20. Isaac

CHAPTER 20

ISAAC

We navigate the labyrinth of tables, cloaked in fine linen, heading toward a secluded booth nestled into the farthest corner of Primavera. It's an Italian eatery by day, mafia HQ by night. Tucci makes it his haunt most evenings, gorging on some greasy pasta concoction—fucker sure is predictable.

The heavy scent of garlic and aged wine clings to the air like an old vendetta as I stride past indifferent diners, most of them older couples or groups of overdressed men who speak loudly with heavy Italian accents. Jeremy's footfalls next to me are silent but lethal.

Hawk trails behind, his presence a silent storm cloud and I find myself wanting to look at him every other second and it’s distracting—this sudden obsession. Besides, I’m still not sure he’s ready to face what we sometimes must do. So far though, he’s played along just fine, keeping it cool.

"Isaac," Tucci greets me sheepishly when I approach his table. Surprise splinters his composure, his eyes latching onto me like I'm the ghost.

"Didn't expect to see me?" I slide into the seat across from him, the leather groaning beneath me, while Jeremy takes up a sentinel position beside me, and Hawk is lurking a step back.

"Ah, Isaac, no, it's just..." His laugh is a strangled thing that dies in his throat.

His fork full of spaghetti hangs suspended mid-air before its precious cargo decides to give gravity another chance and slides back onto his plate. "You don't usually pop in..."

"Maybe I’m in the mood for some—" I pick up the menu and sarcastically read off the first thing that I see "—Bruschetta Calabrese." I force my lips to lift up at the corners, knowing that my smile is fake as fuck. But that’s the idea.

"Ah." Tucci nods rapidly. "Solid choice. Best bruschetta in Vegas."

I slap the menu down against the table and will my face to slip back into that comfortable numb mask I wear on most days. "Just to be clear Tucci, I didn’t come down for small talk. We need to discuss some business."

"Last time we spoke Thoreau didn’t seem inclined to do business with me. What changed your mind?"

"Not that kind of business, Tucci." I lean forward, elbows on the table. "I’m talking about a little hiccup outside the city a few days ago."

Tucci's face blanches, the blood draining away as if I've already slit his throat. The restaurant buzzes around us, ignorant to what’s happening in our booth. I lean forward some more to make the distance between myself and Tucci as small as possible with the table separating us. My voice is a low threat only he can hear. "I’m going to ask you directly, man to man. Did you have something to do with the attempt on my life and the lives of my boys?" The restaurant's warm ambiance doesn't reach our corner; here, the air is ice and steel.

Jeremy shifts beside me, his jacket peeling back just enough to reveal the glint of cold metal against his thigh. It's a silent symphony of threat that sings louder than any words could.

"Me? Isaac, you know I wouldn't—" Tucci stammers, his eyes darting toward the gun then back to my face.

"Wouldn't what? Try to take me out?"

"Come on..." His voice trails off. "Didn’t we already talk about it?"

"We talked about you doing unauthorized shit on our territory. Different story, my friend." I can taste the lie on Tucci's tongue, bitter and rancid. But I can’t do anything about it unless I have evidence. I drive my point home. "If I find even a whisper that ties you to the attempted hit on my men, it'll be the last thing you ever do. I’m taking it to Tony."

Tucci's face loses more color, leaving behind a palette of grey fear as sweat beads at his brow. The clamor of the restaurant fades into a distant echo, our table the only scene that matters.

"Boy, you’re overthinking it," Tucci chokes out. "Morelli... he's not someone you want to get in bed with."

"Didn’t you hear what I just said?" I growl out.

Tucci continues to look at me. Fucker is a coward but he’s got guts. And I don’t know if it’s because he has some loose screws and just doesn’t understand how things work sometimes. After the warning my guys gave him he’s still at it.

"If I were you, I’d watch your back," I hiss, standing up abruptly.

The three of us leave without any parting words.

The ringing of my phone shatters the silence in my car the following evening, like a prelude to the inevitable. Uncle Maurice's number is on display. I know why he's calling. News travels fast in our circles, and the shock waves from my little chat with Tucci must have rippled all the way to his estate he never leaves.

"Come see me, Isaac," he says when I answer, his voice a blade wrapped in finest silk, and it's not a request.

It’s an order.

The cruise through the cityscape on my way to Maurice's place is lost in a blended haze of streetlights and towering silhouettes, each one a silent observer to my easy thoughts.

Later on, as I step into Maurice's study, I realize anxiety gnaws at me from within. I’m not scared of the man per se. He lacks what Jacob had as far as intimidation and fear go. Still we’ve never been friendly, even though Maurice is considered the nicer of the Thoreau brothers.

The air in his study is permeated with the scent of old, expensive leather and judgment. Extravagant artwork—mostly rare finds—hangs from the walls, their painted eyes glaring down at me, disdainful witnesses to the family drama about to unfold.

