11. Isaac

CHAPTER 11

ISAAC

"You're reading too much into it," I tell Jeremy, my eyes scanning the glittering landscape beneath us. The night air is electric, the Vegas skyline a sea of sparkling jewels that stretch out before our eyes like an ominous promise.

We stand on the roof of Crown Tower, the building that houses both Eclipse and Purgatory and I can feel the weight of the Thoreau family's legacy looming over this city. I can feel it on my shoulders.

"Maybe, but something about that fool doesn't sit right with me," Jeremy replies, his voice tense and doubtful. His jagged scar stretches as his dark eyes—sharp and always searching for the slightest sign of betrayal—narrow in concern when I glance at him briefly.

"I trust your instincts, but you did a background check and everything checked out, right?"

The wind whips around us, making the growing hair at the nape of my neck dance like restless ghosts. I think back to when I first took over the club, how I had to claw and fight for every inch of control. Trust comes hard to me, but Hawk hasn't given me any reason not to believe him. Has he?

"Background checks can be faked, Isaac," Jeremy insists. "And we both know that people in this business are experts at hiding their true intentions." Jeremy crosses his arms, his biceps straining against the fabric of his suit.

"Fine," I relent, not wanting to argue with him about Hawk any longer. "You can keep digging if you want. Just be discreet."

"Of course." Jeremy nods, and we fall silent, gazing out at the glimmering lights of the city, a dazzling mirage of sin and opportunity.

But as the wind whispers through the night, carrying secrets and lies, I can't shake the uneasy feeling that there are still pieces of this puzzle yet to be uncovered.

"Are we ready to 'talk' to Tucci?" I ask several minutes later, my hands in the pockets of my slacks, fingers curling into tight fists. "Did we find the woman who helped him?"

"Got my boys ready," Jeremy confirms. "And no. She's gone. Probably skipped town."

"We don't need her. We just need Tucci. Let's get this over with."

The elevator chimes, its doors sliding open to reveal Tucci and a terrified doe-eyed teenager whom he had just bartered away to some old buffoon downstairs on the casino floor.

They step into the hallway, unaware of the surprise waiting for them.

A girl, barely fifteen and hardly weighing a feather over ninety pounds, seems out of place. Her waif-like fragility sends a nauseating twist through my gut as I contemplate what circumstances pushed her so deep into doing this.

This gig isn’t always a bed of roses. I don’t particularly enjoy this part of the job nor do I partake. But tonight my palms twitch with an unspeakable appetite for blood while I watch the unfolding events from the sidelines.

Jeremy and his men spring into action, precise like a surgeon's blade and unforgiving as a bullet.

"Get your hands off me!" Tucci shrieks, struggling against Ricky and Seven’s iron grip.

The girl cries out in fear and scuttles toward the elevator, but Marco intercepts the teen, pulling her aside with a swift motion and reassuring her with a whisper.

He steers her into an unoccupied room and away from the sordid scene taking place in the hallway.

Inside of me, there’s an array of emotions battling for dominance. I'm not one to dabble in feelings, but lately, I've been thrust into their merciless territory more times than I’d care to count.

It’s disconcerting because it crudely interferes with my judgement and yet I feel powerless against the seething rage that Tucci's exploits ignite within me.

"Let the girl go," Tucci snarls, striving to scrape up whatever illusion of authority he has left. But his bravado rings hollow, a desperate plea from a man who knows he's cornered.

Jeremy seizes hold of Tucci’s collar, jerking him upward with such force that his head pendulums back and forth. "We've got some talking to do, dipshit."

"Isaac Thoreau," Tucci sneers as his gaze cuts sharply toward me. "You think you can scare me, boy?"

Boy? I hate it when people underestimate me. "Scare you?" I call out, my lips curling into a feral smile as I step forward, transitioning from the indistinct shadows into the direct line of light. "No, Tucci. I don't need to scare you." I glance at Jeremy, giving him a subtle nod. "I just need to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions."

Bristling tension radiates through the space around us in icy waves as my men drag Tucci down the hallway and push him into another unoccupied room.

Once they're completely out of sight, I pull in a lungful of air—filled cold with sick anticipation of gore—then follow their path.

The poorly lit room seems to swallow Tucci whole as my men force him to his knees, the stench of fear and sweat heavy in the air.

Ricky delivers a blow to the asshole’s gut to make sure he’s rendered somewhat dormant as we have this conversation I’m about to begin.

I drag a chair across the carpet, place it in the center of the room right in front of Tucci’s hunkered form, sit down, and say, "Now listen to me, you piece of shit…" There’s a beat of deafening silence punctuated only by Tucci’s labored breaths. "No one gave you permission to bring your merch to Eclipse or any of the Thoreau buildings." My gaze hardens, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "And you're not allowed to involve anyone underage in your side gig."

Tucci's eyes dart between me and my men as if he’s still calculating his chances of escape. But he probably knows better. One against four. Fucker doesn’t stand a chance.

"You think you can control what happens in this city, Thoreau?" he chokes out. "You're just a spoiled rich boy playing gangster."

