5. Isaac

CHAPTER 5

ISAAC

"Numbers are lookin' good for the quarter," Jeremy says as he flips through a stack of papers on the desk in front of us.

We are in the back office, sipping on a whiskey. The dim light from the single lamp tossing shadows across his face emphasizes the jagged scar that cuts across his left cheek. The scar that signifies the bond we have, the bond that runs way too deep. He earned that mark by saving my life right after I got out.

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering that sweltering Las Vegas night. The images are etched forever into my mind like a twisted tattoo. I was barely a week out, finally stepping out into the world again, blinking against the harsh sunlight and gagging on the stench of freedom—body odors, cigarettes, and despair. The taste of metal lingered on my tongue from the cell door clanging shut behind me night after night for nine years straight. I was numb yet hurting all over, newfound adrenaline pumping through my veins as I tried to navigate this foreign place.

I didn't know Jeremy well. He was tagging along everywhere I went on the orders of the family. I knew they hated me, hated the fact I was free. I had no idea where they’d found him.

I also knew I wasn't good to them dead.

They needed soldiers. Needed trusted people.

Because The Thoreau had been weakened by yours truly when he drove a knife into Jacob’s body.

That evening Jeremy and I stood in the alleyway outside Purgatory, smoking and shooting the shit. I remember tasting copper before the knife that glinted in the dark reached my throat. A whisper of steel sang past my face before it met flesh. I didn't see the man sending it. He came out of nowhere, stealthy and lethal.

Jeremy reacted like lightning, his hand snapping out instinctively to bat the blade away from my throat. The man with the knife lunged at him with a growl, but Jeremy was ready—he dodged nimbly and landed a hard punch that sent him reeling back against a dumpster.

It was over quickly after. When Jeremy looked at me, I was sliding my hand across my throat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood seeping through my fingers. His own face was a bloody mess too.

"You owe me a fucking drink, boss," was all he said to me then.

The rustle of pages snaps me back to reality—to the office of Purgatory.

"Hey." I ask matter-of-factly, "Did you get that guy’s drug test results?" I pause, giving Jeremy a chance to ask which guy. For some reason, I don't want him to know I know that, but I do. I remember.

Hawk.

"Which guy?" he asks as expected.

"The one who came in a couple of days ago... Hawk, I think."

Jeremy looks up from the papers. "Yeah, got 'em this morning. He's clean."

"When does he start?"

"Training this weekend. I like him."

"Alright." I nod, a small sense of relief I can't explain washing over me.

I decide to change the topic. "Any word from Vartan?"

"Not yet."

"Let's hope he's not bullshitting us," I murmur under my breath, my mind already racing with possibilities. You just never know with these old-timers. They still think crypto is a scam.

They underestimate me often.

Well, that's too bad.

They didn't realize I learned a thing or two behind bars. And now, with this new Bitcoin shit, we'd be untouchable. It's long overdue to run this business differently.

The weekend descends upon Vegas and with it—Purgatory—like a dark and brooding thunderstorm, signaling the start of real chaos and debauchery. The club is packed with those seeking sinful pleasures and the music bouncing off the walls is a heartbeat of lust, drugs, and danger.

I don't normally oversee the operations but tonight I find myself drawn to a dark corner near the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, hidden from view, my gaze fixated on the new man on the floor.

Cody Smith.

Or Hawk.

Yes, I looked at his file.

Not something I normally do.

But a voice inside me nagged. No. Demanded.

This man... He unsettles me.

I have to tell myself he's just another body on the floor. Another hire.

But it's a lie. A dirty one that sticks in my throat like bile. He has this sleek confidence that doesn't come from money or power. It comes from within. I know it well, recognize it as the reflection of my own, born out of mere necessity to survive and not because it was given to me, handed on a silver platter along with everything that came with the title of Jacob Thoreau's son.

For some time, I simply observe the new guy shadowing Marco. Hawk moves like liquid fire through the crowd, his eyes scanning every face with sharp precision. He's meticulous. He's adjusting well to the role, I think, watching as he approaches another guard, exchanging brief words before they drift back to their assigned stations.

But this unexpected tickle of curiosity confuses me.

I can't put my finger on it at first. And then I realize why. He's new. And fresh-faced arrivals aren't to be trusted.

Here, in this place, trust needs to be earned, usually the hard way. But even if we don't bring every single security guard to the inner circle, sooner or later, they notice things. And that opens us up. Leaves blind spots. Not something I can afford right now.

"Surprised to see you here," Jessica shouts over the music, shattering my focus. She slides over to the corner of the bar where I'm hiding and grins up at me.

In her hands, she cradles a half-constructed mojito—a tangy splash of mint, rum, and lime that emanates an intoxicating aroma through the smoky air. Her hair is bright red, a living thing gathered into an unruly ponytail.

An unassuming person could probably never guess this tiny ray of sunshine shares blood with Jeremy.

They are nothing alike.

Frankly, we both prefer she doesn't work at the club at all, but Jeremy has enemies. This is the best place for him to keep an eye on his little sister. So, I go along with it, even her innocent flirting.

She's doing it again right now. Flashing me that cute smile she reserves only for a selected few.

I raise my half-empty glass at her but don't return the smile. Don't want her to get the wrong idea. Leading someone on isn't me.

But the woman is relentless in her pursuit. She either doesn't get it or refuses to give up altogether. It's tiring. Still I don't want to offend her. So, we continue skirting around the subject without really addressing the proverbial elephant in the china shop.