When Maurice enters, his presence fills the room with electrical tension. He doesn't speak immediately, choosing instead to lower himself into an armchair behind a massive table with calculated slowness.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him but at sixty-three he still defies the ravages of time, easily looking like he’s in his early fifties. The man is a slave to vanity and takes obsessive care of his appearance. I hear his fourth wife is twenty-eight. My age .

"Isaac," Maurice finally says, and the single word feels like the closing of a trap.

"Uncle." My reply is a tightrope walk between respect and defiance. The chair opposite him remains empty. I choose to stand when he gestures at it.

"Trouble does seem to follow you," he observes, flinty eyes piercing through me, trying to read the secrets I keep folded away.

"Trouble finds us all, eventually," I retort, meeting his gaze without flinching. "It's how we deal with it that sets us apart."

He leans back, steepling his fingers as if in prayer, though I doubt Maurice has ever spoken to any god but power and money. "And how do you intend to deal with this... incident with the Italian?"

"By cutting out the rot before it spreads," I say, my voice steady.

"Rot has a way of hiding where it's least expected," he muses. "Sometimes within one's own blood."

"Then it's a good thing I've never been queasy," I counter, my hands itching for something to break.

"Bold words," Maurice acknowledges with a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But be careful, Isaac. Boldness can turn into recklessness."

"Recklessness," I spit the word out like a curse, "is leaving threats to fester."

"Or perhaps it is not seeing the whole board," he counters cryptically, his gaze sharpening. "One move can topple an empire, nephew." He punctuates the last word as if wanting me to remember it.

"Then it's a good thing I'm playing for keeps."

"Indeed." Maurice's response is a whisper. "Just remember, actions have consequences, Isaac. And consequences have long shadows."

"Shadows don't scare me," I say, but even as the sentence leaves my lips, I feel them—dark tendrils coiling around my heart, squeezing tighter with every beat.

"Bravery or folly," Maurice murmurs, almost to himself.

"Sometimes they're one and the same," I admit.

"Perhaps." He’s quiet for a moment, studying me as if calculating something in his head. "Can't you let things be?" He drapes both arms over the chair. "I've nurtured a good relationship with the Italians. I intend to keep it that way."

"Someone tried to have me killed," I grit out.

He watches me, an unreadable mask, as if weighing my life against his alliances.

"If I find proof it was Tucci behind the ambush, I will eliminate him," I declare.

Maurice’s face pinches, a portrait of distaste at my audacity. "It's your choice." He sighs, the sound more resignation than concession. "But remember, the consequences."

"You’ve said that already. You don’t need to repeat it, Uncle."

"And remember who made you part of this life," Maurice adds. The reminder is like a silk-wrapped chain. "Remember who kept you in the family."

"Family," I muse, pausing for a heartbeat. "Was I really ever part of this family, Uncle?" I ask, looking the man in the eyes. My voice is a blade honed on resentment. "Jacob didn't think so."

"Your father is dead," Maurice states coldly. He flicks his hand dismissively as if swatting away the memory of his younger brother like an irritating fly.

But the pain isn't a fly. It's a vulture that's been feasting in me for years, chomping down to bone and marrow. Dead he may be, but Jacob Thoreau haunts me still, sick memories woven into the dark web of my mind, each thread a reminder of wounds that weep beneath the surface. Wounds no one can see.

I feel the pull of sudden anger and purpose knitting together inside me. The study seems to close in, the expensive artwork leering from the walls, silent witnesses to the battle between blood.

"If Tucci—or anyone else—thinks they can take me out, I’ll end them. I’m telling you that right now."

Maurice makes a sound I don’t care to decipher, the edges of my vision tinged red with the effort of keeping my composure.

With nothing more to be said, I turn on my heel and leave him there, sitting in his leather chair, surrounded by opulence bought with blood money. The heavy door closes behind me with a finality that echoes in my chest.

As I stride across the manicured lawns of the estate, the arriving night feels alive with the whispers of old ghosts and the rustle of secrets in the leaves. The perverted darkness of this world I never wanted clings to me like second skin. I’ve learned how to make it my own.

I am more than anger—I am resolve, crystallized and sharp. With every step, I feel the weight of the mantle I've taken upon myself. It is not just about survival now; it is about ascendance. To rise from the ashes of the past, one must be willing to stoke the fires of vengeance.

And as the gates of the Thoreau estate close behind me when I drive past it, I embrace the night, letting it cloak me in its obsidian hug. The road ahead is dangerous, but I’m called Blade for a reason. That name was forged in the moment of steel and flesh colliding eleven years ago, the moment blood painted floors and walls of my childhood home, covering up all the dirt, all the sickness that lived there. The sickness that was Jacob Thoreau.

Waves of fury and helplessness crash over me as I storm through Purgatory's back halls. In my mind's eye, Uncle Maurice's words lash out again, cold and unyielding, but they are just the echo of a much older pain—the one that refuses to be laid to rest.

He’s washing his hands off. It’s clear as day.

