Restless Hawke (Billionaires of New Orleans: The Hawke Family Second Generation #6)

Chapter 1

1

COEN

Y ou have to be ruthless to win—and losing isn’t an option.

Nothing but complete focus will bring victory.

Watch everything like a hawk waiting to swoop in on its prey.

Never blink.

Never react.

Never give away anything your opponent can use.

Never hand them the rope with which to hang you…

Those words echo through my head—sound advice given by a man who certainly knows how to win.

He did it for decades in the courtroom, protecting the Hawkes from any manner of threat—and God knows there have been too many to even count. But when Dad offered Isaac and me those sage words of wisdom when we were just little boys, still learning the ways of the world and what it meant to have the Hawke-blue eyes and name, he never could have anticipated I’d be using them to face down an opponent across a felt poker table rather than a counsel’s table in some New Orleans courtroom.

Expectation meet harsh reality.

The man who almost gave his life for the Hawkes on multiple occasions never wanted this for his sons. That advice was meant to help us get somewhere in life. Somewhere that would bolster the family name and help establish our dominance.

Instead, I’m here after not only failing every single person I care about but also betraying them in the worst way possible.

That acrid taste of it has lingered in my mouth since the moment I placed the bet against Atlas, and it has only gotten worse in the three weeks since fight night and the wedding.

I’ve tried to keep the fact that I’m now the ultimate pariah out of my head while I play.

I’ve tried to follow Dad’s advice and forget everything I did, how badly I wounded them, how exposed everyone is now that I’ve opened the door to a monster…

Play.

Be a rock.

But it feels more like I’m Sisyphus, rolling a boulder of unbearable weight up a steep hill only to have it crashing back down on me—over and over and over and over…

Be ruthless.

There isn’t any other option.

Because at this point, it’s in my hands—the future of all the Hawkes.

I’m the one who betrayed their trust.

I’m the one who put myself into this position by ending up in bed with a man like Satriano. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know it was him when I placed my bet. The result is the same.

A very dangerous man has a stranglehold on me—on us —because I made the shittiest decision of my life.

Yet the money isn’t even really the issue.

And that’s what made me run from the wedding.

Run from New Orleans.

Run from the Hawkes.

What I owe is nothing compared to the retribution Satriano seeks in exchange for what Atlas did. That knockout sealed my fate—and put his life as well as that of every single member of the family in mortal jeopardy.

One punch set Satriano back billions .

And he doesn’t want it repaid in cash.

He wants it repaid in blood.

Owning a Hawke means controlling all of us, and he knew precisely what he was doing when he asked Atlas to throw that fight. If he had, Satriano would have made bank and had Atlas in his pocket. If he didn’t, Satriano would own me and Atlas. It was a win-win for the man who now controls the New Orleans underworld. And a loss-loss for the Hawkes.

That’s why this is so important—sitting here now, winning this game, buying some time and goodwill.

My single remaining opponent checks his cards for the tenth time. Casually. A mere glance, as if he couldn’t care less what he holds.

An act.

The same one I perform every time I play.

After more than six hours at the table, it’s down to just the two of us—all the other players who started out around this felt have dropped away. With everyone one, my odds of walking away with the massive pile of chips increases.

Fifty-fifty odds aren’t bad.

I would feel a lot more confident about my chances, except so far, I haven’t picked up his tell.

Everyone has one—except me.

I’ve trained myself not to fidget, how to hold my cards to ensure my hands stay steady and relaxed, how to look at them so that my pupils don’t dilate and facial features don’t reveal anything.

A decade of perfecting the art in high-stakes games.

Since the first time I sat at a table, I knew this was where I belonged.

Not behind the bar at the club or running one of the dozens of other Hawke businesses throughout town.

Definitely not with Dad in the courtroom.

That has always been Isaac’s domain, where he wants to be and where he excels. But for me, it has always been here —at a table like this—with cards in my hand and nothing standing between me and that purse except one man or the occasional woman.

Only now, I’m not playing for myself.

I’m playing for all of them .

To say I’m sorry. To supplicate myself at their feet and beg for forgiveness the only way I know how. And to protect them from what will come if I don’t try to fix things.

If that’s even possible…

Jake “the Snake” Nelson finally looks up at me and pushes his massive pile of chips to the center. “All in.”

He didn’t have to do that.

He could have placed a bet that would have protected some of that money so, if he loses, he won’t walk away empty-handed.

He did it for a reason.

And now I’m finally seeing his tell.

Jake is a bravado player, relying on a big bet to shake me.

But he doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with.

I didn’t come to Atlantic City to walk away with anything but the win.

