Page 20 of Isaac

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.

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