Chapter 14
14
THREE MONTHS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
ATLAS
W ren tugs at the side of the bustier of her dress for the hundredth time, adjusting it when it sits perfectly on her, hugging her beautifully and showing off all her curves.
I lean in and brush my lips against the back of her exposed neck. While I love her hair down, dark locks flowing all around her soft face, this updo definitely has its benefits.
“Stop fiddling with your dress.”
She freezes and glances over her shoulder at me from behind the elegant black, feathered mask covering the upper half of her face. “I’m not.”
I chuckle and tug her back against me. “You are, for like the thousandth time tonight.”
Ever since I took the shawl from her and draped it over the back of her chair at our table, leaving her in the strapless floor-length gown, she’s been restless in a way I don’t normally see her. With the scars that cover her left arm and trail up her neck and along her cheek exposed, she seems nervous. Unlike when she’s at the studio, perfectly comfortable to walk around in a tiny sports bra and leggings, here her gaze darts around the fundraiser as if she’s constantly checking to see who’s examining her.
“The only person staring at you is me because I want to bend you over this table, lift up this dress, and fuck you in front of all these people.”
She shivers and then gives me a dirty look over her shoulder. “Don’t say things like that to me in public.”
I nip at her ear. “In private’s okay?” I kiss her cheek as she laughs, then spin her around to face me, taking her hand in mine. “Let’s go hit the dance floor.”
Trying not to get sucked into conversations I’d rather avoid is a lot easier when I’m out there. Plus, it gives me a good excuse to have her body glued to mine without getting reproachful looks from people who think it’s indecent.
If they only knew what I do to her in private.
And I wasn’t joking.
If she said the word, I would bend her over the table—or anywhere else in the Marigny Opera House, where we always hold the Hawke Family Charity Fund’s annual fundraiser, which is in full swing.
Hundreds of New Orleans elite mill about, hidden behind their masquerade masks, dressed to the nines, dripping in diamonds and showing off their wealth and importance while the Hawkes all try to convince them to open their wallets for a good cause.
These things are nauseating, but having Wren here with me makes it bearable.
Given how we’ve spent almost every moment of our last month together either in the gym, with her performing some sort of treatment on me, or exhausted from all of it, I haven’t even been able to take her on a proper date.
And while this isn’t what I would choose, seeing her in this feathered gown, the way the mask matches it and her dark hair so perfectly I can almost pretend we’re alone somewhere.
Maybe Paris or some other romantic city not filled with all the turmoil that always seems to swirl around New Orleans and the Hawkes.
I lead her out onto the dance floor, surrounded by other couples enjoying the music played by the full orchestra.
Tugging her up against me, I wrap my arm around her waist, burying my face in her neck and inhaling her natural scent mixed with the light perfume she sprayed on before we left the condo.
We sway to the beat of the music like two teenagers at a high school dance, and while I should pull out the formal dance moves, I can’t bring myself to release her in order to do that.
This woman has become my world.
My days consist of two things—training and Wren.
And I still can’t get enough of her.
Of feeling her against me like this.
Even if it’s absolute torture, given her staunch insistence that we maintain her one damned little rule.
I kiss my way up her neck to her ear. “Can I make a confession?”
“Of course.” Her hands play with the hair at my nape. “I never want you to keep anything from me.”
That’s the promise I made when we started down this path.
One hundred percent honesty.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more beautiful than you do tonight.”
She sucks in a little sharp breath and tugs her head back. “Well, you clean up pretty good yourself, Atlas. The tux is”—her eyes travel down to the bow tie at my neck, and she pulls back even further to examine me—“pretty fucking hot.”
I raise my brows. “Oh, really?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods, allowing me to pull her up against me again. The song continues, and she feathers her lips against my neck. “I have to say, seeing you come out of the bedroom in this tonight made me reconsider my rule.”
No fucking way.
I’ve waited over four damn weeks for her to say those words, and I freeze and look down at her, issuing a low growled warning. “Don’t play with me like that, Wren.”
She laughs, giving me a coy look from under thick, dark lashes. “I said it made me consider it, not that I have made that decision.”
More torture…
Because I can’t make love to her like I want to, but also because of the wicked things she’s been doing with her hands and the exercises she’s put me through on the reformer, trying to stretch out my mangled muscle and break up all the scar tissue the surgery caused.
