Page 21 of Isaac

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 canalmost 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.

---