Maybe one day she'll get bored and move on.

She’s amazing but I can't give her what she wants. I don't have it in me. Prison made sure to suck all the good out of me I had when I went in. I'm hollow on the inside. Sometimes, there are memories and sometimes there's anger. But there's no love, no affection, no understanding.

"Want to me refill that for you?" Jessica asks, gesturing at my glass.

"Nah." I shake my head. "I'm good."

"Hey, boss," one of my security guards calls out, emerging from behind the wall of bodies. "Someone from the casino wanted to know if you have the time."

Reluctantly tearing my gaze away from Hawk, I ask, "They say what they want?"

"Just that Georgie wants to see you about some authorized business in Eclipse."

"Alright." I down the rest of my drink. "Let's not keep Georgie waiting." I leave the empty glass on the counter and head to the casino.

As we make our way through the dark, neon-filled club, from the corner of my eye, I catch another glimpse of Hawk. He's standing in the corner, melted into the shadows, almost invisible. His tall, lean frame fills out that black suit just right. And when the dancing light jumps over the spot he is occupying, his features almost beg me to memorize them. Each and every indentation and curve.

What the actual fuck?

I tell myself to stay sharp and as I navigate the chaos, a mantra that binds me to this life, this dangerous game of power and control.

But there's unease in my chest. Unease I don't experience often because I don't experience things in general.

I'm immune to the common swings of emotion.

But today?

Today is different.

The symphony of a thousand slot machines becomes comforting background static, far from my usual taste but exactly the distraction I need right now.

The musky scent of timeworn smoke greets me as if it's an entity of its own; a faithful pet that's more loyal to this casino floor than any of its fleeting patrons. It's coupled with the screams of excitement. Or disappointment. Eclipse is a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of Purgatory and typically I don't care for it, but tonight anything goes just to keep my mind off my new hire.

Besides, I'm sensing Georgie has more news to keep my stupid brain occupied.

The Fat Fuck is already expecting me in his office, an untouched cigar resting in the ashtray next to him.

"Cuz." He greets me with a handshake, all business. "Thanks for meeting me on short notice."

He flaps his beefy hand toward the leather chair opposite him, but I respectfully decline. Anxiety gnawing at my insides won't let me stay still for long anyway.

"Of course, Georgie." I tip my chin and watch his face, waiting for more. I hate his fucking theatrics. "I hope you got something for me and this better be good."

Cracking a smug smile, he retrieves a manila envelope from the top drawer of his desk. "I had my guys do some digging into that asswipe who's been bringing girls to my high rollers." Georgie pauses and takes a deep breath. "Turns out he's one of Tony Morelli's errand boys."

Georgie's words drop like stones into the pit of my stomach as he hands me the envelope.

The name of Morelli is enough to make anyone who has crossed paths with the city's criminal underground tremble in fear.

But an underage prostitution ring?

And on our property.

Tony's too classy for that.

"Morelli, huh?" I mutter, looking through some mug shots of the guys with the goatee. Peter Tucci. Small-time criminal. A nobody in the famous Italian operation in this city.

"From what my boys could gather," Georgie rambles on, "this asswipe's got a whole network of girls and boys working for him. A well-oiled machine, cuz."

I would give anything for this fucktard to stop calling me cuz . "Has he been back since the night of the footage? The one you showed me."

"Twice. He has a woman working with him too."

"You have her info?" I ask, looking through the pages in my hands.

"Not yet."

"Dig it up."

The room is silent for a long moment, the only sound the rustling of Tucci's revealing file under my fingers. And as I do so, I swear I can hear Georgie fucking sweat.

"Should we have one of my guys talk to him?" he supplies, but his voice falters at the edges a little.

Of course, he wouldn't know to use his brain before acting.

I click my tongue, thoughts racing on an adrenaline-fueled speedway that's my mind. "We can't make any moves against Morelli just yet. Not without more information. Keep watching this tool, but be discreet. I'm going to see what's up."

"Bold move on Morelli's part," Georgie huffs out, crossing his sausage-like arms on his chest.

But The Fat Fuck is too dumb and is way out of his depth here; thrown in without the floats into this whirlpool of power dynamics swirling around our godforsaken city's underworld.

That's why that's his brightest moment.

It's going to be downhill for him from this point on.

I'll make sure of it.

I call Jeremy's burner and return to my own office where he's already sitting behind my desk, eyes flicking between the security monitors and some paperwork spread out in front of him.

I drop the folder Georgie gave me on top of the pile and say, "I need you to put someone on that guy. He's bringing his business to Eclipse without anyone's blessing. He could be working for Morelli but I don't trust Georgie's sources. Even if it's the case, there's something going on Tony may not know about."

Jeremy peeks into the folder and nods once. "You got it."

"Get someone who knows how not to get spotted."

Jeremy nods again. "Alright." He pauses, studying me for a second before venturing, "You don't really think this is linked to Morelli?"

"No, but better check it."

We are quiet, exchanging glances.

"How's the new guy working out?" I ask out of the blue. I immediately want to take the question back but it's too late.

"He seems okay so far. Knows how to control the crowd and keep it cool."

"Okay, let's see how long he lasts."

And what I actually mean is that if he asks to speak to HR about someone holding him at gunpoint in the casino restroom, then he's definitely not the man for the job.