14. Isaac

CHAPTER 14

ISAAC

"Jeremy, listen to me," I say, my voice low and steady, trying to project calm despite the obvious rage boiling under Jeremy's skin. One of us needs to remain collected here. "Jaheim is out of the picture. We're a man down. Hawk has proved himself capable."

"Capable? You think that's enough?" Jeremy scoffs, his voice gritty like gravel tossed in a tin can. "I’m telling you we gotta wait for my guy in Arizona, Isaac." He leans across my office desk, bringing his face as close to me as possible as if this is going to affect my decision. He’s got decent intimidating techniques that work on other people. But I know him too well to cower easily. "He's got ears on the ground, Blade," Jeremy hisses out.

"Waiting isn't an option," I press, the weight of my authority pushing against the words. The Russians don’t like flakes and the meeting the Armenians arranged is in two days. I can’t go short-handed."

"That's asking for trouble, man."

"Trouble is our business, Jeremy."

The walls of my office seem to close in, suffocating the space between us with tension.

"Look, you trust too easy," Jeremy snaps, his scarred cheek pulling tight, a gruesome reminder of loyalty tested. "Hawk might be playing us, for all you know, he could be a cop."

"Damn it, J, not this again." Frustration claws at my throat. "He's been nothing but solid. Did the job I lined up for him, didn't he?"

"Did he?" Jeremy challenges, leaning in even closer, invading my personal space that I guard more fiercely than any vault. His eyes, dark pools of suspicion, scan mine for a weakness he won't find. I learned how to hide those tattered, weak parts of me no one’s supposed to see.

"He. Did." I stand my ground, the truth razor-sharp in my words. "He's in."

"Your call, boss." The words are edged with a warning, Jeremy’s posture rigid as if ready for a blow.

"Always is," I reply, letting the silence hang before he turns on his heel and paces the office. After a while, he halts and scoffs, an ugly sound in the thick quiet. "What about the Russian girl?"

"What about her?"

"You know how it looks having a sixteen-year-old running around the club?"

"She stays in the back. Nobody will look twice unless someone opens their mouth—and our guys know better. She's not your problem, Jeremy."

"Minors are always a damn headache, Isaac."

"I’ll take care of the girl, J."

He runs his palm over his hair and shakes his head.

"Did you find her a room?" I ask, wanting to close this topic. For now, she’ll stay on the top floor. And fuck Georgie, if he asks about it. The building is after all not his. The family owns it and I’m part of that family.

"Room's been given, just like you asked." Jeremy's answer is grudging, his eyes filled with disapproval. "But you gotta stop collecting these stray dogs, man. It's bad for business."

"Someone's gotta look after them," I say, but my voice is as hollow as the sentiment. They're chess pieces, nothing more. At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of when Jeremy leaves. His distrust is a lingering shadow in my office I don’t need.

When the door slams shut, I'm left alone with the echoes of our argument. The agitation simmers beneath my skin, a restlessness that demands release.

The ghost of that moment on the roof clings to my skin like a second shadow. Hawk's cheek had been warm under my touch, the jagged tear of skin speaking a story of violence—and yet, I'd reached out, against every instinct that screamed to keep my distance.

The memory is an itch beneath my flesh, unrelenting. Why did I do it? The contact should've repulsed me, should've sent me reeling back into those long nights locked in a cell where touch was never just touch but a currency of power and pain. But with Hawk... it felt almost like...

"Stop," I command myself, my voice slicing through the spiral of thoughts. No use dwelling on whys or what-ifs. Feelings are luxuries men like me can't afford.

My chair groans as I rise, the leather worn and familiar, unlike the tumult churning inside me. I need to move, to feel something other than this confusion that threatens to crack my resolve.

The hot night air hits me like a slap when I step outside into the back alley behind Purgatory. The city's pulse throbs all around me as I walk over to the warehouse, slipping on my riding jacket on the go.

My fingers find solace in the cold metal of my bike. It’s like a beast waiting silently for its master.

Let's go.

I swing a leg over and settle into the saddle.

A flick of the wrist and the engine roars to life, stirring from slumber, smoke curling from its nostrils. With each vibration, the chaos within starts to dissolve, replaced by a singular focus—to ride, to flee.

I gun the throttle, and the streets become a blur, neon lights streaking past like fallen stars. The wind tears at my clothes, at the knots of tension bound tight across my shoulders. It's not absolute freedom—there's no such thing—but it's the nearest thing to oblivion I can grasp with my bloodstained hands.

Buildings turn to shadows, people to ghosts. I'm a specter among them, fleeting, untouchable, riding toward nowhere because nowhere is better than being trapped in the labyrinth of my own mind.

Fuck it all.

In these moments, there's nothing but the road and me and the night. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to keep the demons at bay, if only until dawn.