Page 67 of Isaac

"Come see me, Isaac," he says when I answer, his voice a blade wrapped in finest silk, and it's not a request.

It’s an order.

The cruise through the cityscape on my way to Maurice's place is lost in a blended haze of streetlights and towering silhouettes, each one a silent observer to my easy thoughts.

Later on, as I step into Maurice's study, I realize anxiety gnaws at me from within. I’m not scared of the man per se. He lacks what Jacob had as far as intimidation and fear go. Still we’ve never been friendly, even though Maurice is considered the nicer of the Thoreau brothers.

The air in his study is permeated with the scent of old, expensive leather and judgment. Extravagant artwork—mostly rare finds—hangs from the walls, their painted eyes glaring down at me, disdainful witnesses to the family drama about to unfold.

When Maurice enters, his presence fills the room with electrical tension. He doesn't speak immediately, choosing instead to lower himself into an armchair behind a massive table with calculated slowness.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him but at sixty-three he still defies the ravages of time, easily looking like he’s in his early fifties. The man is a slave to vanity and takes obsessive care of his appearance. I hear his fourth wife is twenty-eight.My age.

"Isaac," Maurice finally says, and the single word feels like the closing of a trap.

"Uncle." My reply is a tightrope walk between respect and defiance. The chair opposite him remains empty. I choose to stand when he gestures at it.

"Trouble does seem to follow you," he observes, flinty eyes piercing through me, trying to read the secrets I keep folded away.

"Trouble finds us all, eventually," I retort, meeting his gaze without flinching. "It's how we deal with it that sets us apart."

He leans back, steepling his fingers as if in prayer, though I doubt Maurice has ever spoken to any god but power and money. "And how do you intend to deal with this... incident with the Italian?"

"By cutting out the rot before it spreads," I say, my voice steady.

"Rot has a way of hiding where it's least expected," he muses. "Sometimes within one's own blood."

"Then it's a good thing I've never been queasy," I counter, my hands itching for something to break.

"Bold words," Maurice acknowledges with a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "But be careful, Isaac. Boldness can turn into recklessness."

"Recklessness," I spit the word out like a curse, "is leaving threats to fester."

"Or perhaps it is not seeing the whole board," he counters cryptically, his gaze sharpening. "One move can topple an empire, nephew." He punctuates the last word as if wanting me to remember it.

"Then it's a good thing I'm playing for keeps."

"Indeed." Maurice's response is a whisper. "Just remember, actions have consequences, Isaac. And consequences have long shadows."

"Shadows don't scare me," I say, but even as the sentence leaves my lips, I feel them—dark tendrils coiling around my heart, squeezing tighter with every beat.

"Bravery or folly," Maurice murmurs, almost to himself.

"Sometimes they're one and the same," I admit.

"Perhaps." He’s quiet for a moment, studying me as if calculating something in his head. "Can't you let things be?" He drapes both arms over the chair. "I've nurtured a good relationship with the Italians. I intend to keep it that way."

"Someone tried to have me killed," I grit out.

He watches me, an unreadable mask, as if weighing my life against his alliances.

"If I find proof it was Tucci behind the ambush, I will eliminate him," I declare.

Maurice’s face pinches, a portrait of distaste at my audacity. "It's your choice." He sighs, the sound more resignation than concession. "But remember, the consequences."

"You’ve said that already. You don’t need to repeat it, Uncle."

"And remember who made you part of this life," Maurice adds. The reminder is like a silk-wrapped chain. "Remember who kept you in the family."

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