I don't let his words get under my skin, but the rage over the other matter I’m here to settle simmers inside me dangerously close to the surface. Anger is a familiar—and possibly the only—friend that kept me alive through the darkest of times.

"Save your breath," I reply coldly, leaning back in the chair, fingers laced together. "We both know who holds the power here. And we both know you'll listen unless you want to find out how far my reach extends."

"Your threats mean nothing to me," Tucci spits out.

"Is that so?" I tilt my head slightly as I weigh the man before me. In this moment, Tucci is nothing more than a caged animal, backed into a corner with nowhere left to run. He may be dangerous by his association with the Italians, but he's far from untouchable.

"Let’s see what Tony thinks about this," Tucci finally plays the only card he has.

Unfortunately for him, my cards are better.

"I doubt Big Daddy will be happy to find out about your—" I click my tongue and take a long glance around the room, then my gaze lands on Tucci’s, "—part-time job."

Tucci's face twists and it's clear that my words have hit their mark.

"Oh." I let out a sarcastic laugh. "You didn’t think I wouldn’t check?"

"What’s it to you, boy?"

I look at him long and hard, trying to get an accurate read on him. He’s just a small fish. And in this city, there are plenty of others out there who share his interests. I can't stop them all.

But I sure as hell can send a message.

With a nod to Ricky, I give the silent order.

As he delivers the first blow of many to come, I detach myself from it all. My mind spins in an empty void that’s my consciousness and then I find it drifting back to the ghosts of my own past. Memories of pain and humiliation crash through me like storm-driven waves against a rocky shore.

"Time to play, Isaac," my father's voice echoes through my head, as cruel and unforgiving as the hand that once held me down. I was young then, still a child quickly learning that weakness had no place in this world.

The years that followed—the years in prison—only reinforced this lesson as I discovered new depths of suffering.

"Enough," I say quietly, my voice barely audible over the grunts and cries of pain that fill the room.

My man steps back, leaving Tucci battered and bruised on the floor. The message has been sent. The violence has served its purpose, but there's no satisfaction in my chest—only a hollow emptiness that echoes with every heartbeat.

I rise up from the chair, then drop into a crouch in front Tucci and hiss out, "Children should remain children."

He doesn’t react. Not that I expect him to. But I know he can hear me.

I straighten up, spin on my heels and walk over to the door.

"Take him outside," I throw the last comment before stepping out of the room.

"Georgie will have a lot of cleaning to do," Ricky quips behind me.

Seven barks out a laugh.

"Georgie should be grateful we did the dirtiest job for him," I reply darkly and head for the other room where Marco took the girl Tucci brought.

My eyes lock onto the figure huddled on the bed when I enter. The girl looks fragile and underweight and the bright red mini dress only highlights this fact. Marco stands watch in the corner.

The girl's eyes dart between us as soon as I shut the door. Her lips are pressed into a tight line, skinny arms crossed over her chest.

"What’s your name?" I ask, taking a few steps in her direction.

"She won’t fucking talk, boss," Marco comments.

I try again. "How old are you?"

The girl only turns her head to the side and stares into the wall.

I drop my gaze to her left foot, jerking nervously.

"Relax." I keep my voice soft and measured. "We're not going to hurt you. We just need some information."

She whips her head back to me and says with a sneer, "You a cop?"

Marco snorts.

I detect an accent. Eastern European.

"I don’t talk to cops," she supplies, her big eyes drilling a hole into my skull.

"Do I look like a cop to you?"

She shrugs. "Dunno."

"I’m not a cop, okay. And I'm not here to harm you."

Her wary gaze remains on me, but she doesn't respond. Ignoring her silence, I press on, "What's your name?"

"Marina," she replies hesitantly after a long pause.

"Where are you from, Marina?"

"Russia."

"How long have you been in the States?"

"Six months," she mumbles, her eyes flickering downward.

"You work for that man, Tucci, all this time?"

She nods.

"How did you end up here?"

"I met someone back in Russia. The person said she worked for a company that organized work opportunities for students."

"Do you have a visa?"

"I don’t know."

Great. This just gets better and better. "Did you submit any paperwork to the US Embassy to come here?"

Marina shakes her head. "No, the company that organized the trip said they would do this for us. They asked us for our passports and then we got on a plane."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," she admits.

"And your family let you leave Russia?"

"I have no family. I lived with my aunt but she died. There was nowhere else to go."

Fuck.

I glance at Marco, knowing he probably won’t approve of what I’m about to say but I have no idea what to do with a sixteen-year-old orphan who most likely was smuggled into this country illegally and then forced into prostitution.

"Okay, now listen to me, Marina," I tell her. "If you want out of this life, I can help you find a decent, safe job you can work until you’re eighteen."

Marco is giving me a side-eye but I don’t really care what he thinks.

I don't wait for the girl’s answer, knowing that she needs time to process everything that has happened along with my offer.

Instead, I say, "You know there’s a club downstairs?"

She nods.

"Come by if you decide you want my help. Ask for Jeremy or Isaac. Give your name to one of the bartenders or a bouncer."

She nods again.

"You can stay here tonight. The room is paid for," I tell her as I exit.

Marco follows me.

We head for the elevator without exchanging a word.