31. Chapter 31
Chapter 31
East Los Angeles
T he farther they drove, the more familiar it felt—and not in a good way.
Isaac leaned his elbow against the door, watching the blocks roll by. This wasn’t the glossy part of L.A. This wasn’t Malibu’s wide drives or West Hollywood’s curated grit. This was East L.A.—where the paint peeled off apartment buildings, corner stores had iron bars on their windows, and teenagers leaned too hard into cars that weren’t theirs.
The place reeked of something he couldn’t quite shake: desperation.
And maybe familiarity.
He’d seen places like this overseas. Seen kids barefoot on cracked pavement, seen gangs posted up like checkpoints, seen that undercurrent of hard living carved into the bones of the neighborhood. Nothing about it surprised him. What surprised him was that Rosie was here. That she’d chosen this place.
He parked in a lot tucked behind the community center. Dirt lot. Uneven gravel. A mangled old chain-link fence wrapped around the edge, a busted security camera mounted up top, rusted and tilted.
Isaac stepped out of the truck slowly, careful not to tweak his ribs. They still throbbed, dull and persistent. Every inhale reminded him he wasn’t 100%—but nothing was keeping him from seeing this.
He followed Rosie inside, keeping a few steps behind her.
The building smelled like floor wax and cafeteria food. Cheap tiles. Old plastic chairs. The air conditioning was doing its best, but it wasn’t winning. A few folding tables had been pushed aside to make space for a projector, a screen, and a semicircle of chairs. Half a dozen people were already there—stakeholders, community partners, a few of Greg Taylor’s top nonprofit reps.
Rosie stepped forward into the room like she belonged there.
And Isaac stood back, silent, unseen.
She’d changed. He knew that. He’d been watching it in pieces, but this was different.
Jeans. White tee tucked in. A black blazer over top. Hair twisted up, clean and elegant. Red lipstick. Heels—those sharp black ones that made her legs look even longer. Her glasses were off. No paint under her nails. Just this poised, quiet power radiating off her like heat.
She started speaking.
Isaac didn’t sit.
He found a corner in the back and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, keeping his gaze locked on her—and everything else.
She presented the mentorship pilot with that slow, self-assured confidence he’d never quite been able to name before. Slide after slide, she walked them through the plan—how the art would serve as a foundation for trauma recovery. How these teens would build portfolios, explore their stories, speak in colors and textures when words failed.
He listened.
And he watched.
Everyone in the room was nodding. Engaged. Her audience was with her.
But Isaac?
He wasn’t watching the room.
He was watching the door.
The windows.
The sketchy alley entrance with the loose hinge and busted latch.
The guy across the street who hadn’t stopped staring since they arrived. Older man, late 50s, maybe.
Isaac’s jaw clenched. He shifted his weight and adjusted his stance—clear view of the exits, back to the wall. SEAL instincts. Habit. The way his pulse never really slowed in places like this.
He could see the center’s staff—a few worn-looking adults, tired but warm. Volunteers. The kind of people who’d been through it too. This wasn’t just a paycheck for them.
But that guy outside?
Nah. He didn’t belong.
He was lurking.
Leaning against the fence line. Smoking something. Twitchy fingers. Twitchier eyes. Hadn’t moved in thirty minutes. His gaze kept wandering back to the windows, back to Rosie.
Isaac rolled his shoulders. His ribs ached. Didn’t matter.
He could feel the pressure building behind his sternum.
Because this wasn’t just a community center anymore. This was her project. Her turf.
And no one—no tweaker, no creep, no half-assed danger-wannabe—was going to ruin this.
He didn’t know how to explain what was happening in his chest.
All he knew was this:
Rosie was changing lives.
And he was ready to hurt someone to make sure nothing fucked that up.
He straightened as the presentation wrapped up. The Q&A started. People leaned forward to talk to her, to shake her hand, to ask how they could help.
She smiled—warm, easy, professional.
She didn’t glance back at him.
But Isaac never took his eyes off her.
And he saw it—just out the window.
That same guy, now shifting closer to the building.
Still watching.
Isaac slipped through the side door, letting it close quietly behind him. The second he stepped out, the buzz of fluorescent lights was replaced by the hot stink of asphalt and piss baking under the late sun.
The alley was narrow. Uneven. A chain-link fence sagged near the far edge. Dumpsters lined the wall. Flies hovered around something rotting. Welcome to East L.A., he thought, breathing slow.
