Page 64 of Isaac

"Maybe." Isaac's reply is noncommittal.

Despite the food being amazing, my appetite wanes. I’m swamped by the revelation that the line between right and wrong in Isaac's world isn't just blurred—it's been erased and redrawn in shades of gray I can't quite comprehend. My mission is clear-cut; gather evidence, build a case. But the man sitting across from me defies the simplicity of law and order.

"Complicated times," I say, more to myself than to him.

"Nothing worth doing is ever simple, Hawk." Isaac wipes his mouth with a napkin, the gesture meticulous.

A knot forms in my stomach, not from the food, which is—I’ll stress again—exceptional, but from the tangled web ofloyalties and lies I've woven around myself. The deeper I delve into Isaac's domain, the more the lines of my own identity blur, smudging like charcoal on paper.

Isaac's phone rings and the calm of our meal is shattered. For a second I find myself wishing he didn’t answer but he does.

He listens, his expression tightening with every word as the person speaks on the other end of that call. I can't hear the details, but I know it's not happy news—the anxiety is suddenly written all over Isaac's face.

"We gotta go," he says, putting the phone away. The urgency in his voice turns our leisurely lunch into a half-eaten memory.

"What’s going on?" I ask, already pushing back my chair while Isaac is fumbling with his wallet.

"Possible lead on the ambush," he says.

I glance at the table as we stand to leave. A crisp hundred-dollar bill lies there, an extravagant tip that screams both generosity and haste. Isaac doesn’t look back as we stride out, leaving the scent of spices and warmth behind us.

"We take your car," he instructs as we march outside, then adds when we’re at the door, "Let me just tell Rosa that I'll be back for my ride later." Isaac turns around and weaves past the tiny tables and toward the kitchen where I glimpse him talking to Señora Vargas. I don’t wait for him. Whatever is going on seems urgent. I rush over to my brand-new Stang to get the engine going while Isaac handles his business with the restaurant owner.

Two minutes later, he slides into the passenger seat, the muscles in his jaw working overtime. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. There are times when words are just noise, and this is one of them.

We shoot out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but rubber and a cloud of questions in our wake.

We’re somewhere outside the city's concrete embrace. Anxiety clings to my skin like a second layer as I stand in the corner of the warehouse, watching Jeremy and Isaac exchanging terse whispers.

I hear Jeremy ask, "Why did you bring him here?" and Isaac quickly shutting him down.

In front of them is a man tied to a chair, head lolled forward, his breaths shallow and ragged.

"Was expecting someone else," Isaac mutters, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and exposing vein-ridden forearms. His voice is unhappy and carries an edge sharper than a knife.

"Razor's a ghost," Jeremy grinds out the words through clenched teeth. "We got what we got."

Isaac's jaw clenches, a subtle tell I've learned means he’s upset. He moves closer to the bound figure. The man's eyes flicker open, meeting Isaac's gaze with the kind of resignation you see in animals who know they're about to be put down.

"You know who I am?" Isaac asks, voice abnormally calm.

"Blade," the man chokes out.

"Talk," Isaac demands, his tone leaving no room for anything but compliance.

The man’s eyes dart to Jeremy, but he finds no mercy there. Then to me. But I can’t offer anything either. My hands are tied so to speak.

Jeremy shifts beside his boss, the scar on his cheek pulling tight—a grim slash of history on his angry face. He's a storm cloud in human form, bristling with the promise of violence yet to come.

Some of it is probably reserved for me, like marrow awaiting liberation from bone when permission from Isaac sets Jeremy free. I know it won’t happen if I play my cards right. But you can never be too careful.

"Don’t make him repeat himself," Jeremy warns.

"Razor... I ain’t got no line on him," the man in the chair says. "But I heard Tucci’s been jawing with Razor. Recently."

"About what?" Isaac presses, his patience fraying like a rope at its end.

"How the hell would I know?"

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