Page 50 of Isaac

The aggressive roar of another black SUV slices through the hum of the near highway and the anxious chatter of Isaac’s men. Their voices fluctuate in volume around me—louder then softer then silent—like soundwaves distorted under deep waters.

"Get everyone together and let's move!" Isaac orders.

"Damn, Hawk, you really took a hit," Ricky says, concern filling his eyes as he offers his arm for support. "You gonna be able to walk?"

"I'll manage," I grit out, refusing to show any signs of weakness although I’m dizzy and nauseous. I've come too far and seen way worse to let a little graze slow me down now.

"Alright, man. Just... stay awake, okay?" Ricky's words are meant to reassure me, but all they do is remind me of how much deeper I'm sinking into this world of chaos and violence.

"Let's go, let’s go, let’s, boys!" Jeremy barks impatiently while shoving his Glock all over into the space around him. His eyes are still narrowed in suspicion as they flicker over me when we pile into the vehicle Flynn brought.

Fucking fuck.

Today didn’t go so well.

CHAPTER 16

ISAAC

A smothering blanket of cigarette smoke saturates the room, the white haze mixing with the tension in the air. We've gathered upstairs in a private area after the club has closed for the night, trying to make sense of the ambush that left us bloodied and bruised. Everyone is on edge and no one wants to go home. Some of the guys already called their girlfriends and asked them to go somewhere safe. Jessica’s hunkering down at The Aria for the night, courtesy of Jeremy’s savvy booking. Truth be told, I’m not sure she’s going to be safe at Eclipse.

She can’t even use the gun. Jeremy never allowed it.

The low hum of conversation buzzes around me, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the cold fury simmering beneath my skin.

"Russians," Ricky growls, slamming his fist onto the table littered with guns and ammo. "They're the only ones who knew about the meeting." His eyes are fierce, a fire burning within them, seeking retribution.

Hector's brows knit together as he leans back in his chair, considering the words. "Could be the Armenians too," he suggests cautiously. "They knew about the meeting as well. They insisted on it."

"Maybe it was all a setup," Marco interjects, his voice calm but filled with urgency. "From the fucking get-go. Someone wants our gun trade with Toro and saw an opportunity."

"Got your money riding on Russians and Armenians being ‘someone’, have you?" Jeremy poses with one eye focused on methodically cycling bullets in and out of his Glock—an unsettling rhythm echoing throughout the evening.

I frown at the thought, not entirely convinced. It seems like a strange way to go about eliminating me, but I can't dismiss the possibility entirely.

Glancing around the room, I see the same uncertainty mirrored in the faces of my crew. Some are itching for revenge, others want to be cautious. When my gaze lands on Hawk, I can see that he’s not really in the mood to participate. He’s pale and quiet and possibly high on whatever pills Doc gave him earlier when he came to patch up his arm.

"Look," Flynn pipes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "We need answers. And we need 'em fast. Whoever did this ain't gonna stop now."

"Agreed," I say. "Let’s put feelers out on the street, gather any information we can. Keep a close eye on anyone and anything. For now, though, we lay low."

A collective murmur of assent fills the room, but I can tell some are still restless, eager for action. It's clear that this family has been shaken by this attack. In the end, the weight of the decision is mine alone to bear.

For a moment there—and this hasn’t happened to me since my first year in prison—I feel lost. I’m not sure where we go from here and how we protect the ones that depend on us if we are scattered all over this fucking city and Jaheim is locked up.

"Hey, Seven!" I call out, completely abandoning my mask of cool for tonight. "We still have that bottle of Yamazaki stashed away?"

"Boss!" Seven barks out. "No one’s touching that bottle with a ten-foot pole unless they’ve got suicidal tendencies."

The response prompts a burst of laughter and it seems to help to release the tension a little.

"Get it over here," I tell him.

"You sure?" he inquires dubiously.

"Positive."

"That's forty grand down the drainpipe, boss man!" Hector croaks from where he's lounging on an armchair, ashtray balanced precariously on his knee.

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