Chapter 19
19
TEN DAYS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
WREN
T he gloomy, dark storm clouds and cold drizzle falling around us precisely match the deep, dark sense of dread and foreboding that has clung to me since Gramps died.
Everything from the moment he took his final breath has felt off .
I’m constantly on guard.
Looking over my shoulder.
Hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, like something else is coming that I can’t see, that has stayed well-hidden in the shadows that seem to be everywhere now.
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Coupled with the utter despair at losing him, this feeling that everything is wrong and will only get worse threatens to swallow me whole. Increasing with each passing minute and hour. Making it harder to function or even breathe.
I told Atlas that he had already survived the worst day of his life, so he could survive anything else that was thrown at him, thinking I had already done the same. But today, it doesn’t feel like it.
What I suffered in that fire, the physical agony and losing Dad so shortly after losing Mom, I thought that was as bad as it could get. Yet, standing here in the rain, knowing that Gramps is gone and what he did, all of it makes what happened so many years ago seem so livable , while this…this is not.
The sole thing that has kept me from giving in to it, from falling completely under its lure and suffocating in its inky blackness, is the unwavering strength of the man standing beside me now.
His arms around me every night.
His assurances that things will be okay, even though I can see he’s spiraling, too.
Atlas does his best to try to keep it together—mostly for me—but he can’t hide the anguish in his eyes.
He tightens his arm around my shoulders as we stand next to the tomb. Holding the umbrella over us with his free hand, he tries to keep us dry when my tears have left me in a permanently soaked state anyway. I rest my head against his shoulder, leaning into his massive, unyielding frame for the support I so desperately need when my body won’t stop trembling.
And it isn’t just about losing Gramps.
Somehow, I know I could have handled that and found a way to keep moving forward without him because I knew he wouldn’t live forever. No one does. And I saw he was starting to show his age and decline. It was coming—sooner rather than later.
His death might have been possible to work through. It might not have left me in this pit of utter misery. But the awful truth he dumped on me before he left this world has set a Tasmanian devil of guilt gnawing at my stomach that’s so much worse than the morning sickness.
It’s our fault.
My family was responsible for bringing such a horrific loss to the Hawkes, one that set off a ripple effect that’s still felt today.
All the horrible things that have happened to them since that night can be traced back to losing Sam. His death, his absence from their lives, it was the trigger, the spark that lit the flames that burned the family so badly.
Bile climbs my throat, and a shudder rolls through me as the priest says the final prayer in front of the marble slab that bears the Jenkins name, where Grandmother, Mom, and now Gramps have all been laid to rest.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the throngs who showed up to say goodbye to the old man, considering he’s lived his whole life in New Orleans and was a legend in the boxing world. But seeing the sheer number of people who cared about him, who loved him as much as I did, only makes the pain so much worse.
None of them know what he did.
How he hurt the Hawkes.
But they all know the family well and would look at me so differently if they were aware of the horrific secret Jimmy Jenkins carried for so many years.
Most of the men now beginning to file out of the cemetery knew Gramps from the gym. People he’s trained over the years. A few familiar faces from my childhood, as well as newer fighters, all take the time to stop and offer their condolences to Atlas and me, even though I’m barely registering their words.
And when they’re done, it’s time for the Hawkes to make their way to me to offer one more murmured “I’m sorry” and hugs that make me want to scream.
Because they’re all here.
Each and every Hawke came to the ceremony. Even Coen—who apparently decided to end everyone’s worrying and reappear once he heard about Gramps’ death—though he hasn’t offered any real explanation for his temporary absence aside from “it isn’t anyone’s business.”
They all act as though the man being buried today didn’t destroy their family.
That he wasn’t the precipitating factor that led to the death of their patriarch.
How can they be here?
How can they pretend?
How can she ?
The woman who became my Nana as much as she was to her own grandchildren by blood stands on my other side, holding her umbrella, eyes locked on Gramps’ final resting place, with the grandmother I never met.
Another sob I’ve managed to keep down for the last few minutes climbs up my throat. It rends the chilly early morning air, shattering what should have been a peaceful moment to say our last goodbyes.
