Page 92 of Isaac

"Handle it?" Jeremy scoffs bitterly. "Like you've been handling everything else?"

"Watch it, J. Don't forget who you're talking to."

"Whatever, man."

This anger and frustration and pain—I can feel it, even if they aren’t mine. They shouldn’t bother me in any way, yet they do.Because I imagine both—brother and sister growing up without their parents. I can't claim I know what it's like. I only know how growing up without a father felt. Like a half of me was missing. A half I'm still searching for.

A few minutes later, Isaac emerges from the room. "We're going back to the club," he announces, storming past me toward the exit.

I follow him wordlessly, my own mind a whirlwind of conflict.

The security guard is still there, hanging out by the entrance. He returns Isaac his fob and provides him with instructions on where he's parked the car. Isaac hands him another bill just as he promised.

As we drive back to Purgatory in tense silence, Isaac's grip on the wheel tightens so much, his knuckles turn bone-white. "I'm pretty fucking sure it's Tucci," he growls all of a sudden before taking a sharp right turn, ignoring all traffic laws and narrowly avoiding a collision by mere inches. "All I need is proof, and he's done."

I can’t remember seeing him this unhinged before. At least not while he’s sober.

Something in my chest twists. No, I don’t want to feel fucking things. I don’t want to console him. I shouldn’t care but I do. I gingerly rest my palm over his thigh. Somehow, my worry for Isaac, Jessica, and even Jeremy has become more than just professional concern—it's personal now.

"Try to calm down, okay," I say. "Or you’ll do something reckless."

"Reckless?" he snaps, however his eyes remain on the road, which I’m grateful for. "You think I'm being reckless? Someone hurt my family, Hawk. And I know who that someone is. I don’t need you to tell me to calm down. I’ve got a shitload of people waiting at the club, ready to spit that same phrase right now.Asking me to fucking calm down. What I do need is fucking help. Help to find the assholes who did this to Jessica."

"Okay. I got you," I mutter, uncertain he can even hear me under the rumble of the engine. I’m trying to find more words—right ones—to reach him through his anger. "Losing your cool isn't gonna help Jessica or anyone else," I supply at the next light. "We need to think this through and act carefully."

To that, Isaac responds with a gesture that speaks louder than anything else—he turns up the music and pushes the car through the traffic.

The neon lights of the Strip glance off the polished surface of the bar through the large windows overlooking the busy street. A kaleidoscope of colors dances across my vision as I settle onto a stool and signal for the bartender. He's a familiar face, one I've seen many times before, just not with this shaggy beard and a whole lot of brand new tats.

"Hey," he barks over the music, his tone sharp with disapproval. "What’s it gonna be, buddy?"

I throw out some brand of beer I don’t care about. He’s fully in character as he continues to take more orders, then fulfill them until there’s no one unattended left.

The beer I ordered finally hits the counter too. He leans on one elbow as if chatting me up and hisses out, "You can't just come waltzing in here. You'll blow my fucking cover."

"Relax, Fist," I reply, my own voice low and tense despite the brave face I’m putting on like any Thoreau man would walking into Morelli’s business. "I need some information."

"Jesus, man. It's dangerous enough being this close to you," he mutters, wiping down the counter while maintaining with a rag. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"Someone attacked a civilian—an innocent woman," I explain, my jaw clenching as the memories of Jessica lying in that hospital bed punch their way into the forefront of my mind. "I need a little help before things get really bad."

"Why you’re coming to me?"

"You know why," I whisper, leaning closer. "It’s one of Morelli’s guys."

"Who?" Robbie's eyes narrow, his demeanor shifting from annoyance to concern.

"Tucci. He’s doing some shady business, word is behind Morelli’s back. I’m sure you know it too."

Robbie makes a sound that's neither a confirmation nor a denial.

"Seems like there's heat on Thoreau now, and an innocent woman is on life support because of it."

"Fuck." Robbie's grip tightens on the rag he's holding. He rakes his free hand through his auburn hair. "Alright, I'll see what I can find out." He shakes his head as he moves along the bar, still working it like a pro despite our conversation. When he’s back to my corner a few minutes later, he refills my beer and adds quietly as he places the new glass on the counter, "All I've heard about Tucci is some rumors. Tony’s brother was some kind of father figure to him and he’s been making moves lately. Not sure if he’s aiming for Giovanni’s place. Got his hands in people trading and has some serious group backing him up. Not sure what it means yet."

"Giovanni’s a class act. Tucci is a nasty street rat. He won’t hold up."

"My thoughts exactly."

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