Page 60 of Isaac

Sometime after Toro's silhouette shrinks into the waning sunlight, I find myself standing amidst the cold steel and staleair of the warehouse, feeling the weight of his warning on my shoulders grow impossibly heavy.

I draw a breath that tastes of gunmetal and dust, and release it slowly, steadying myself while the space around me comes alive with the sound of fluttering bills.

Jeremy and Seven sit at a makeshift table littered with stacks of cash, their laughter bouncing off the walls, a grim counterpoint to this afternoon's unease.

"Damn, look at this haul," Jeremy crows, thumbing through a stack with practiced ease. "Enough here to make the entire Vegas blush."

Seven grins, eyes alight with greed. "I'm thinking Italian leather, custom fit. And maybe one of those watches—so shiny you need shades to tell the time."

"Ask boss." Jeremy cackles. "He knows about watches." His gaze lifts from the green sea of bills, locking onto mine. "So, what's your play, Blade? You think these Russians are worth the risk?"

I feel the weight of the question, each syllable like lead. My fingers graze the cold metal of a gun on the table—Russian make, precision and power forged into steel. It's a silent testament to potential, to the kind of firepower that could tip scales in our favor if we are the only buyer in town.

"Solovey…" I muse, eyes narrowing as I roll the weapon over in my hand, feeling its balance. "He brings more than just guns to the table. He has connections, reach... and ambition."

"Exactly." Jeremy nods, his scar stretching with the motion, a jagged line through his history written on skin. "That's what worries me, Isaac. Ambition has a way of biting back."

"Then we bite harder," I state, the words slicing through the air, a decision sharpened to a fine point. "We need what they offer. This isn't about trust. It's about leverage. We use themto strengthen our grip on the city and continue building our relationship with Toro. Any backlash... we'll handle it."

"Handle it," he echoes, skepticism threading through his tone. But it's not a question. He knows better than to doubt an order. His loyalty is a constant, unwavering as the walls of this warehouse.

"Your call," Seven says, his voice lighter but edged with the same tension that tightens Jeremy's jaw. A shared understanding among us that this partnership is a double-edged sword—one we're all willing to wield.

"Tell the Russians we're in for a long haul," I order Jeremy, my resolve hardening like the concrete underfoot. "Set up the next meet. It's time to show them how we operate."

"And the ambush?"

"Let's keep it quiet and continue digging for now."

The room falls silent, save for the soft rustle of cash being stacked, the sound now more a prelude to war than a celebration of profit. There's no joy in this decision, only the grim acknowledgment that in our world, alliances are as fragile as the bones we so often break.

CHAPTER 19

DALLAS

Several days bleed into each other like spilled paints of various colors since the ambush and that night—the one where alcohol betrayed Isaac Thoreau and let his secret slip from his lips. Or rather pushed his lips to test-ride mine.

Now, the ghost of that kiss lingers like a shadow I can't shake off, haunting my thoughts even in daylight. Special Agent Dallas Bradley is no longer sure he’s got his shit figured out because he enjoyed the feel of Isaac Thoreau's tongue in his mouth just as much as someone like Hawk would.

And that’s a problem.

Because Dallas Bradley likes to do things by the book and being intimate with a target isn’t going to be anywhere in that proverbial book.

Some nights, when Cody "Hawk" Smith is prowling the neon-lit corridors of Purgatory, Isaac Thoreau is watching him from afar with those smoldering eyes. He said he didn’t mean it but his gaze tells another story.

And that’s a problem number two.

Because the insatiable curiosity in me refuses to be tamed.

On work nights, I crash at the hotel per Isaac’s request, restlessly waiting for something to happen. The king-sized bed's unfamiliarity is a cold reminder of my double life.

Nights off, and I'm a ghost driving back to an empty apartment, navigating streets packed with tourists.

The sun already high in the sky has barely cracked open the sky when a knock shivers through my hotel door. I’m on my feet before my brain even processes the sound, muscle memory or paranoia—take your pick. My trusty Glock is under the pillow next to me. I grab it and pad toward the door, keeping the weapon hidden behind my back.

When I swing the door open, Isaac stands there. Again. He's all dark hair and extra-rich chocolate eyes framed by long lashes. A storm dressed as a man. Black slacks, white shirt, wrist wrapped with a Rolex.

"Need you to come with me," he says, voice low, like a secret being passed between us.

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