in the chilling air. I could tell them the truth, peel back the layers of deceit until the raw core of my connection with Dallas is laid bare. But instead, I choose a different path. Because we won't be here.

Our future has no place in this city. We're waves pulling away from an unforgiving shore.

No need to get into the nitty-gritty now that we don't have time.

"Let's just say we work well together," I reply, my words measured, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "But that's not why I wanted to meet."

I survey the faces of my boys, men who've become family, bound by blood spilled and shared. Their gazes are fixed on me, a collective breath held in anticipation. They await my next words, expecting orders, but I offer something else.

My chest tightens as I prepare to sever the ties that have been my lifeline for so long.

"Vlad will be taking over the club," I announce, each word deliberate, measured to mask the quake of my concealed emotions. "He'll keep things running, protect you from any Thoreau backlash or any of Georgie's goons." My voice nearly falters but I can't afford to waver, not now. "I'm stepping away."

Murmurs ripple through the warehouse, a sea stirred by the sudden revelation. I press on, my heart thrumming a painful rhythm against my ribs. "Your dedication... your loyalty—it's meant everything to me." The words thicken in my throat, my gratitude a tangible thing that threatens to undo the composure I've clung to stubbornly these past days.

"You're serious, boss?" a question hangs in the space in front of me, like a slap.

"You're high on Toro's product or something?"

"That's fucked up."

And I wish, I really wish I could stay, but all I can offer is a few drinks and a goodbye.

Once all is said and done, one by one, they begin to move, silhouettes dispersing into the night. Seven nods solemnly and strides out, his departure a silent salute. Hector follows, throwing a lingering look over his shoulder, his stoic face betraying nothing. Ricky hesitates, eyes searching mine, then turns on his heel and vanishes into the dusk.

Jeremy is the only one left in the warehouse.

"J," I call softly, pulling him aside before he can meld into the exodus of bodies.

"Fucking Blade." His voice is rough, laced with an emotion he rarely shows.

"Take Jessica. Get out of here. Keep her safe." My gaze locks onto his. "There's a little something waiting for you in the desert. You'll find it the day after tomorrow." I pass him the coordinates discreetly. That's half the money I had in the cabin. Money for me to disappear, but Jeremy and his sister need it just as much. They need to disappear too before she's caught in the crossfire again.

"You made up your mind?" Jeremy grumbles, his gaze shooting to Dallas standing off to the side, waiting for me. "Leaving with the Fed?"

I nod, a silent admission. Because my throat is tight. Producing sounds seems like a chore. "I trust Dallas," I finally rasp out.

"Are you sure he won't give you up, Blade?" Jeremy's voice drops to a low whisper meant for me only. His expression shifts, something visceral entering his gaze. "He's the fucking law, boss. What if he's still undercover and whatever they say on TV is bullshit, a play to lure us out, once and for all? Now that they got Flynn…" He doesn't finish his sentence, just rubs his palm over his scar, eyes lost, filled with pain.

"They're gonna get Flynn out. He won't do any jail time."

"Still… Are you sure leaving with him is the smart move?"

The warehouse holds its breath, time suspended in the space of our shared silence. Finally, I break it with the truth I've kept caged within me. "He's the only one who makes me feel things—good things, J. And I can't... I won't lose that again. I need him. Like fucking water."

Jeremy shuffles forward, his embrace engulfing me. "Good luck, Isaac."

"Thank you," I whisper, releasing him with reluctance, watching as he departs—the final act of a play written in blood and bound by brotherhood.

I never thought that this would be the end of Blade and his Hellhounds. Yet here it is. Life is a funny thing after all. It doesn't give you what you want. It gives you what you need sometimes before you ever realize it, just like it gave me the man with blue eyes.

The elevator hums—a mechanical lullaby as it ascends through the spine of Eclipse, carrying me to the top floors of the hotel. I have one last errand to run here in this building. I'm shrouded in the anonymity of a baseball cap's shadow, wearing denim, a dark T-shirt stretching across my shoulders. The mirror wall inside the elevator reflects a stranger when I glance at it. I don't care to know him but I study him for a heartbeat anyway. His eyes are mine, but they're different. They are not filled with void, they are filled with feelings.

Isaac Thoreau wouldn't be caught dead in that outfit. He has a reputation for his impeccable fashion sense. A pair of worn jeans and a tee. He looks like a tourist, like millions of others on the Strip. He blends in well.

The ding of the elevator slices through my reverie. Carefully checking the hallway for any suspicious activity, I step onto the thick carpet. My footfalls are muffled, barely there as I walk past the multitude of doors toward the one that waits at the end like a question I'm not sure I want answered. My knuckles rap against it, a staccato beat in the dead silence of the notorious top floor of Thoreau's Crown Tower.

Seconds later, a voice calls from the inside, "Who is it?"

"Isaac."

The door swings open and my gaze lands on Marina. She's dressed in a pair of running shoes, leggings, and a hoodie that seems like it's two sizes too big for her small body. She's a ghostly slip of a girl, even now that she's gained some weight and got some color in her cheeks. But in this moment, her eyes are wide, rimmed with the residue of fear.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice more gentle than I intend it to be. Maybe Isaac Thoreau's heart is finally thawing. I don't know. I don't have the time to psychoanalyze myself. I can do it in Thailand. If we get there in one piece.

Marina nods, the movement jerky as she grabs her gym bag from the bed. The seams strain against the contents—her life compressed into fabric and zippers.