Atlas buries his face in my hair, holding me even tighter, while Nana’s continued silence eats away at me like a cancer.
Six days of dancing around the woman, of this truth being out there without either of us saying a word about it. Without anyone uttering a single syllable to me regarding what Gramps did.
The tension of the unspoken words has built and built, like a pot trying to reach a boil. Accepting the heat. Diffusing it into my blood. Getting hotter and hotter. Closer and closer to finally hitting the right temperature to spill over.
My trembling becomes full-blown violent shaking, and I finally can’t take the silence anymore.
“I’m so sorry, Nana.”
Those words I’ve been choking back since the moment Atlas told the Hawkes the truth hang between us, melting into the sound of the falling rain pelting against all the stonework in the cemetery and the tops of our umbrellas.
It takes a moment before she finally turns toward me, her old eyes still sharp as they assess what I’m sure is my disastrous face. I didn’t even bother with makeup this morning. It would’ve all run off long before now—between my tears and the storm.
“Why are you apologizing, dear?”
I huff out a little half-sob.
Is she seriously asking me that?
She watches me, waiting for me to explain something that should be completely obvious.
Atlas presses his lips to my temple. “Little Bird, you don’t have to—”
I pull away from him. “I do .” Turning back toward Nana again, I swallow past another sob. “I do need to apologize—for what he did, for what he caused. I…”
Don’t know what else to say.
Don’t know how to explain this guilt or what it’s doing to me.
Nana closes the short distance between us and rests her old, weathered hand on the arm of my raincoat. “No, dear, you don’t have to apologize. You had nothing to do with it.”
Atlas reaches over and lifts my chin, tilting it back until I face him. “She’s right, Little Bird.”
“But-but it was our fault.” I tug out of his hold and turn back to Nana. “His fault that you lost Sam, that you had to suffer through that…all the things that happened after…”
She squeezes my arm. “No, it wasn’t. If Jimmy knew something was wrong, then Sam did, too.” Her lips press together, and she shakes her head. “Hell, I should have. I lived with the man, was married to him, had five children with him…and I didn’t notice.” She swallows thickly. “I am just as much at fault for not seeing that he was not completely right before he went into that ring.”
Her own pain makes her voice crack, and Atlas tenses next to me.
Of course, he’s thinking about what’s coming next weekend.
Only a matter of days separate him from the fight that will change his life and those of all the Hawkes forever.
I glance up at him to find him watching his grandmother closely, tears brimming in his eyes. But he doesn’t say a word—either because he can’t or he doesn’t want to.
He hasn’t said much since we left the hospital.
Not about the fight or about what Gramps did.
Whenever I’ve tried to bring up either, he’s silenced me with a gentle kiss and a plea not to worry and to let it go.
As if it’s that easy.
This isn’t something to just let go .
And it would be impossible for me not to be worried about the fight with everything that’s happened.
Antonia inhales, long and slow, then blows it out, her breath misting in the chilly air. “There’s so much blame to pass around, but none of it falls on you, Wren. Me, Sam himself, Dom.” She tightens her grip on her umbrella with both hands until her knuckles whiten. “That man destroyed so many lives, and after all this time, learning his role in Sam’s death—”
“It was intentional.” Atlas’ deep voice sends another chill through me, and he shifts beside me, pressing his chest into my shoulder and pulling me against him again. “Dom was always in love with you, Nana. I don’t think there’s any question about that. He set his sights on you, and he removed the fucking competition.” He grits the words through clenched teeth. “It was never about the money, the bets. That man wanted you , plain and simple. And as soon as Grandfather was gone, he stepped in and tried to sink his claws into you and your kids.”
She shudders and squeezes her eyes closed, shaking her head. “And I should have seen it.”
“No one is to blame but him , Nana.”
Her eyes open slowly, and she looks at her grandson. “That may be easy for you to say, but I’ve spent all these years wondering if there was something I could have done.”
Atlas releases a little incredulous snort. “Do you think you could have stopped him from getting into the ring even if you had noticed it and said something about sensing he was off?”
