7. Isaac

CHAPTER 7

ISAAC

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling of my penthouse condo, the flickering neon lights from the Vegas Strip painting distorted patterns across the white surface. Exhausted after a long and shitty night at the club, my body sinks into the king-sized mattress as I listen to the distant sounds of sirens and music from the city that never sleeps.

There are times I want complete silence, but today I need some distraction and I left the balcony door slightly open to allow the noise to slip in.

This condo is just one of the few properties I legitimately own. Another one of those properties on my impressive real estate list is a mansion just outside the city, that mocks the rest of Vegas suburbia from its hilltop.

But that place is reserved for those sporadic, lethargic days when I don’t mind fighting the traffic and when I'm not swamped with work—which isn't now.

I should be resting, regaining my strength for another hectic weekend night at Purgatory tomorrow. But sleep eludes me. Instead, my thoughts are consumed by Hawk—or Cody Smith—whose file I secretly looked at again after our encounter the other evening in the back alley.

It's pissing me off, this inexplicable fixation on the man who’s supposed to be nobody.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, rubbing my temples as if it would force him out of my mind. But the more I try, the stronger his presence grows. Like a stubborn stain refusing to be scrubbed away.

The way he matched my stare—it’s a skill honed by years of hard work. It’s a skill not many men who work for me possess. And a small part of me admires it.

His sharp, intelligent gaze haunts me each time I close my eyes and I wonder what secrets he’s hiding behind that mask of indifference.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why can't I shake this obsession?

The air in the room suddenly suffocates me, amplifying the chaos in my head. I roll over, trying to escape the tormenting thoughts, but they cling to me like shadows, unrelenting and unforgiving.

"Enough," I growl into the darkness, clenching my fist in determination against the silken bedsheets.

Instead, I visualize my future empire—a world where Thoreau reigns supreme, unchallenged and untouchable.

"We need to talk about Tucci," Georgie barks over the music as he approaches, his pudgy face flushed with irritation. Probably because he had to walk all the way here.

I stand at the railing of Purgatory's upper floor, as always my eyes scanning the crowd below. The track throbs through the air like a living entity, a beast that feeds on the collective energy of the dancers moving in unison to its relentless beat.

And tonight, strangely enough, I can feel it too, pulsing through my veins, fueling the ever-present fire within. Even the railing beneath my fingers hums, vibrating like a million tiny heartbeats under my touch.

Amidst this sensory overload, there's the faint tangy aroma typical of places like Purgatory—mildew and sweat mixed with fervent anticipation. It all tastes like wild youth and reckless abandon—an intoxicating cocktail I’m responsible for creating in this small kingdom of mine.

"He’s becoming a real problem," Georgie goes on.

I turn to face him, my expression carefully neutral. "What about him?"

"He’s in my casino twice a week. Like clockwork. My own girls are starting to complain." Georgie has a small side gig the family is aware of—a high-end escort operation. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t allow it. The Thoreau aren’t interested in selling people. But Georgie has somehow managed to keep his little project intact.

"I told you I need some time to look into this," I tell him over the booming song. "Did you find out who the woman is?"

"Not yet."

"Keep digging."

"Can I just...hurt him a little? As a warning?" Georgie asks, his fingers twitching as if with the urge to cause pain.

"Wait," I say firmly, not ready to reveal everything I know about Tucci's deeds just yet. My guys are still tailing him, looking into the matter. "I'm not convinced Morelli is aware of what Tucci is doing." We can’t afford to go to war with Italians.

Georgie's frustration is evident, beads of sweat glistening on his non-existent forehead, paunchy jaw moving. Finally, when he receives no response from me, he snaps, "You don't seem to care, cuz, because it's happening in my casino, not your club."

Fucker has the audacity to raise his voice at me. The only reason he’s handling Eclipse is because I was in prison when the family was dividing the responsibilities. It was supposed to be me, not him.

I look Georgie right in those tiny beady eyes and say, "Careful how you speak to me, Georgie."

It’s loud here and some of my words are mixed up with the music but I know he can read my lips where he can’t hear me.

He bristles but backs down, knowing better than to challenge me outright. "Fine, but I'll be talking to Uncle about this," he hisses out a threat through clenched teeth before storming off, referring to Uncle Maurice Thoreau, my father's older brother and current head of our family operations.

Fine.

The Fat Fuck can prattle on to Grandpa for all I care. Nothing is going to rekindle the bone-chilling dread Jacob Thoreau instilled in people. May his rotten soul never rest in peace.

Once Georgie is gone, I pull out my phone and call Jeremy. The fact that Tucci keeps on bringing minors rubs me the wrong way. I try to shove this emotion down. I don’t need it to mess with my head. I just need to remove the problem. Or at least that’s what I convince myself of. "Anything new on Morelli’s guy?"

