Page 2 of Isaac

Find a way to get close to Isaac Thoreau.

Make sure he goes back to prison.

For good.

CHAPTER 1

ISAAC

The air in the VIP room of Purgatory is heavy despite the blasting AC, a suffocating blanket of hookah smoke and hushed whispers. From my vantage point on the second floor, I have a bird's-eye view of the mayhem on the dance area below, drunks and happy people getting carried in the pulsating music that reverberates like an irregular heartbeat throughout the club.

The dim lighting throws macabre shadows over the faces of the men around me, carving them into sharp angles and hollows. Across from me, on the other side of the glass table sits Vartan, two of his men and four bodyguards are behind him. My own bodyguards are in the background, invisible in their dark suits that match the interior of the club.

For the first time in decades, the Hellhounds are stuffed shoulder to shoulder with the men that belong to the syndicate that has been running this city longer than any of the current gangs, the syndicate we avoid doing business with.

Their presence here today is a reminder of the thin line we walk between camaraderie and hostility. Or the line we are about to cross. Whichever one may that be.

"Mr. Avagyan is very interested in helping to establish this partnership," Vartan says, his voice dripping with malice he stillhasn't learned how to hide. The old man is probably pushing sixty. I only vaguely remember how he looked before I went to prison, but he still locks eyes with Jeremy the same way he used to lock them with Jacob's men. "Our friend needs someone reliable in Vegas to help distribute his product and Mr. Avagyan recommended to speak to Isaac."

"Isaac's just a club owner," Jeremy retorts, his dark eyes narrowed. He tries to play it cool. But he's never been a great actor. His job is head of security. On paper at least. Besides, the corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly, hinting at his own curiosity about the offer.

"Ah, but we all know Isaac Thoreau is more than just a club owner, don't we?" Vartan replies slyly, casting a sidelong glance at me.

I remain impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I know men his age, men who've been owning this city since before I was born, men who would be happy to put a bullet in my head. But I didn't spend nine years of my life in the lockup just to let some has-been end me.

Time’s a-changing.

"Mr. Avagyan should know better than to trust rumors," Jeremy supplies with a smile of his own, but there's a hitch in his voice. He steals a glance at me, searching for my approval or disapproval.

We don't really advertise what we do—it's one of the reasons why we've been off the FBI radar this long. I fully expected them—and any other law enforcement agency—to knock on my door the day I was released.

But no.

Didn't happen.

Jeremy keeps on glaring.

In return, I simply raise an eyebrow, urging him to continue the conversation. My own gaze returns to the bulletproof glasswall that allows for the entire first floor to be seen from my spot in the corner. I stare down at the DJ booth and the writhing mass of bodies, losing themselves in the throes of hedonistic revelry.

The pulsating bass beats a disjointed rhythm into my chest as the DJ transitions into a new song, neon laser lights slicing through artificial fog. It's not as loud here—in this room—but I can still feel it. Feel something muffled. Like something is trying to get out, to free itself. But I don't know if it's ever going to. Or if I want it to.

"Rumors have a way of becoming truth when one digs deep enough," Vartan muses from across the room, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as if it holds the answers to life's most pressing questions. "And we've done our digging, Mr. Ramirez." He leans back in his chair. "The entire State of Nevada knows Isaac Thoreau is far more than a mere club owner. He is his father's son, after all."

The mention of Jacob Thoreau sends a shiver down my spine. The memories of his cruelty are still fresh in my mind, even all these years of prison cruelty later. And I can feel the weight of the past pressing down on me. I'm suddenly transported to that night again. I'm seventeen. Weak and freaked out and there's blood on my hands and in my mouth and I don't feel anything. I don't feel a goddamned thing.

A scary notion for someone who's just a teenager.

The taste of bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it back, forcing myself to remain present. I refuse to let Vartan or any of my own men see any weakness, so I shove the memories away and focus on the VIP room and the conversation happening in it.

"Jacob Thoreau is worm food," I say, my tone icy. Let this be a reminder for those in the room with me what I'm capable of. Even though no one knows the truth. No one except my motherbut she is long gone, succumbed to cancer while I was serving my sentence.

Vartan studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before responding. "I meant no disrespect, Isaac. It's just that... well, your reputation precedes you."

"Isaac is a man who knows an opportunity when it knocks," Vartan's right-hand man whose name escapes me replies smoothly. "And our mutual friend's offer would benefit all parties involved. Our supplier, Mr. Avagyan, and you."

"I need a name of that friend you are trying so hard to sell me," I say.

"Very well," Vartan concedes, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "But I will need to speak to Mr. Avagyan first."

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