Page 23 of Isaac

The man in the photos is just your average Joe, an unremarkable bruiser with stony features and a receding hairline.

With meticulous attention, I rifle through every image, memorizing the new target, the way his brick face crumbles just slightly when he smiles in some shots—a smirk more like... Brute-like? Perhaps, but there’s something undeniably dangerous about him that has me questioning my own skills.

"Find out what Solovey’s connection is with Thoreau," Nicole says, collecting the folder shortly after.

"You got it."

"Stay sharp and watch your back, Bradley," she calls as I climb out of the car.

I give her a tight nod before disappearing into the rainy darkness, my mind focused on the task ahead.

Delve deeper into the treacherous waters of deceit and corruption that lie beneath this city's glittering veneer.

Get close to Thoreau.

Get intel on Solovey.

Bring their operation down once and for all.

CHAPTER 9

ISAAC

"Yo, Blade," Riker grunts from the couch across. "This whiskey’s the real deal, man." He raises his glass in appreciation.

No shit. It’s a two-thousand-dollar bottle.

"Yeah, some killer juice," his bruiser, who goes by Fist, confirms.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying it," I reply tightly from my spot near the glass wall where I’m overlooking the moving sea of bodies on the dance floor below.

Inside our VIP sanctuary, the signature Purgatory dim amber lighting spills a seductive glow over the plush velvet couches and sleek glass tables loaded with bottles of top-shelf liquor Riker’s guys are consuming.

They are kiting high on some celebration tonight—not that I give two shits about their reason. So long as they don't stir up shit in my territory, they might as well booze until they can’t walk.

Riker's a heavyweight goon among them—muscle-packed biceps sporting countless tattoos poking out from his collarbone up onto his thick neck. He’s a part of a low-brow band operating at North Vegas where thuggish freelancers gathering around street corners are as common as dirt.

Can’t say I like Riker much.

But hell if I can forget those prison-yard favors when he had my back during rough patches at the beginning of stint... Somehow managed to outrun doom thanks to him then. Debts like this aren’t forgotten easily.

"Damn straight," chimes another one of Riker’s guys, picking his teeth with a gold toothpick. "We ain't had this kinda treatment since... well, never."

A chorus of laughter erupts around me, coarse, like the sound of rusty nails dragged across pavement.

"You've earned it," I reply, not exactly enjoying being a part of this party, but Riker insisted I join his guys for a round of drinks. It's one of those godforsaken hoops you have to jump through when indulging in this twisted dance—our dangerous little game on the shadowy fringes of society.

"Blade, you really know how to show a good time." Smirks a lanky man with a scar slashing through his eyebrow. His eyes linger on me for a moment too long, and I suppress a shudder of revulsion.

Fingers drumming on the marble bar top, I’ve been trying to figure out a slick exit strategy; one that sidesteps causing Riker indigestion or his signature dramatic display. My golden ticket out lands with the sound of the VIP room doors flying open.

Ricky rushes in, his facial expression like a stone but pale and his eyes wide with panic. "Don't mean to break up the party, boys," he pants, "but I need a word with the boss."

"Pour this big guy a shot!" gibbers some hammered idiot douchebag from the back as Ricky weaves his way past the tables and in my direction.

"We've got a situation brewing downstairs that needs your personal attention," he mutters over the pulse of the bass shaking the room.

"Sorry, man." I offer Riker my hand for a shake. "I have to handle this." He delivers a sturdy clap on my back. "You do you, Blade."

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