Releasing a humorless laugh that seems to carry across the cemetery, Nana shakes her head. “There was no stopping Sam. And that’s exactly why I didn’t want any of my boys or grandkids to follow in his footsteps”—her gaze cuts to Atlas—“because I know how the Hawke men are.”
Nana doesn’t mean it the way Bishop did, but it has the same punch.
The same meaning, just in different contexts.
They’re passionate and loyal.
They’re brutal and unrelenting.
And they’re not quitters.
Atlas has fought his way back from an injury that should have stolen his career, and now, with less than two weeks until Vince Gordon tries to keep him from the belt he’s worked his whole life for, he’s ready.
At least physically.
But I don’t know about mentally anymore.
Nana steps in front of us slowly and leans up to press a kiss on Atlas’ cheek, offering him a sad smile. “I’ll see you back at the house.” She stops in front of me, her eyes dropping to where her great-grandchild grows. “Don’t hang onto the guilt that isn’t yours, dear. Trust me when I tell you, it only eats you alive.”
She couldn’t be more right.
That’s what the last week has felt like.
And while what Nana and Atlas said today rings true, I can’t shake the feeling of everything being so unsettled.
Guilt and love so twisted that they can’t be extricated from each other.
Clouding my ability to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
If there even is one…
Antonia steps away, leaving Atlas and me to stare at the grave marker.
Gramps was his trainer, his advisor, probably his best friend, and now, he’s gone. And Atlas hasn’t even set foot in the gym since his death. When he should be focused, training, preparing mentally and physically for the fight, and getting ready for the final cut he’ll have to do leading into the weigh-in, he’s spent his time comforting me and helping the Hawkes cope with the fallout of the information about Sam’s death.
It begs the question I’ve been reluctant to ask.
After all our work, what he’s gone through to recover from the shooting, I can’t bear to see him give it all up and quit. But it feels like that’s what he’s done the last several days.
“Are you still going to fight?”
Atlas doesn’t look at me.
He keeps staring at the water pooling in the stone, filling the letters carved into the smooth surface. “I have to do it now, more than ever. For the Hawkes, for Gramps, for you…and for me.”
ONE WEEK UNTIL FIGHT NIGHT
ATLAS
The heavy bag swings back, flying wildly without anyone here to help hold it steady during my workout.
I keep hitting it.
Pummeling the leather.
Needing to destroy something.
Needing to exhaust myself.
Needing to not feel anything but the pain I know will come from pushing myself like this.
Not that sharp, stabbing kind that used to come with any time in the gym, but the familiar, dull ache that reminds me what I’ve worked my way back to. The good hurt. Which is why I’ve been going at the heavy and speed bags for hours in the deathly silent space—my second home.
Jenkins’ place.
Where he should be right now.
Fuck.
Tears start to sting my eyes again, blurring my vision and ability to follow the bag. I blink them away, letting them travel down my cheeks and splash to the floor with the sweat pooling under my feet.
It probably looks like a goddamn river at this point, a trail of evidence of my physical and emotional exhaustion.
The gym door opens behind me, but I don’t bother turning to see who it is.
It doesn’t matter.
I should have locked that fucking thing.
“Should you be doing that a week before a fight?” Isaac’s voice carries to me, filled with concern and reproach. “I thought you were supposed to take things easy and go lighter this close to game day.”
I glance over at him and scowl as he approaches, hoping it will warn him off. By now, he should know better than to come at me when I’m in a mood, and today, what I’m feeling is far beyond anything either of us has ever seen before.
An inky blackness has descended. It clouds my thoughts, drives my punches, fuels the rage I can’t seem to control, despite knowing full well what I should and shouldn’t be doing to prepare for Vince Gordon.
It isn’t this.
Fight week is all about the final cut and light training. Not taxing my body. And my dear cousin knows that as well as I do after all these years.
Isaac ignores my warning look and steps behind the swinging bag. He grabs it, holding it steady, looking completely ridiculous doing so while in a ten-thousand-dollar Italian silk suit.
He clearly just came from court.
Apparently, to climb up my ass.