I’m on my own now.

I push the break room door open, for some strange reason expecting solitude, expecting to be in a place to organize my thoughts. I don’t know why I’m here instead of my office where serenity is guaranteed. In this room, it’s a game of chance if all of the guys are working the floor. But my feet seem to have taken charge and decided I need to be in the break room where Hawk is changing into his suit.

I halt in the center, my chest on fire, bright lights blinding me for a moment as I direct my gaze at the man that has been living in my head rent free these past few weeks.

Hawk’s holding his T-shirt in his hands, staring right back at me. Those blue eyes, big and ocean-deep, are making my insides warm and shaky. His torso is mapped with lean muscle and there’s that gruesome scar on his right abdomen, skin discolored, lines crisscrossing the side of his trim waist, wrapping around it like a belt. It’s fucking beautiful.

He's fucking beautiful.

"Isaac?" He pauses mid-motion, his eyes holding mine. "Everything alright?"

I can't answer—can't articulate what’s inside me. I’m angry at being stuck in this life all of a sudden. Angry at Uncle Maurice. Angry at Tucci. Angry at Georgie. Angry at this attraction to Hawk.

It gnaws at my resolve, defies the defenses I've spent a lifetime erecting. It's a want that terrifies me, not for its intensity, but for its ability to make me forget the past… and then make me remember why I hate this attraction.

"Isaac?" he asks again, turning to face me and casually tossing the T-shirt on the bench.

"Fine," I rasp, the lie tasting of ash. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine.

His blue gaze doesn’t waver, and something in the constancy of his stare unravels me. My breath catches, throat tight, as if the air itself conspires to suffocate me with memories best left buried.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, stepping a little closer. Which only makes everything worse. Still, every inch forward stirs up a potent cocktail of tension and magnetic electricity in the space between us.

And talking is beyond me now. Words simply betray me. All I can do is act. In two strides, I close the distance, and my hands find his firm chest, pushing him back against the cold metal of the lockers with a resonant clang.

For a mere second, alarmed perplexity disrupts the hard-lined certainty in his eyes before I seal his lips with mine.

The kiss isn’t docile like last time. It’s not an exploration of something new. It’s not trying anymore. It’s a clashing of desperation and longing that tears at the seams of my self-control. It’s knowing. Knowing the flavor of him, knowing the warmth of his lips, and the touch of his tongue.

Hawk's initial stiffness melts almost right away under the enthusiasm of my onslaught, and when his hands come up to grip my arms, it's not to push me away but to pull me closer.

Our mouths move together, completely in sync. I bring my hands to his face and cup it to feel it against my palms. The light stubble on his jaw grazes my skin, sending skittering sparks down my spine. He tastes like rebellion, like fire-forged steel and something indefinably wild and I can’t seem to get enough.

For a moment, nothing else exists—no Uncle Maurice, no threats hidden behind corners. There's only him, solid and real beneath my hands, an anchor in the tempest of my existence.

It’s a rough dance of tongues, fighting for dominance, and a total surrender to all emotions until there’s no more air in my lungs.

And when I pull back, just enough to be able to see his face, to see those lips swollen and tinged with color, Hawk's gaze pins me in place even though he’s the one I’m pressing into the wall of lockers right now. He’s searching my eyes for an answer he won't find. "Have you been drinking?" His voice is a breathless whisper.

I'm quick to shake my head, the taste of him still on my tongue. "No," I say firmly. "I'm not drunk. This—" My gesture between us hangs unfinished in the air. "This was real. I meant it."

The silence stretches. Taut. A bridge over an abyss.

My heart is pounding, I realize. It’s never pounded this fast since before prison. I’m scared shitless. Scared he’ll reject this, whatever it is I’m offering. I don’t fucking know myself. I can’t think beyond here and now.

Finally Hawk’s tongue slowly slips out of his mouth and he runs it over his bottom lip and that does me in completely. All blood is drawn from my brain to my dick and that’s fucking terrifying.

I run one palm down the side of his neck and to his chest.

He inhales sharply at the contact, then murmurs, "Isaac… I don’t think this is a good id—"

I don’t let him finish. I don’t want to hear it yet. "Your new Mustang," I blurt out instead, eager to shift away from the topic I still am not sure how to discuss. "What do you think so far?"

"Love it." A very small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and the tension eases just a fraction. "You're a generous employer," he whispers it almost reverently and I’m sensing that’s not really what he means. There’s more.

"Good. I'm glad." The words are true but they feel like gravel in my throat. I stand, legs finally feeling more solid than they did moments ago. "Take care of her," I add, a last touch of warmth before I retreat back.

One step. Two steps. I’m separating myself from him completely. I need to clear my head and when he’s so close, when I touch him, my brain is all mush for some reason.

"Isaac—" Hawk starts again, but I can't stay.

"Later," I say and then I walk out, leaving behind the charged atmosphere of the break room, leaving behind Hawk and the wild questions in his blue eyes.