The pain in my shoulder has changed already, though.
It’s different now.
Not the same as it was before she came and brought a glimmer of hope with her. The improvements in the gym seem to confirm it’s helping, despite being more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
Jenkins is putting me through the paces, and so is my Little Bird…who seems to want to toy with me tonight.
I grasp her hand and spin her away from me. She laughs as I whirl her back in and catch her, dipping her toward the shiny dance floor. I tug her back up and hold her close.
She gives me an impressed look. “Where’d you learn to move like that?”
“You really think, as a Hawke, I wasn’t forced to learn every dance imaginable for just these occasions?”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “I guess I hadn’t considered that.”
“You’re going to have to learn, too.”
“Am I?” Her eyes twinkle playfully. “Why is that?”
And, fuck, I want to say those three little words that I’ve felt for so long.
The ones that explain I want her with me forever, for as long as I walk this Earth, but I don’t want to scare her. I don’t want to send her running—
A tap on my shoulder makes me turn toward the intruder in what could have been a very important moment in our relationship.
Isaac leans in so I can hear him over the orchestra. “We need you at the bar for a couple of minutes.”
I glance over there and see Dad, Uncle Savage, Uncle Stone, and Saint gathered around with their heads dipped low together in discussion. “Shit, that looks rather ominous.” Turning back to Wren, I offer an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move from this spot where I can see you from the bar.”
She scans the couples around her, standing in the center of the dance floor laden with partygoers. “Um, I’m just supposed to stand here by myself?”
Better than the alternatives.
If she comes with me, she may get sucked into a conversation about something she shouldn’t have to worry about, and if I send her back to our dinner seats, she’ll be stuck answering questions from old, nosy friends of the family wanting to get the scoop on the first woman I’ve ever brought to one of these.
I press another kiss to her lips. “Yes, and no other man is allowed to touch you tonight.”
“Then…maybe I should just go to the table.”
“No, right here.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m coming right back.”
She huffs out an annoyed sigh, and I step away and follow Isaac, weaving through the crowd, inclining my head toward everyone we pass. Some I can recognize even with their masks, and some who could be anyone.
The sheer number of people invited to these events boggles the mind. I’ve never particularly enjoyed attending, but they’re just part of being a Hawke.
Smile, wave, put on a show.
It’s for a good cause.
So, no matter how annoyed I might be at having to spend my evening here instead of with Wren at home, I’ll do it. This is important, not only to Hawke Enterprises but also to Dad and Savage personally.
The charity does so much good—one thing they set out to accomplish when they first joined forces to start building our empire.
We approach the bar, and Dad turns toward me, glancing back in the direction we just came. “Where is Wren?”
“I left her on the dance floor.” I turn so I can keep an eye on her, where she stands looking more than a little annoyed. “So, this better be quick.”
The corner of his lips twitch. “You’re kind of obsessed with that girl, you know?”
Yes…
“Is that why you dragged me away from her?” I raise a brow at him. “To state the obvious?”
Uncle Stone chuckles and takes a sip of what I know is club soda with lime—the same thing he’s drunk my entire life. “Wow. He’s in a mood today.”
Isaac nudges my elbow. “Maybe because he isn’t getting any.”
I gape at him. “Fuck you, asshole.”
He smirks.
Clearly, our little rule hasn’t remained a secret amongst the girls if Isaac knows I’m not spending my nights balls-deep in the stunning woman waiting for me to come dance again.
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”
Uncle Savage sets his jaw tightly. “Satriano showed up at the office.”
My annoyance immediately shifts focus—off the men around me and squarely to the one who can’t ever seem to just disappear. It’s been over a month of nothing, and now, he shows back up when things finally seem smooth and calm.
His M.O., really.
“When?”
Saint leans against the bar and takes a sip from a bottle of water. “Earlier today. Thankfully, your father and I were there with Savage to have the little chat.”
“What did he say?”
Dad shrugs, dangling his beer from his fingertips where he stands opposite Saint. “Not much. Other than he was anticipating the opening of the hotel and wondered where his invitation to the wedding was.”
“Is he fucking serious?”