Calling, I shove in the rest of my chips, while fighting the smirk that wants to pull at my lips…and lay down my cards.

A collective gasp goes up around me from those watching the game.

My opponent flinches, then sets his cards on the felt with a scowl.

Those two aces in his hand, the one in the flop, and the final the dealer pulled as the river probably made him very comfortable, but it can’t beat my king-high straight flush.

Fuck yes.

I needed this win badly.

Some days, the cards just aren’t in your favor—something “The Snake” is feeling right now, and a lesson I learned the hard way.

The losing streak that got me to this point almost destroyed everything.

And it still might…

A flash of green catches the corner of my eye, and, for the first time since the opening hand was dealt, I glance toward the crowd gathered around to watch the end of the game.

The casino lights reflect off the iridescent fabric of the slinky, curve-hugging emerald dress, but the woman wearing it has already turned away, a long cascade of dark hair falling down her exposed back.

She disappears into the throng so quickly that I almost wonder if I imagined her perfect ass and wide hips…

“Sir?”

Shit.

I shake my head to clear it and refocus on the table and what’s mine.

My biggest win since I fled New Orleans.

After weeks of chasing down private games in backrooms and casino tournaments with spots open, winning some and losing others, this finally feels like that little glimmer of hope I’ve been searching for—a chance that I might be able to pay back what I owe Satriano and save the Hawkes.

The casino host inclines his head at the chips as Jake shoves away from the table in a huff. “Congratulations, sir.”

I release a long, steady breath and sit back in my chair, finally allowing some of the tension I’ve been hiding to uncoil from my body. “Thank you.”

“Your winnings will be deposited into your account via wire transfer, as per the usual process.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Bobby.” Inclining my head in thanks, I toss a few $1,000 chips to the dealer. “Thanks for the good cards.”

Some people are superstitious.

They won’t play with certain dealers.

Won’t even approach a table if someone they don’t like is sitting behind the deck.

I’ve never believed in superstitions like that.

You win because you’re good and because the cards are in your favor. You lose because the cards aren’t or because you fucked something up and didn’t follow Dad’s rules.

But what happened over the last six months to put me in this position in the first place wasn’t that .

It was bad luck, pure and simple.

Different dealers, different casinos, different poker tournaments, different private games held in dark rooms, each time a loss. Loss after loss after loss, like repeated stabs to the heart, compounding the pain and damage.

That bet against Atlas was supposed to stop the bleeding, get me back everything I had lost. Instead, it only twisted the knife deeper.

This pile in the middle of the table is another small dent in what I owe Satriano.

Two million out of ten.

That number still shocks me at times.

Ten million…

All to fund that downward spiral I set myself on, always believing I would win it back. Always so confident that the horrible slide would eventually level out. Always so sure I could secure the next big win and then act like none of it had ever happened.

Fuck was I an idiot…

I push up from my chair and step back from the table.

All I want after a game like that is a stiff drink and to fall into bed.

The lights and sounds of the casino assault me the moment I step out of the poker room. Thousands of people fill the floor, many completely oblivious to the fact that they’ve been sucked in by quicksand that will suffocate them and wring them dry.

Most don’t have the skill to survive in a place like this.

The games are designed to lose.

And the house always wins.

Which is why poker has been my game.

I prefer my opponents to have names and faces, to be able to read them for all the little tells, knowing the deck isn’t already stacked against me the way it is with any other casino game. And normally, I would prefer to celebrate a win properly—with a strong drink and a warm, willing body under me.

But I shouldn’t stay any longer than necessary.

The more time I spend here, the greater the chance one of the Hawke spies will get word back to the family about where I am, and if they interfere, everything will become even more of a shitstorm than it already is. So, going back to my comped suite upstairs, packing, and heading out to the next game is the wisest plan.

I make my way past the central bar toward the guest elevators when that same flash of shiny green catches my eye again.

My steps falter, and I pause to examine the back of the woman sitting alone at the bar, sipping lazily from a martini glass.

Slender shoulders taper down to a stunning ass hugged in the skin-tight, shimmery emerald fabric.

I should keep walking.

I should leave.

But I want to celebrate.

And one night here with her would be worth any risk that staying in one place for too long might pose.

One night…or maybe two.

Because even though I haven’t seen her face yet, those lush curves and the way her body swayed when she walked away earlier are enough to tell me I won’t get enough of her in the hours we have left before tomorrow morning.

* * *

ALLEGRA

The sharp acidity of my cosmopolitan makes my lips purse as I swallow, but I relish the heat that spreads through my body the moment it hits my stomach, my shoulders relaxing slightly.

