Page 102 of Enigma: An Isaac Retelling
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“Hugo’s tender to be a bidder was approved. Regan is organizing a wire transfer now. I set up an offshore account so the down payment won’t be tied to Hugo’s family in any way.”
I swipe at the sweat careening down my face with a towel while breathing out a short, “Good.”
I had planned to go home after my run-in with Cormack and Hugo at Harlow’s bakery, but with my mind still muddled, my car took me to a warehouse similar to the one Col tried to siphon from my arsenal of properties for a measly nickel.
My heart couldn’t stomach the idea of visiting that warehouse, so I settled for its identical sister on the outskirts of town. I avoid the warehouse that claimed the life of two of Col’s children in one night at all costs. I’d burn it to the ground if it weren’t the place I was told I was loved without a stipulation attached to the term of endearment. It would be as black and worn out as the boxing bag I’ve been relentlessly pounding the last hour and a half.
My workout has done wonders for the clot-forming adrenaline I wanted to disperse from my veins, but my mood is still precariously dangling off an incredibly steep cliff, meaning my voice echoes when I interrupt Hunter’s droning monotone, “Can this wait?” I don’t give him the chance to fire off an objection. “I’m sweating like a pig, my muscles are aching, but I’m not even halfway through my excess energy yet.”
“Lucky for you,” Hunter replies with a chuckle. Before I can unriddle his comment, he pushes out, “Everything you need to know has been forwarded to the private server in your office at the Dungeon. I won’t reach out again until you give me the go-ahead.” I’m about to tell him that my wish for privacy has no effect whatsoever on Callie’s auction, but before I can, he mutters, “Unless I have news about Callie. Then I’ll come straight to you.”
“Good,” I reply again, too exhausted for a longer response. “Bye.”
After snapping my phone shut, I slide it into the pocket of my gym shorts then shift on my feet to face the boxing bag dangling from a steel chain in the middle of the warehouse responsible for my investment in Ravenshoe. Fight promoters came here for the quiet, unknown location. It was a swamp far away from prying eyes—the ideal location for illegal activities.
All I saw was potential. The land mass was vast, the infrastructure was there but in dire need of repair, and it’s a stone’s throw from Miami. It screamed for attention in the same way my body did after fighting an illness that should have killed me.
I bought this warehouse from the fight promoter the night I fought here, then I continued purchasing properties in this vicinity over the next two years. By the time I met Ophelia, I already had a handful of Ravenshoe establishments under my belt. I just never invested any time into my idea until her death forced me to alter the width of my game’s posts.
Ravenshoe borders Hopetown, the one place Col Petretti rules but will never fully own.
I’m still smirking about how deep in the hole his operation went when I poached his investors while ripping off my shirt so its dampness won’t hold back my hits. I love fighting, but not all my fondness stems from beating a man senseless. I crave the limelight of proving I’m not as small and weak as the childhood cancer made me in my youth, and you can beat the odds even when they’re stacked against you.
I also love the thrill of winning, hence why I find it so hard to walk away from Isabelle. But I don’t just want to win when it comes to her. I want to claim the entire championship, and it feels like that is within my reach when the slightest sniff of an inexpensive perfume lingers into my nose.
Although days earlier, Isabelle arrived as Cormack predicted, but instead of her presence easing my agitation, the scent suffocating her alluring smell doubles my anger. She smells like another man and the knowledge has me beating into the bag as if it is Col Petretti’s abhorrent face.
I work the bag over and over again until it suddenly dawns on me that not even seeing Col six feet under could eradicate my urge to dominate Isabelle.
To caress and explore every inch of her delicate skin.
To make her mine.
So I stop swinging my fists to wordlessly announce I am aware of her presence, but I don’t turn around. She needs to come to me, and her excuse for spending the night with another man better be delivered without the slightest bit of deceit in her tone because I will not be held accountable for my actions if they’re not.
My astuteness. My intellect. My wisdom. They’re all null and void when it comes to Isabelle.
I am a mere man in her presence.
When several painstaking seconds pass in silence, I crank my neck back to peer into Isabelle’s rich chocolate eyes. They expose her remorse but not an ounce of guilt can be seen in them. I’d pay that morsel of information more attention if I could take my focus off her skirt and satiny shirt. They’re either an identical set to the pair she left her apartment in yesterday morning, or she hasn’t changed.
The realization she’s been so busy she hasn’t had time to shower has my focus shifting back to the bag. I pound it with my fists, my unrelenting thrashing only slowing when Isabelle shouts, “I didn’t sleep with anyone last night.” My next three hits only reach half their strength when she adds, “I haven’t had sexual contact with anyone but you in over a year.”
As the honesty in her tone fills me with relief, I grip the steel chain holding the bag in place before sucking in some deep breaths. Trust has never been a strong point of mine. My mother’s warped ideas about marriage tainted my beliefs about honest, monogamous relationships, but I truly have faith in my intuition when it comes to Isabelle.
But just in case my astuteness is leading me astray once more, I pivot around to face her, then demand her to repeat her confession.
“I haven’t had sexual—”
“Not that statement. The one about last night.” I can forgive an incalculable number of injustices before we met, and I’m hopeful Isabelle can do the same, but any between the time she bumped into me at the airport until now are inexcusable.
I held back desires naturally engrained in me, so it is only fair for Isabelle to have done the same.
After wetting her throat with a quick swallow, Isabelle repeats, “I didn’t sleep with anyone last night.”
Although pleased by her answer, I have no intention of ending my interrogation any time soon. “Where were you?”