Savage snorts and shakes his head, running a hand across his dark hair just starting to show signs of graying. “I don’t know. He seems to be sniffing around for information, and I can’t quite figure out what he wants.”
“What did he say exactly ?”
The three men exchange a look before they glance at Isaac and return their attention to me. Whatever it is, they’re almost bracing for my reaction.
“Will someone spit it the fuck out already?”
Savage sighs. “He wanted to book the presidential suite for opening night, and he expressed that he couldn’t wait for the fight.”
Ice travels through my veins, mixing with the red-hot hatred I have for Satriano. “He specifically mentioned the fight?”
Dad nods. “Which is why we brought you over here. After he showed up to talk to Wren, we thought you should know about his apparent interest. Something’s up.”
I rub the back of my neck, glancing up to Wren, now surrounded by various couples who have entered the fray on the dance floor. “No shit.”
Stone swirls his drink in the rocks glass. “You know how important the opening is for everyone…and the fight is our main headliner. We are six weeks away. If it’s going to be canceled, we need to do it now so we have time to try to find a replacement.”
Even though I know he’s just talking business and doing his job helping protect the Hawke investment in the opening, my fury at the suggestion still makes me tense and puts me on the defensive. “I’m not canceling the fight.”
It’s an argument I’ve been avoiding for weeks, and as things seem to progress, with my work with Wren, that glimmer of hope that I actually stand a chance of winning flames brighter and brighter.
Isaac slaps me on the shoulder. “I saw him in the gym a couple of days ago. He looks good. Ready for Gordon.”
Savage gives me a questioning look that suggests he may not believe what Isaac says, but he doesn’t say anything.
Dad only nods. “I hope so.”
With that settled, the looming question still stands. “So, what’s the plan with Satriano in the meantime?”
Saint shrugs. “We keep our eyes and ears open and stay on high alert. Just like always.”
“Fuck.”
That’s easier said than done when there are literally dozens of us who could be targets, not to mention the almost one hundred businesses owned by Hawke Enterprises and even more we’ve invested in.
It makes the prospect of keeping everyone out of his reach even harder.
WREN
Standing in the middle of the dance floor with couples swirling around me in their elegant ball gowns and masks, I feel even more on display than I did before. Atlas always draws so much attention. His attitude. The tattoos. He demands it.
Without him as a buffer, that fishbowl effect happens, and I reach to adjust the strap of my dress just because I have nothing else to do with my hands.
Atlas’ words float back through my head, and I stop myself. Biting my lip, I turn and glance toward the bar, where he’s still deeply involved in a heated debate with his father and uncles.
Shit.
How long does he expect me to stand here, waiting for him?
Indefinitely.
And I might consider it if I weren’t getting strange looks from some of the attendees.
How pissed will he be if I actually leave?
Probably not at all, actually.
Atlas rarely, if ever, gets angry about anything except his training and rehab.
Never with me.
Fuck it.
I need a drink.
A nice, cool glass of champagne will help ease some of the anxiety creeping in the longer I’m a fish out of water surrounded by New Orleans’ elite.
I turn to make my way over to the bar when a man in a tuxedo and a silver mask that matches his hair steps in front of me with a smile, offering his hand. “You look lonely out here. May I have this dance?”
It takes a second before his smooth, lightly accented voice registers in my memory, and my spine stiffens. “What are you doing here, Damon? I’m quite certain you didn’t get an invitation.”
He grins, the same cool tilt of his lips he gave me in the studio that morning. “Dance with me, and I’ll tell you.”
Shit .
I scan the crowd for anyone nearby who can step in and offer assistance. Pope, Coen, Bishop, hell, even one of the other girls, but in the thick crowd, with everyone concealing their faces, I can’t find anyone easily.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The choices quickly flicker through my mind.
I could run—even in these heels—but given the way everyone’s been walking around on eggshells regarding the Satriano situation, I might actually be able to learn something useful.
And I can’t be in that much danger here, surrounded by Hawkes and their supporters…
Theoretically, at least.
I hesitate another moment, and Damon raises a brow above his mask until I slide my hand into his with reluctance.
He gently tugs me up against him, a crisp, cool scent washing over me. Icy like his demeanor. “You look lovely tonight, Wren. The belle of the ball, for sure.”
The compliment from anyone else might have stroked my ego, but coming from him, it only lights a fire in my gut.