Damn. I needed this…

It’s been too long of a day.

Too much time being “on” and not relaxing.

But I immediately tense again as the stool next to me slides back and my skin prickles from a heated gaze raking over me.

I’ve always known when someone’s eyes were on me, when I was being watched. It’s something I learned to use to my advantage at a very young age. And it has served me well.

“Glenfiddich, forty-year, double, neat.”

His deep voice rumbles across the tiny space between us.

Assertive.

Almost commanding .

This is a man who knows exactly what he wants and likely demands perfection from everyone around him to obtain it.

A little shiver rolls through me.

I know this kind of man.

Been warned about his type.

Learned a long time ago not to get involved with anyone who oozes that type of confidence that borders on arrogance.

Arrogance is very rarely—if ever—warranted. Men merely wear it as a shield against the things and people in the world they’re intimidated by or as a badge of honor they haven’t earned.

Which means the man seated beside me with the voice that was enough to get a physical response from me with only a few words isn’t anyone to trifle with.

He is used to getting his way, and I need to prepare myself for what is undoubtedly coming mine.

Because he didn’t choose the seat beside me by accident…

The bartender turns away to make the requested drink, and I continue to stare down into my cosmo, running my finger along the rim of the glass lazily. Disinterested despite my new neighbor’s gaze continuing to heat my skin.

He accepts his glass from the bartender. “Thank you.”

Out of my peripheral vision, I catch the glint of the lights off the tumbler as it moves up to his lips, but I keep my focus anywhere but him. I won’t give him that satisfaction—at least, not that easily.

Make him wait.

Make him sweat.

He takes a slow sip before he sets it down and releases a contented sigh, like that single taste of the expensive scotch was precisely what he had been waiting for all day.

I know the feeling…

I’ve been waiting, too.

“Strong drink…” I continue to glide my fingertip along the rim of my glass, my long, crimson nail almost dipping into the pink liquid. “Bad night at the slots?”

The leather on his stool creaks slightly as he swivels toward me, and the scent of smoke and something crisp and briny, almost like the ocean on a beautiful summer day wafts over me.

It draws my focus away from my drink, and I finally turn my head slowly to look at him.

A lazy grin spreads across his perfectly formed lips—lips that look like they could perform any number of sins and do it devilishly well.

Warm, Caribbean-blue eyes that call for me to dive into them and swim forever assess me carefully, roaming from my hair down to meet my gaze for a brief second, then over my bright-red lips, my exposed cleavage, the shimmering green of my dress, and finally the leg slipping out of the high slit that leaves very little to the imagination and promises the same kind of sin his mouth does.

The longer his appraisal takes, the more I have to fight the urge to squirm.

Heat ripples over my skin everywhere his gaze touches, but I force myself to remain unaffected.

I didn’t expect those eyes.

Or that look.

Attention like this from men rarely rattles me.

There are times I even relish it and bathe in the power I can hold over the weaker sex that is controlled by what’s between their legs.

But this feels…different.

In a way I am not wholly comfortable with.

Finally, his focus returns to my face again, and he smirks. “No, actually. Why do you ask?”

I shrug nonchalantly and take another sip of my drink. “It isn’t every day you see somebody walk up to a bar and order something that costs more than $500 per pour. I thought maybe you were drowning your sorrows.”

He tilts his glass toward me, a light chuckle filling the space between us and sending goosebumps skittering across my skin. “If I had just lost a bunch of money, would I have ordered a $500 scotch?”

A grin fights to pull up my lips. “I guess that’s true.” Matching his movement, I tilt my glass his way. “Touché.”

His long, elegant fingers tighten on his scotch, and he brings it to his mouth again and enjoys another sip, never taking his gaze off mine. As he pulls the glass from his lips, he leans closer. “And what are you doing sitting here, drinking alone?”

Those warm azure eyes sparkle with mischief and heat, longing to keep me company in a way that would require privacy.

I trail my finger through the condensation forming on the martini glass, scanning the casino floor around us. “Just enjoying people-watching.”

He nods slowly and follows my gaze. “This is a good place for that.” Another sip. That intense focus swings back my way. He considers me for a moment and tilts his head toward the high-stakes poker room. “Is that what you were doing over at the table earlier? People-watching?”

Shit.

This man never looked up.

Never once gave any indication he saw me there, but apparently, he doesn’t miss much, even when his unnerving focus is elsewhere—like on winning that massive pool of chips.

I allow my shoulders to rise slightly and fall, trying to appear disinterested and unrattled at being caught. “Something like that.”