And there he was.
The guy was a few feet off the building now, pretending to lean against the brick like he belonged there. One foot twitching. Scratchy grey beard. Deep lines under his eyes. Muscles like someone who once lifted in the yard but hadn’t touched a weight in a decade. Thin, wiry, a little twitchy. His eyes flicked toward Isaac the second he stepped closer.
“Where you going, bud?” Isaac asked calmly.
The man didn’t answer at first. Just grunted, scratching his jaw with dirty fingers, like the question had been too much.
Isaac closed the gap, slow, deliberate.
“You waiting on someone?” Isaac pressed.
“Don’t worry about it,” the man muttered, voice gravel-coated and hollow. “Move, buddy.”
“No,” Isaac said, stepping into his path when he moved toward the door. “You’re not going in there.”
That got the man’s attention. He stopped. Turned. His eyes were pale and glassy, and something in Isaac’s gut twisted.
“I’m not here for them,” the man said, voice rough. “I’m here for her.”
Isaac’s jaw tensed. “Her who?”
A beat passed.
Then—“Rosalie.”
Isaac froze.
It wasn’t just the name. It was the voice. Something about the timbre, the rhythm, yanked at a memory from way back. Rosie at six years old, quiet and shaky, telling him she didn’t want to go back home. Ever. Rosie at seven, flinching when she saw a man who looked vaguely familiar on the street. Rosie at eight, telling him—not everything, but enough.
Isaac stared hard at the man. “What did you say?”
The man stepped forward, puffing his chest. “I raised her. And I’m here to see her. So you can get the hell out of my way.”
Isaac’s stomach turned to lead.
“You—” he blinked, narrowing his gaze. “You’re Troy.”
The man didn’t deny it.
Holy shit.
Troy. The man who had gone to prison when they were still in middle school. For killing Rosie’s mother.
“You’re not going anywhere near her,” Isaac said, voice low and even.
Troy smirked, cocking his head. “Why? You her boyfriend or something?”
Isaac stepped closer, looming. “Yeah. And more than that—I’m the guy who’s not letting you near her.”
“You don’t know shit,” Troy said, his voice shifting, angling darker.
Isaac didn’t blink. “I know she was twelve. And I know her mom called the police. And I know you went to prison for murder.”
Troy’s face twisted. “You think that’s the whole story?” he spat. “That bitch was the one who turned it into something it wasn’t.”
Isaac’s blood ran cold. “What the fuck are you saying?”
Troy shook his head, smiling like a man with no remorse. “You don’t get it. I took care of Rosalie. She had no one else. Her mom was—look, her mom worked the streets. Got knocked up by some rich asshole who never came back. I was the one who stayed.”
Isaac was silent. His heart thudded.
“And when Rosie got older,” Troy went on, his voice turning strange, almost wistful, “she and I had an understanding. Something real.”
Isaac’s fists clenched. “She was a child,” he said coldly. “What the fuck are you saying.”
Troy’s smile vanished. “She was my girl.”
Isaac took another step. “She was twelve. Don’t dress it up. Don’t rewrite it. You groomed her. You were abusing her. And when her mother found out and called the cops, you killed her.”
Silence.
Troy’s face darkened. His fists twitched.
“I did what I had to do,” he said. “She was trying to take Rosie from me.”
Isaac saw red. He didn’t think. He moved. His fist cracked across Troy’s face, sending him crashing into the wall. The man staggered, spitting blood, laughing even through the pain.
“You think you’re protecting her now?” Troy slurred.
Isaac punched him again.
And again.
The third time, he saw something in the man’s eyes change—fear now, real and raw—but it didn’t slow him down. He drove Troy back against the dumpster, slammed his shoulder into his gut, knocked the wind out of him.
“You come within a mile of her ever again,” Isaac growled, hauling him up by the collar. “And I swear to God—”
Troy collapsed to the ground, groaning.
“I’ll rip your fucking face off.” Isaac stood over him, breathing hard, every muscle in his body screaming. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles were bloodied. His pulse roared in his ears.
The man didn’t move.
Isaac backed away slowly, shaking. He hadn’t killed him. He should have. But Rosie… Rosie would never want that. He turned away, walking back toward the door, his hands trembling.
The girl he loved had survived hell. And this man? This man was going to disappear. Because if he ever came near her again, Isaac wouldn’t leave it unfinished.