Page 10 of Isaac

"You owe me a fucking drink, boss," was all he said to me then.

The rustle of pages snaps me back to reality—to the office of Purgatory.

"Hey." I ask matter-of-factly, "Did you get that guy’s drug test results?" I pause, giving Jeremy a chance to ask which guy. For some reason, I don't want him to know I know that, but I do. I remember.

Hawk.

"Which guy?" he asks as expected.

"The one who came in a couple of days ago... Hawk, I think."

Jeremy looks up from the papers. "Yeah, got 'em this morning. He's clean."

"When does he start?"

"Training this weekend. I like him."

"Alright." I nod, a small sense of relief I can't explain washing over me.

I decide to change the topic. "Any word from Vartan?"

"Not yet."

"Let's hope he's not bullshitting us," I murmur under my breath, my mind already racing with possibilities. You just never know with these old-timers. They still think crypto is a scam.

They underestimate me often.

Well, that's too bad.

They didn't realize I learned a thing or two behind bars. And now, with this new Bitcoin shit, we'd be untouchable. It's long overdue to run this business differently.

The weekend descends upon Vegas and with it—Purgatory—like a dark and brooding thunderstorm, signaling the start of real chaos and debauchery. The club is packed with those seeking sinful pleasures and the music bouncing off the walls is a heartbeat of lust, drugs, and danger.

I don't normally oversee the operations but tonight I find myself drawn to a dark corner near the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, hidden from view, my gaze fixated on the new man on the floor.

Cody Smith.

Or Hawk.

Yes, I looked at his file.

Not something I normally do.

But a voice inside me nagged. No. Demanded.

This man... He unsettles me.

I have to tell myself he's just another body on the floor. Another hire.

But it's a lie. A dirty one that sticks in my throat like bile. He has this sleek confidence that doesn't come from money or power. It comes from within. I know it well, recognize it as the reflection of my own, born out of mere necessity to survive and not because it was given to me, handed on a silver platter along with everything that came with the title of Jacob Thoreau's son.

For some time, I simply observe the new guy shadowing Marco. Hawk moves like liquid fire through the crowd, his eyes scanning every face with sharp precision. He's meticulous. He's adjusting well to the role, I think, watching as he approaches another guard, exchanging brief words before they drift back to their assigned stations.

But this unexpected tickle of curiosity confuses me.

I can't put my finger on it at first. And then I realize why. He's new. And fresh-faced arrivals aren't to be trusted.

Here, in this place, trust needs to be earned, usually the hard way. But even if we don't bring every single security guard to the inner circle, sooner or later, they notice things. And that opens us up. Leaves blind spots. Not something I can afford right now.

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