“Let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point.”
Damon chuckles. “I knew I liked you. Feisty. The perfect match for your fighter, Atlas.”
“If you say so…”
“I do.” He swirls me around the dance floor effortlessly, moving with the music, his motions fluid. The same way Atlas moves. Satriano is a fighter, too. “I have a, let’s just say, a vested interest in him after saving his life and all.”
“Saving his life?” I huff at his characterization of what happened in that abandoned warehouse. It may have happened before I set foot back in New Orleans, but Atlas has ensured I’ve been filled in on every intricate detail of the showdown with Daniele Roselli. “That’s not the way he tells it.”
“I doubt it would be.” He offers an almost sad smile. “The Hawkes never like to give me credit for anything.”
“Why should they? You shot Stone, Isaac, and Kennedy—”
His eyes widen behind the silver mask. “ Incredibile ! Is that what they told you?”
“It isn’t true?”
The Hawkes have no reason to lie to me, especially not Atlas.
He tsks and shakes his head. “That was an unfortunate accident.”
“I don’t think unleashing gunfire into a crowd is really an accident, Mr. Satriano.”
“It is when they aren’t the intended targets.”
His argument makes me straighten my shoulders. “But you hate the Hawkes. Why wouldn’t they be targets?”
“Hate is such a strong word, bellezza . I use it very sparingly, and the Hawkes and I have come to somewhat of a mutually assured destruction type of agreement.” He spins me away to the beat of the music, then pulls me right back into him, not missing a step. “I might control the underworld in New Orleans now, but they still run the city in many ways. The politicians, even people at the basic street level who are so essential to the city’s operation. If they wanted to say, call a strike with one of the major labor unions at the docks, they could arrange that, and it would thwart my business.”
“So that’s why you’ve reached this stalemate?” Something about what he’s saying doesn’t ring true. “Or are you just biding time until you can finally take them all out?”
His lips curl. “Clever girl.”
“Not clever enough to see why you’re here or why you have any interest in me at all.”
“As I explained, I have an interest in Atlas, and you are important to him . After seeing him almost bleed to death on the floor of that warehouse and stepping in at the last moment to ensure his safety and that of his lovely sister, I’ve developed a soft spot for the boy.”
I snort and shake my head, peering over his shoulder to the bar, hoping Atlas will look over and make eye contact with me and see what’s happening. But he continues to argue with his father and uncles about something while Isaac stands next to him with his arms crossed, looking just as annoyed.
Shit.
“What do you want with Atlas and me?”
Damon takes us on another turn around the dance floor before he responds, almost as if he’s actually enjoying our dance and not just using it for whatever ulterior motive he certainly has. “How’s his recovery coming?”
I stiffen in his arms. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I care about the boy and want to ensure he’s doing well.”
Bullshit.
Over the years, I’ve spent enough time working with clients—both in P.T. and the Pilates studio—to know when someone is full of shit. Lying about doing their exercises at home. Exaggerating their skills on the reformer to try to impress me when they fumble with the most basic movements. And this man is overflowing with it…
“You expect me to believe that after the confrontation you two had in my studio?”
“Believe whatever you want.” His shoulders rise under my hands. “I’m telling you the truth.”
I don’t believe him for one second, which makes the fact that I’m about to lie to him so much easier.
“Things are great. Atlas is more than ready to destroy Vince Gordon at the hotel opening.”
His eyes dance with something I can’t quite place. “Is he now?”
Maybe it wasn’t a lie, but it may have been an overstatement of the truth.
While our massage and physical therapy, coupled with flows on the reformer, have been helping Atlas greatly, compared to the videos I’ve seen in his previous fights, he’s still not there.
Still not at one hundred percent.
Instead of a hurricane, he’s a tropical storm.
Building over open water.
Twisting and swirling.
Trying to gather enough strength to decimate anything in its path.
But just as so many of the storms that grow in the Atlantic never threaten us, there’s always that chance that Atlas may burn out.
He may not be ready in time, but I won’t say that to this man.
Never show any weakness.
It was one of the only decent pieces of advice Grandmother ever gave me during my recovery.
She knew I would already face enough scrutiny because of the permanent visible evidence of the fire I wear on my skin, and she didn’t want anyone to take advantage of what they viewed as an opening to use against me.
