Page 32 of Isaac

"Background checks can be faked, Isaac," Jeremy insists. "And we both know that people in this business are experts at hiding their true intentions." Jeremy crosses his arms, his biceps straining against the fabric of his suit.

"Fine," I relent, not wanting to argue with him about Hawk any longer. "You can keep digging if you want. Just be discreet."

"Of course." Jeremy nods, and we fall silent, gazing out at the glimmering lights of the city, a dazzling mirage of sin and opportunity.

But as the wind whispers through the night, carrying secrets and lies, I can't shake the uneasy feeling that there are still pieces of this puzzle yet to be uncovered.

"Are we ready to 'talk' to Tucci?" I ask several minutes later, my hands in the pockets of my slacks, fingers curling into tight fists. "Did we find the woman who helped him?"

"Got my boys ready," Jeremy confirms. "And no. She's gone. Probably skipped town."

"We don't need her. We just need Tucci. Let's get this over with."

The elevator chimes, its doors sliding open to reveal Tucci and a terrified doe-eyed teenager whom he had just bartered away to some old buffoon downstairs on the casino floor.

They step into the hallway, unaware of the surprise waiting for them.

A girl, barely fifteen and hardly weighing a feather over ninety pounds, seems out of place. Her waif-like fragility sends a nauseating twist through my gut as I contemplate what circumstances pushed her so deep into doing this.

This gig isn’t always a bed of roses. I don’t particularly enjoy this part of the job nor do I partake. But tonight my palms twitch with an unspeakable appetite for blood while I watch the unfolding events from the sidelines.

Jeremy and his men spring into action, precise like a surgeon's blade and unforgiving as a bullet.

"Get your hands off me!" Tucci shrieks, struggling against Ricky and Seven’s iron grip.

The girl cries out in fear and scuttles toward the elevator, but Marco intercepts the teen, pulling her aside with a swift motion and reassuring her with a whisper.

He steers her into an unoccupied room and away from the sordid scene taking place in the hallway.

Inside of me, there’s an array of emotions battling for dominance. I'm not one to dabble in feelings, but lately, I've been thrust into their merciless territory more times than I’d care to count.

It’s disconcerting because it crudely interferes with my judgement and yet I feel powerless against the seething rage that Tucci's exploits ignite within me.

"Let the girl go," Tucci snarls, striving to scrape up whatever illusion of authority he has left. But his bravado rings hollow, a desperate plea from a man who knows he's cornered.

Jeremy seizes hold of Tucci’s collar, jerking him upward with such force that his head pendulums back and forth. "We've got some talking to do, dipshit."

"Isaac Thoreau," Tucci sneers as his gaze cuts sharply toward me. "You think you can scare me, boy?"

Boy? I hate it when people underestimate me. "Scare you?" I call out, my lips curling into a feral smile as I step forward, transitioning from the indistinct shadows into the direct line of light. "No, Tucci. I don't need to scare you." I glance atJeremy, giving him a subtle nod. "I just need to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions."

Bristling tension radiates through the space around us in icy waves as my men drag Tucci down the hallway and push him into another unoccupied room.

Once they're completely out of sight, I pull in a lungful of air—filled cold with sick anticipation of gore—then follow their path.

The poorly lit room seems to swallow Tucci whole as my men force him to his knees, the stench of fear and sweat heavy in the air.

Ricky delivers a blow to the asshole’s gut to make sure he’s rendered somewhat dormant as we have this conversation I’m about to begin.

I drag a chair across the carpet, place it in the center of the room right in front of Tucci’s hunkered form, sit down, and say, "Now listen to me, you piece of shit…" There’s a beat of deafening silence punctuated only by Tucci’s labored breaths. "No one gave you permission to bring your merch to Eclipse or any of the Thoreau buildings." My gaze hardens, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "And you're not allowed to involve anyone underage in your side gig."

Tucci's eyes dart between me and my men as if he’s still calculating his chances of escape. But he probably knows better. One against four. Fucker doesn’t stand a chance.

"You think you can control what happens in this city, Thoreau?" he chokes out. "You're just a spoiled rich boy playing gangster."

I don't let his words get under my skin, but the rage over the other matter I’m here to settle simmers inside me dangerously close to the surface. Anger is a familiar—and possibly the only—friend that kept me alive through the darkest of times.

"Save your breath," I reply coldly, leaning back in the chair, fingers laced together. "We both know who holds the power here. And we both know you'll listen unless you want to find out how far my reach extends."

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