"Nothing concrete yet," Jeremy replies. "Can’t tell if this is his own thing or Tony approved it. But I think we'll have something for you soon."

"Good," I say, cutting the call short, a little frustrated that it’s taking longer than I expected.

As I slip my phone back into my pocket, my gaze drifts across the dance floor. I realize I’m searching for any sign of Hawk.

Fuck.

The chaos of the club offers no comfort tonight, only a restless energy that echoes the turmoil inside me. My thoughts keep circling back to him, the man who's somehow managed to burrow beneath my skin like a fucking splinter I can't remove.

I glance at the Rolex on my wrist to check the time.

Vartan is late.

Which frankly pisses me off.

I’m usually collected. But these days... It’s as if I'm dancing on the edge of my own sanity. These meetings are starting to scratch at my nerves. I've been feeling things again—not massive tidal waves of emotion but tiny sizzles that somehow make everything more colorful.

The music pushing my blood through my veins now. The rusty anger that makes me want to smash shit when people are being stupid. Georgie is the prime example. Then there's this stupid frustration buzzing over trivial business affairs that never bothered me before.

This hollowness inside me—a void where typically a heart should reside—is crammed with all these fragments of raw feelings that shouldn’t even fucking matter.

And yet they do…

They damn well do.

And I don’t fucking like it one bit.

There’s no room for emotions in my line of work. No room for pity or compassion or love.

"Should we reschedule?" Jeremy asks from the corner where he’s leaning against the wall, looking equally bored and scary.

We are in the basement of some hookah lounge not far from the Strip. Vartan was the one who chose this place. Now the asshole isn’t here.

The room is cloaked in shadows that crawl across the concrete walls like sinister tendrils. There is a heavy wooden table in the center and four chairs. I’m occupying one of those. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, swaying gently and casting erratic beams of light through the haze of smoke surrounding me as I kill one cigarette after another.

I’m not a smoker typically but I’m on edge. Only the taste doesn't quite hit right–a blend of burnt paper and bitter ashes tickling at the back of my throat, lingering long after each puff.

Finally, I hear distant footsteps.

Jeremy’s hand instinctively snakes out for his Glock, a dance we’ve both perfected over time. While I am no stranger to carrying a gun, I prefer not to have it on me at all times. There's a sense of unease that comes with constantly needing to be armed, as if it's an acknowledgment that one's life could be cut short at any moment. Don't get me wrong. Guns are protection. But I have Jeremy now.

"Isaac," Vartan says, stepping out from behind a heavy steel door that groans in protest as it swings open. One of his goons follows him inside, big finger flexing around the cold steel of his own CZ. He sizes up Jeremy with an assessing gaze, but Vartan interjects with a subtle nod indicating to hide the weapon.

"Apologies for being late," the old-timer says while he cushions himself into a chair opposite me. "Good to see you again."

I offer him nothing more than a curt nod and reply, "Likewise." My voice is low and guarded. This is no place for pleasantries, and we both know it. Flicking ashes off my cigarette into the ashtray I address him squarely now, "Let's cut to the chase."

"Our friend has given Mr. Avagyan permission to disclose his name."

I wait for Vartan to continue. Tensions rise in the room, the air suddenly so heavy, I can feel it pushing down on my lungs when I inhale.

Vartan's eyes latch onto mine, his head cocked at an angle. "Our friend’s name is Yuri Solovey," he finally says.

His words hang between us and my brain kicks into high gear like a souped-up racing car, sifting through every half-whispered conversation I've ever overheard about Solovey–an iron-fisted Russian mobster who recently decided to try his luck in the bright lights of America.

"I’m sure you’ve heard of him," Vartan supplies when I offer no immediate response.

I lean forward and I extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray with more force than needed. "And what does this Yuri have to offer?"

"Connections," Vartan says, an impish grin spreading across his weathered face. "Yuri has ties to the Russian military and can get you some of the finest firearms on the market. He's already making waves over in New York, supplying the syndicates with top-grade product."

"Interesting," I murmur, my thoughts racing as I weigh the potential risks and rewards of such an alliance. My gut tells me to be cautious, but the prospect of gaining more power is undeniably tempting. "I don’t know him. I would like some guarantees or a trial run before fully committing."

"Understandable," Vartan says. "I'll see what we can do."

The meeting comes to its logical end and Vartan leaves shortly after, the heavy door closing behind him with a muffled thud. I’m alone with my thoughts and Jeremy's silent presence. The low hum of the air conditioning fills the room as I stare at the empty chair Vartan just vacated.

"Say what you want to say, Jer," I tell my right-hand man insistently.