He rests his left forearm on the bar, leaning back a bit and watching me with a knowing glint in his eyes. Almost like he can see what really lies under this dress and the makeup I have all over my face. As if all of it might as well not exist. “I have a pretty good idea what you were doing.”

Raising a brow, I turn toward him on the stool, my leg slipping even farther out from the slit, revealing almost my entire thigh. If I opened my legs even a fraction of an inch, he would know I’m not wearing anything under this. “Do you?”

His eyes sweep over me.

The skin-tight dress.

All the exposed flesh.

My collarbone…

Breasts…

And he’s undoubtedly picturing my back that he saw when I walked away earlier and again when he came in and sat down.

A knowing grin plays at his lips, and that confidence I heard earlier in his voice resonates from him. “You were looking for your next mark.”

I try not to let my back stiffen at the implication, but my shoulders tighten at what he so casually laid out. “You think I’m a hooker?”

He snorts, then takes another drink before he sets down his glass and leans closer. “A stunning woman like you , in a dress like that , alone , at a place like this , hanging out near the high-stakes room and then the bar ?” He twirls his finger around in the air. “My family’s in the business—casinos, not hookers—and I know a professional when I see one.”

A professional…

I allow my lips to curl up into a saccharine-sweet smile that has lured many men to unsuspecting danger like a siren’s call. “What if I am a professional?” My gaze travels over the bar around us—all the open seats along it on either side, the more casual, comfortable, lounging chairs and couches set up all against the wall behind us—then I lean toward him. “You chose the seat next to me, already suspecting what I was. So, what does that say about your intentions?”

The grin he offers sends heat blazing through my veins. “Care to find out?”

More than I should…

I snort and take the final sip of my drink, setting the empty glass on the bar and inclining my head toward the bartender. “You can close my tab.”

My new friend beside me raises a brow. “Tab? You don’t have somebody buying you drinks?”

Like a mark hoping to take me up to their room?

He really does think I’m a hooker.

Holding his gaze, refusing to look away, I shake my head. “Despite what you think, no. I really did come here to have a drink and to people-watch.”

At least the man has the decency to flinch.

It’s finally sinking in what a mistake he’s made, and he doesn’t seem like the type of man who makes them often.

Or who likes doing it…

The bartender slides the bill to me, and I scribble my name and room number on it, ensuring my bar neighbor can’t see what I write before I return it. “Thank you.”

I climb off my stool and step back from the bar, but the man with zero sense and blue eyes that would be easy to drown in reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, stopping me from walking away.

Callouses graze across my skin and send a shiver of awareness through me.

He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would have rough fingers and hands.

He’s too clean and polished.

He screams money and lots of it.

And right now, he’s begging for forgiveness with those damn gorgeous eyes of his.

Any humor that once lived in his gaze and the tilt of his lips fades. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I offer a mirthless laugh, pursing my lips and squaring my shoulders. “No, you just thought I was a hooker.”

His eyes soften even more, warming in a way that is far too inviting. “Truly. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Why would I give you that?” I raise a brow. “Why would I give you anything?”

The perfectly square jawline that goes with all the other insanely Adonis-like features tenses. “Because I don’t get distracted at the poker table, and I was when I saw you earlier…”

Something flutters in my chest.

Hot.

Dangerous.

I lean down to brush my lips against his ear. “Then, it is rather unfortunate that you had such a low opinion of me.”

When I pull back, his eyes have darkened, now swirling like a hurricane is forming at the center. “I know places like this, and the best way to lose what you just won at the table is to bring a professional up to your room and get trick-rolled. I was trying to be careful.”

Despite the repeated insult of thinking I was a working girl, I grin at him. “Were you?” I raise my brows. “Because, as we’ve already established, you chose the seat next to mine, knowing full well what you thought I was. I think you like the danger. The fact that it’s forbidden and could cost you everything.” I lean even closer, ensuring my lips graze his ear. “You thrive on it.”

His back stiffens slightly, but the interest still controls his gaze when I pull back, keeping it locked on me. “You’re really not going to give me your name?”

Shaking my head, I tug out of his hold, those callouses skating roughly over my skin as I prepare to make my exit. “What’s the point?”

I don’t wait for him to try to argue.

It wouldn’t matter if I did.

Nothing he could say would get me to stay or to reveal the information he so eagerly seeks.

My heels click on the marble with each step I put between us.

I don’t look back, even though I can feel his gaze locked on me as I descend the two steps from the central bar and make my way out onto the casino floor.

And I don’t bother fighting the full-blown grin that pulls up my lips as I disappear into the crowd and walk away from him for the second time…

Confident he’s following and memorizing my every move.

Just like he did when I dropped the bait at the poker table earlier.