Page 65 of Isaac

Jeremy steps toward the chair and pulls out a hunting knife. "Does that jog your memory, fucktard?"

There’s a long pause stretching across the warehouse, filling its corners. My heartbeat is suddenly fast and uneven and pounding in my ears like a warning siren.

"Word is, Tucci's mixin' it up with some foreign hotshots," the man in the chair blurts out. "Doing business behind Morelli's back."

"And how does Razor factor into all of this?" Isaac asks.

"I don’t know, man. I swear. I’m telling you the truth."

Another pause.

"Foreigners?" Isaac finally decides to follow the Tucci trail. "What kind of business?"

"Girls. Young ones. Shippin' 'em. Across the ocean or flying on private birds. That's the rumor. All I know is those guys are bad news. They are dangerous and got people in high places…And some say—" he stops talking, choking on his own breath, his eyes swinging between Isaac and Jeremy as if trying to figure out who’s the lesser evil.

"What. Do. They. Say?" Jeremy brings his hunting knife into the game again, waving it in front of the man’s face. "They say Tucci’s got it out for Thoreau and he ain’t waiting on Morelli to give him a go."

Isaac falls silent, then, with a swift pivot on his heel, he starts walking toward the exit. Jeremy moves in tow, like a shadow.

Once they reach the cold metal door bronzed by years of use, Isaac turns his head in my direction.

His eyes are fathomless. There's something wild in them that elicits both fear and intrigue from my gut. He offers me nothing more than a curt nod of his chin—a wordless demand.

I obediently follow them outside while the man in the chair is yelling at the top of his lungs, wanting to know if we can let him go.

Outside, the air feels like a hot slap, little contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside the warehouse. Isaac strides ahead, perhaps a couple of dozen steps, his frustration leaving ripples in the silence. I follow, drawn by the invisible tether of his command, ignoring Jeremy’s presence.

Isaac halts to a stop and rakes both hands through his hair, then shifts his attention to Jeremy. "You keep catching the small fish. He’s not the one we wanted."

"I know, man. But he’s the only one we could find."

Isaac spins on his heels again, the wind whipping at his white shirt.

"We could still use him," Jeremy hisses out. "Get to this Razor fucker through Tucci."

"I don’t like it."

"Think Tucci called the hit?"

"If what that asshole said is true and Tucci has some kind of backup and working without Morelli’s permission, then yes, we have a fucking problem."

This lead is a thread we can pull, unraveling Tucci's scheme—if we dare tug hard enough. But the decision isn’t mine to make, it’s Isaac’s.

His profile is etched against the harsh sun, a mix of contained fury and seething discontent.

"Let’s pay Tucci a visit," Isaac finally declares.

"You sure that's smart?" Jeremy protests. "Uncle's gonna flip if we start rattling Tucci's cage without a green light. He’s already unhappy we’re mixed up with the Italians."

"Since when do I need permission to protect what's mine?" His eyes flash with an intensity that could ignite the very air between them. It's a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at Jeremy's feet.

I watch from a few paces back, feeling like an intruder on a private war. The tension between them is a tangible entity that feeds on doubt and defiance. Jeremy clenches his jaw, a muscle working furiously under scarred skin. He knows better than to push Isaac, but loyalty is a vise grip around his reason.

"Fine," he grinds out. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Never do," Isaac replies. He looks at me, those smoldering eyes locking onto mine. "Hawk, you're coming."

"Okay," I agree without hesitation. This is more than just gang politics now. This is something big.

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