Jeremy moves out of the shadows and drops into one of the chairs, shifting in it uncomfortably. "I don't like it, Isaac. A new player and already so goddamn pushy. We don't know enough about him to trust him not to fuck us up."

"True," I admit. "But Russians make the best firearms. Could give us an edge."

"An edge that might come at too high a price," Jeremy counters, his voice laced with a protective fierceness.

"Perhaps." I sigh, knowing there's no easy answer to this dilemma. The allure of doing business with Solovey is enticing, but the potential risks are impossible to ignore. New players tend to make enemies and their enemies can become the Hellhounds’ enemies and I can’t afford this now with Jaheim in the lockup and Georgie breathing down my neck because of Tucci’s mess.

For now, though, I need some distance from this decision.

I need to clear my head.

"Let's get out of here," I tell Jeremy and rise up from the chair.

The meeting with Vartan left a bad taste in my mouth.

Yuri Solovey is dangerous. And I don’t want to put my people—my family—at risk.

But I’m too tired to think. It’s late and I want to relax for a moment, forget about all the responsibilities I’m carrying on my shoulders.

The atmosphere of Purgatory wraps itself around me like a living thing–alluring and suffocating in equal measure. From my usual spot on the upper floor, I’m scanning the writhing mass of bodies—short dresses, unbuttoned shirts, tight jeans. I can almost taste the desperation in the air–the hunger for release, for something more than this dark existence we've carved out for ourselves. Here we all are lost souls eager for salvation, even if it’s just a fleeing moment that’s not even real.

My gaze roves over the dance floor, the sea of faces blurring together like indistinct shadows, until my eyes land on Hawk.

An unfamiliar tickle scurries across my chest.

There he is, a tall suited-up figure amid the chaos, cutting through the disorder like an elegantly sharp scalpel slicing through the sea of incoherence.

There’s a drunk buffoon in the center of the dance floor, trying to start some shit and that’s not this crowd’s idea of fun. It may be Jeremy’s, but these people are here to enjoy themselves, not to get whacked by some asshole.

I find myself caught up in the unfolding drama, my attention mostly drawn to Hawk. His movements are precise as he navigates the mess of people to get to the troublemaker. Ricky steps in too, but my focus remains locked on Hawk. The sway and swerve of the confrontation become almost balletic. He's in command here, disarming the escalating brawl effortlessly and frog-marching our resident jerk out of these doors.

Ceiling-high tension buzzes like live wire, begging for contact. The hum of music and voices dims to mere background noise as I watch him from my secluded vantage point, curious.

The club continues to pulse with energy, like the desperate heartbeat of a dying animal. And all the while, I remain fixated on Hawk, unable to tear my gaze away from the man who has somehow managed to infiltrate my thoughts and unsettle my carefully constructed world.

Frustration gnawing at me as I grapple with these unwelcome emotions becomes fury and I realize I can’t be here anymore.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, I force myself away from the upstairs railing and stalk toward the rare exit. I need to escape, to breathe, to clear my head of this maddening fixation I don’t even understand.

"Hey, boss!" Ricky calls after me as I pass him by in the hallway. "You good?"

But I’ve got tunnel vision. My goal is to get out of this place, to leave all this behind, to distance myself from the man I’m firmly beginning to hate. "Fine," I growl out.

"You need me to find someone to go with you? Where are you headed?"

"Out."

Without another word, I shove the door open and step into the night, the hot Vegas air wrapping around me, singing my skin.

I stride around the corner and to the warehouse that houses our vehicles, my leather boots clicking softly against the pavement. My senses are on high alert, every sound, smell, and sight heightened in this alleyway between light and dark. A sense of claustrophobia weighs down on me as I breathe in the familiar smell of grease from the parked cars and motorcycles. My heartbeat pulses in my ears as I pause for a moment against one of those parked bikes—black chrome reflecting the dimmed lights streaming from above. I lean down to run my hands along its sleek body. Feeling its power course through me helps temporarily ground me in this strange reality that feels both too much and not enough at once.

Drawing a deep breath, I grab the black helmet and slip it on.

The world begins to fall away.

I climb on the bike with practiced ease, the familiar rumble of the engine beneath me offering a semblance of comfort. My fingers tighten around the handlebars, knuckles white against the cool grip.

As I speed through the labyrinthine streets of Las Vegas, the wind tearing at my body, I attempt to make sense of the tempest raging within me. What is it about Hawk that has reduced me to this? I, who have always prided myself on being untouchable, unbreakable, am now teetering on the precipice of something dangerous and unknown.

But as the miles blur past me in a whirlwind of neon and shadows, I find no answers, only more questions. And as I lose myself in the embrace of the night, I can't help but wonder if this journey into the abyss is one from which I may never return.