Page 66 of Isaac

"We don’t need him, Blade." Jeremy gives me an evil side-eye.

"He’s coming," Isaac repeats calmly.

The three of us are quiet then and time seems to stand still while the silence stretches thin as we exchange tense glances.

CHAPTER 20

ISAAC

We navigate the labyrinth of tables, cloaked in fine linen, heading toward a secluded booth nestled into the farthest corner of Primavera. It's an Italian eatery by day, mafia HQ by night. Tucci makes it his haunt most evenings, gorging on some greasy pasta concoction—fucker sure is predictable.

The heavy scent of garlic and aged wine clings to the air like an old vendetta as I stride past indifferent diners, most of them older couples or groups of overdressed men who speak loudly with heavy Italian accents. Jeremy's footfalls next to me are silent but lethal.

Hawk trails behind, his presence a silent storm cloud and I find myself wanting to look at him every other second and it’s distracting—this sudden obsession. Besides, I’m still not sure he’s ready to face what we sometimes must do. So far though, he’s played along just fine, keeping it cool.

"Isaac," Tucci greets me sheepishly when I approach his table. Surprise splinters his composure, his eyes latching onto me like I'm the ghost.

"Didn't expect to see me?" I slide into the seat across from him, the leather groaning beneath me, while Jeremy takes up a sentinel position beside me, and Hawk is lurking a step back.

"Ah, Isaac, no, it's just..." His laugh is a strangled thing that dies in his throat.

His fork full of spaghetti hangs suspended mid-air before its precious cargo decides to give gravity another chance and slides back onto his plate. "You don't usually pop in..."

"Maybe I’m in the mood for some—" I pick up the menu and sarcastically read off the first thing that I see "—Bruschetta Calabrese." I force my lips to lift up at the corners, knowing that my smile is fake as fuck. But that’s the idea.

"Ah." Tucci nods rapidly. "Solid choice. Best bruschetta in Vegas."

I slap the menu down against the table and will my face to slip back into that comfortable numb mask I wear on most days. "Just to be clear Tucci, I didn’t come down for small talk. We need to discuss some business."

"Last time we spoke Thoreau didn’t seem inclined to do business with me. What changed your mind?"

"Not that kind of business, Tucci." I lean forward, elbows on the table. "I’m talking about a little hiccup outside the city a few days ago."

Tucci's face blanches, the blood draining away as if I've already slit his throat. The restaurant buzzes around us, ignorant to what’s happening in our booth. I lean forward some more to make the distance between myself and Tucci as small as possible with the table separating us. My voice is a low threat only he can hear. "I’m going to ask you directly, man to man. Did you have something to do with the attempt on my life and the lives of my boys?" The restaurant's warm ambiance doesn't reach our corner; here, the air is ice and steel.

Jeremy shifts beside me, his jacket peeling back just enough to reveal the glint of cold metal against his thigh. It's a silent symphony of threat that sings louder than any words could.

"Me? Isaac, you know I wouldn't—" Tucci stammers, his eyes darting toward the gun then back to my face.

"Wouldn't what? Try to take me out?"

"Come on..." His voice trails off. "Didn’t we already talk about it?"

"We talked about you doing unauthorized shit on our territory. Different story, my friend." I can taste the lie on Tucci's tongue, bitter and rancid. But I can’t do anything about it unless I have evidence. I drive my point home. "If I find even a whisper that ties you to the attempted hit on my men, it'll be the last thing you ever do. I’m taking it to Tony."

Tucci's face loses more color, leaving behind a palette of grey fear as sweat beads at his brow. The clamor of the restaurant fades into a distant echo, our table the only scene that matters.

"Boy, you’re overthinking it," Tucci chokes out. "Morelli... he's not someone you want to get in bed with."

"Didn’t you hear what I just said?" I growl out.

Tucci continues to look at me. Fucker is a coward but he’s got guts. And I don’t know if it’s because he has some loose screws and just doesn’t understand how things work sometimes. After the warning my guys gave him he’s still at it.

"If I were you, I’d watch your back," I hiss, standing up abruptly.

The three of us leave without any parting words.

The ringing of my phone shatters the silence in my car the following evening, like a prelude to the inevitable. Uncle Maurice's number is on display. I know why he's calling. News travels fast in our circles, and the shock waves from my little chatwith Tucci must have rippled all the way to his estate he never leaves.

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