"Leave the key card here," I instruct, pointing to the table.

She complies.

Our steps are a cautious choreography. Each corner turned, every shadow scrutinized, I am hyperaware of the world we navigate—a landscape littered with potential threats. Even if Vlad keeps his word, letting Marina stay here is risky. If Shtyk finds her, everything I've done for her—everything she's endured thus far—will be in vain.

"Is it true Vlad Solovey is taking over your club?" Marina asks in the elevator.

"Yes."

She says nothing.

"You've heard of him?"

She purses her lips first, as though she doesn't want to share what's on her mind, then finally blurts out, "Everyone's heard of him."

"How so?"

"They say he's nothing like his father."

"You know who his father is?"

" Gandon ebanyi ," she mutters to herself.

I don't recognize the words. "What does that mean?"

Marina scoffs. "It means he's a fucked up piece of shit. I hope he dies. He had done so much shit to people back in Russia. Still, they never put him to prison." Her accent intensifies as she starts getting emotional and I choose not to tell her that Shtyk works for Solovey. She won't be here, won't be on the display while Vlad is holding the fort and warding off his father's dogs. Scaring her won't do her any good.

The elevator dings, announcing our arrival to the ground floor. I step out first and see Ocho's face further down. He's in his suit on his shift, circling the corridor leading to the front of the building where the club is, cutting off all access. We exchange small nods and I gesture for Marina to follow me outside. At the entrance, Marco greets us with a small smile. From the corner of my eye, I see Marina return it.

I'm grateful for my boys, who blend into the scenery, their vigilance a shield. It's one last operation we're doing together—sneaking out a person out of the building before Vlad's own people notice her.

Seven's jut of the chin outside in the alley is a silent acknowledgment of our unspoken pact. I return the gesture. It's like a thread of connection in the fabric of loyalty that has woven us together.

My heart is beating a wild beat in my chest, that same war drum that refuses to stop until Solovey is gone and we are out of here.

In the street, the night is a blanket, and I drape it around us, hoping its darkness is enough to hide our departure from prying eyes—from Russians, from Georgie's assholes, from Maurice's soldiers, from anyone who would dare unravel what I've so meticulously stitched together.

We round the corner, and Dallas is there, waiting behind the wheel of his nondescript Toyota. The car's engine is humming. Marina clutches her gym bag with the grip of someone holding onto the last vestige of their old life and jumps into the back when I pull the door open.

"Let's get out of here," I order, sliding into the passenger seat next to Dallas.

He reaches out and I at first think he's about to grab a gear shift but instead, his hand covers mine. It's only for a second but I don't push him away, don't try to pretend we aren't what we are, even if there's a teenage witness in the backseat. I allow him this. Allow myself this. Allow myself to be me.

"You guys are too cute," Marina whispers as we start driving.

"You think so?" I ask in my stern voice.

"Totally. Like pupsiki ."

She even giggles a little and I think it's best I don't ask for translation. "Whatever that means," I reply, just as firmly but on the inside I'm for some reason melting.

The drive to the Mexican restaurant is a blur—each turn a step further from the past that I'm wanting to forget. We enter through the back, where memories of breakfast with Dallas hover like the scent of fresh tortillas. Se?ora Vargas greets us with a smile, rushing over while wiping her hands on the white apron.

"Se?ora Vargas, this is Marina. She's the one I told you about, who needs work," I say, my voice carrying an edge of urgency.

"Claro que sí, mijo." Se?ora Vargas nods vigorously as she drinks in Marina's wide-eyed apprehension. "We'll take good care of you, ni?a."

Marina looks at me, her eyes full of uncertainty, but she manages a nod.

"I'll teach you everything," Se?ora Vargas tells the girl. "The job is easy and you'll be safe here."

"I've hired an attorney for her. He's been paid upfront," I continue, ensuring every detail is covered. "He's the only one who knows she's going to be here." I shift my attention to Marina. "Se?ora Vargas will have a place for you to stay."

The girl keeps on nodding as the information pours out at her.

"Thanks," she finally whispers when I'm done with the last bit of my instructions.

"Take care of her," I murmur to Se?ora Vargas, my gaze lingering on Marina for a moment longer than necessary. It's like watching hope trying to bloom in concrete. But if anyone can do it, it's her.

I stride outside where the night feels heavier, dense with unsaid goodbyes. Dallas is still behind the wheel like the perfect gateway driver, keeping the engine running. His blue eyes pierce through the darkness, anchoring me to the present.

"She'll be fine," he assures me as I climb back into the vehicle. His hands find my face, his grip firm yet gentle.

"I know," I reply. "I trust the Vargases. I trust they'll protect her until she's eighteen. Hopefully, her case will be resolved by then and she'll be able to make her own choices. She didn't deserve what happened to her."

"Marina's tough. You gave her a chance. That's more than most get," Dallas says, his voice a low rumble of conviction. "That's more than the rest of the kids trafficked here got." Pause. "And you know what the funny things is?"

"What?"

"They were supposed to be in care of the law and the law failed them. You didn't fail."

"I'm no hero if that's what you're trying to say."

"Well, maybe you're my hero."

"Let's finish this," I whisper, my pulse a wild throb in my ears. I've tied up nearly all the loose ends in this forsaken place. My thoughts are now daggers pointed at the Russian. One last act to sever the ties that bind us to this dance of death and deceit. One last act I will perform.

Ending Yuri Solovey.

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