9. Dallas

CHAPTER 9

DALLAS

I glide through the corridors of Purgatory's bowels, where only the staff is allowed to tread. The club's pulse is silent; its heart doesn't beat just yet. A calm before the storm—this hour right before we open up our doors for the night. I'm invisible here, all suited up and ready for my shift as Hawk. My mind wanders to Isaac and that forbidden allure that tugs at my soul. I tell myself it's just the adrenaline, the danger I willingly threw myself into by going back here, that makes my blood sing when I think of him.

But deep down I know it's a lie.

He still has some kind of hold on me.

And I don't think I can extract it—this feeling he gives me.

My boots whisper against the floor as I walk down the hallway. I shouldn't want him. The man on the other side of the law with eyes like smoldering coals at times and like sweet chocolate some other times and with a touch that scorches everything in its wake. He's all I was trained to dismantle, yet here I am, dismantling myself instead, piece by conflicted piece.

As I turn a corner, a female figure materializes. Her face, pale and fearful, flashes in front of me a moment before she trips and crashes into my chest. Our collision is a silent alarm, her body rigid as if she's one breath away from shattering. I recognize her instantly. Marina. The Russian girl who's been working at the club.

"Easy," I murmur, my hands finding her shoulders with the practiced ease of someone who knows how to offer comfort without promise. "What's got you spooked?"

She pulls back and looks up at me. Her eyes, wide and frantic, search mine for something.

"What's going on?" I press, voice low and careful. "Talk to me."

She hesitates. Lips part but the words don't come out. There's a secret there, behind the veil of her anxious gaze.

"I'm not your enemy. I can help, Marina," I offer, not sure if I can follow through but there's this feeling in my gut. This feeling that won't allow me to leave her behind in this mess.

Marina's breath falters, a silent countdown before the bomb drops. "That man is here. In the club."

My mind races, dark possibilities swirling like the thick, colored fog that fills Purgatory after midnight. "What man?"

With a glance so weighted it could sink ships, she leans in closer, her voice a shiver. "The one with the golden tooth. Shtyk."

The name isn't familiar, but the description gives me pause. Golden teeth often bite the hardest. My gaze flicks instinctively toward the front of the club, though the threat remains unseen.

"Where's he, this Shtyk?"

"At the bar. There are six or seven of them. I didn't get a chance to count."

The federal agent in me takes over. I shoot question after question while she's speaking. It's the most she's told me in all of the time she's been here.

"You mean the Russians?" So, they've come to collect after all.

Marina nods.

"How do you know this Shtyk?"

She's trembling now. "He... he was the one who took my passport when I came to America. If not for Isaac, I would have never gotten it back."

I feel the pieces shifting, a puzzle putting itself together in my mind. Isaac—the enigma, the flame drawing me in. His role in Marina's life suddenly casts a light I hadn't anticipated. And I was a part of it too.

"Are you telling me Isaac got your passport back from Shtyk?" I can't keep the incredulity from my tone, the revelation painting a different portrait of the man whose touch I crave yet resist.

"Yes, he got me this job and a place to stay," Marina whispers. "While I'm waiting for my papers."

"Are you sure they are Russian? Those men out front." Because this means… the Russians were the ones backing up Tucci. Oh fuck.

A nod, more nervous than before, confirms my fears. "You don't think I'd know my own language," she adds, a sliver of defiance I witnessed before cutting through her fear. "Or recognize the person who screwed up my life."

"Go get Hector," I instruct. "He's in the break room. He'll take care of you while we deal with this Shtyk, okay? And don't come back to the club until I tell you it's safe."

Marina tips her chin in agreement and rushes off.

As I turn to head for Isaac's office, the weight of the unsaid pushes against my chest. The game has changed, the players revealed in a new light, and I'm left wondering—once again—which side of the board I'm truly on.

I bolt upstairs, sick adrenaline fueling my every step. Isaac, the man who haunts my dreams, just got more complex, and I'm sinking deeper into this minefield of emotion and duty. Guilt clenches my gut for dragging him into this mess as I push the door to his office.

I don't remember if I knock. My mind is a vortex of frenzy.

"Isaac," I say, breathless from the run and the news. "The Russians are downstairs."

"Already know," Isaac replies without looking at me, all cool and collected, sorting through some paperwork.

Jeremy stands by his side, hands locked in front of him as if he's been waiting for me. His scar is an immediate reminder of the life they—we—lead.

"Okay, let's not keep our guests waiting," Isaac says, stopping whatever he is doing and rising from behind his desk.

We move as one entity down the stairs.

There's undeniable tension in the cool air as we step into the club's main floor. Unfamiliar Russian words cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and low lights, while men who wear danger like a second skin lounge in front of the bar with entitlement where Caleb is mixing a dozen drinks, looking completely lost, his face all confused lines tinged with alarm.

I study the crowd. Marina was right. There are seven of them. One is obnoxiously carrying a baseball bat on his shoulder.

But my attention snaps to Shtyk—the man with the golden tooth. It's one of the front incisors and when its owner smiles at us, it's not really a smile. It's a sneer.

"Blade, looking alive and kicking. Must be those nine lives I hear about," Shtyk taunts in that heavy accent.

"Only used one so far," Isaac retorts, his stance unyielding, "and I'm saving the rest for special occasions."

"Hope you have one left for paying debts," Shtyk fires back, his eyes filled with ruthless coldness. "You still owe us for the guns the barrel chasers took from you, Blade."

"Debts are like promises," Isaac steps closer. "Made to be kept. Give me a week and you'll have your money."

Shtyk stares, eyes narrowed, the gold in his mouth catching the flickering club lights when he scowls. "You better. For your sake." Shtyk's smile is all teeth, no humor.

The exchange is like a dangerous waltz on the freshly sharpened edge of a knife, and I stand ready to catch Isaac should he fall. But he doesn't falter—not even a flicker of fear in those dark eyes.

"One week," Shtyk finally agrees, the words hanging between them like a noose awaiting its due date.

The man turns to the bar where a line of various drinks is lined up for him. He randomly picks one and sends it down his throat, then smacks his lips and says, "Good shit, Blade. Good shit."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," Isaac supplies blandly. "It's on the house."

"We'll be seeing you, Blade." Shtyk grins again and starts toward the doors, their exit leaving an imprint of dread on the floors.

Isaac's sigh is nearly imperceptible while Jeremy's shoulders are losing their vigilance for just a fraction of a second. My own breath finds its way out, a prisoner released into the night.

My eyes lock with Isaac's across the room as he paces under the neon lights. His gaze is a fortress with cracks in its walls, allowing glimpses of the man inside. The game has begun, the board set, and the pieces moving in silence. And for some reason, in the darkened corners of Purgatory, hope feels like a candle in the rain.