I won’t give Satriano one to use against Atlas or the other Hawkes.
“He is, but I can guarantee you’re not going to have a front-row ringside seat.”
He tips his head back and laughs, the sound swallowed by the orchestra playing in the venue. “I didn’t have an invitation tonight, yet here I am.”
Not for fucking long.
Movement behind him catches my attention, and I grin. “I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”
A massive hand grabs his shoulder and jerks him away from me, and Saint towers over him by over a foot. With at least a hundred and fifty pounds on the man, Saint’s imposing presence certainly makes a statement.
One that couldn’t have come at a better time.
All the tension I’ve been holding in my body starts to register all at once, a vise suddenly banding around my chest and squeezing tightly.
Atlas tugs me into his arms, burying my face against the front of his tux coat, wrapping me up so completely that I can barely even see what’s happening until I force my head up enough to keep track of the threat.
Saint tightens his grip on Damon as the people on the dance floor seem to notice something is happening, many of them stopping to watch the confrontation. “How did you get in here?”
Satriano holds up his hands. “I just came to make a donation.”
Gabe scowls at him from where he stands beside us, backing up his son and giving me an extra layer of protection. “Bullshit. Get him out of here.”
Saint grins. “With pleasure.”
He manhandles Satriano toward the door, disappearing into the crowd of onlookers.
Gabe turns to me, concern in his furrowed brow. “Are you all right? What did he say?”
“I-I…he—” I struggle to take a breath, my lungs seizing, making me cough “I can’t—”
“Shit.” Atlas scoops me up and carries me from the dance floor, rushing toward our table and my bag, where it sits on the chair. He inclines his head toward his father as he takes a seat and settles me across his lap. “Get her inhaler.”
Gabe scrambles to open it and holds it out. Atlas snatches it from his hand, shakes it, and brings it to my lips.
I take a long, deep pull of it, holding the medicine in as long as I can before releasing it slowly.
“That motherfucker.” Atlas’ grip on me tightens.
I dig my nails into the top of his palm, his only exposed skin not covered by the damn tux, trying to get his attention. Trying to stop him from going over the edge, saying or doing something stupid, like going after Satriano right now.
I take a half-breath, my airway starting to open up again.
Then another.
Another.
Until I can finally attempt to speak again.
“I’m okay, really.”
A muscle in his tense jaw tics. “No, you’re not. You’re trembling.” He rubs his hand along my back, tugging me even closer to his body and warmth. “I’m getting you out of here.”
I shake my head, trying to shift to face him fully. “No. It’s early. You still have to do the speeches and the silent auction. We’re not leaving.”
Gabe squats in front of us, his concerned eyes meeting mine. “Are you sure?”
Absolutely.
The last thing I’m going to do is let Satriano drive me away from this fundraiser, to allow him to taint an event so important to the Hawkes and their charity.
I nod. “I’m okay.”
Though, the trembling is real.
All that adrenaline still coursing through my system.
“Okay.” Gabe reaches out and squeezes my knee through my gown. “When you’re ready to go, we’ll have Saint and Bishop ride with you guys to ensure Satriano doesn’t try anything on the way home.”
He rises and moves away from the table, giving us some much-needed privacy to handle the fallout of Satriano’s unexpected appearance. Likely issuing warnings to the rest of the family to be on high alert, given his audacious move tonight.
Atlas tightens his grip on me and slips my inhaler back into my purse. His lips brush along my cheek where my scars rise. “Christ, when I saw him with you…”
His body trembles under mine.
But still, the feel of his strong, hard muscle and secure arms around me, the scent of leather and coconut clinging to him and invading my breaths, seem to be the only things holding me steady and preventing me from completely crumbling.
That confrontation with Satriano, the audacity of the man to walk in here and approach me like that, pushes something that had been flitting around my mind earlier to the forefront.
Makes that decision so crystal clear.
It has finally pushed me over the edge I was already walking precariously close to.
I turn so I can fully face Atlas, and he lifts his head, those usually soft blue eyes full of icy shards that aren’t directed at me. That I want to melt away so I can swim in their depths.
Taking his face in my palms, I hold his gaze, ensuring he is focused solely on me in this moment and not brooding about what happened. “I want to break our rule.”