I keep wailing on the red leather, sweat dripping into my eyes, making them sting even more. But at least it covers the tears so Isaac can’t see how close I am to losing it completely. “I don’t care what I should be doing right now.”
His lips twist down, accusation in his blue gaze. “And if Jenkins were here?”
My blow falters, glancing off the side of the bag, taking me off balance. But I quickly regain my feet and land a left hook, rocking Isaac back so hard that he almost hits the wall behind him.
A move like that would’ve been excruciating a few months ago, if I could have managed it at all. Now, barely the tiniest twinge hits my shoulder.
Almost unnoticeable.
Nothing more than what I might feel after a challenging sparring match.
It’s all Wren’s work that I wish I could appreciate right now instead of wallowing in my own sorrow and anger.
I slam my fist into the leather again, rocking Isaac slightly. “Jenkins isn’t fucking here, is he?”
Isaac steps back, releasing the bag and holding up his hands in surrender. “I get it.”
“No”—I shake my head and stagger away, bending over to rest my gloved hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath—“you don’t.”
Even my pre-fight training, which should have me in the best shape possible, hasn’t been able to keep up with what I’ve put myself through this morning. And Isaac’s right; I shouldn’t be pushing myself like this. I should be winding down, ensuring I’m not fatigued for Fight Night.
Logically, I know all this.
I just can’t stop.
When I stop, I think, and when I think, I feel.
All those things are bad right now.
Dangerous.
Isaac watches me, moving away to give me space, pacing slowly across the gym, looking like he’s about to cross-examine a witness on the stand. “How’s Wren?”
I struggle to suck in unsteady breaths. “How the fuck do you think?”
He offers a humorless half-smile. “Shitty, I imagine.” His gaze travels to the door that connects the gym to Wren’s space. “I see the studio’s closed today.”
It normally wouldn’t be.
She’d have seven or eight hours of classes plus a few private clients squeezed in if she could. Despite her morning sickness, she managed to maintain that schedule…and even tried to do it in the few days since the funeral. But not today—I couldn’t get her out of bed this morning.
Wren blamed the nausea, but I know it’s more than that.
And I can’t blame her for it.
I feel the loss as strongly as she does. Like a part of me has been ripped away that I’ll never get back. He wasn’t even my grandfather by blood, but he took the place of the man in every way, shape, and form. In every way that mattered.
Which is why Wren insisted I come in today, even when I would have much rather stayed in bed with her.
She won’t let all what Jenkins and I have done, all the time and energy she and I have put in, go to waste by letting me wallow.
“You shouldn’t be working yourself so hard, Atlas.” His jaw hardens. “He wouldn’t want that.”
The truth he speaks doesn’t calm me the way he hopes. Instead, it just reminds me of what we lost.
Anger already heating my blood threatens to boil over, and I push up to my full height, my chest heaving. “How the fuck do you know what Jenkins would want?”
He scowls at me as the door opens again behind me.
Jesus Christ, who now?
I turn toward it and find Astrid approaching, a solemn look on her face that looks so much like mine. “What are you doing here?”
She inclines her head toward Isaac. “Probably the same thing he is—checking on you.”
Scoffing, I swipe my forearm across my brow to capture some of the sweat, annoyance replacing my anger. “I’m not a fucking child.”
Astrid snorts as she approaches, undeterred by my attitude this morning. Though she rarely is. For all her quiet, reserved nature, Astrid doesn’t get intimidated easily. And certainly not by me. “That’s debatable.”
I hold out my hands for her to unstrap my gloves rather than have to do it myself with my teeth. “I thought you were supposed to be the nice one.”
A grin plays at her lips as she aggressively tugs on the Velcro to unseal one of them. “Maybe that bullet rearranged something more than just my insides.”
Hell…
While it’s said in jest, something about the tremor in her voice makes me glance up as she tugs off the first glove. And for the first time since the shooting, I really see her.
I look past my own pain and get a glimpse of hers—what I couldn’t perceive before, even when we shared a damn hospital room, because I wouldn’t allow myself to.
Partially because I couldn’t and because I didn’t want to.
Because asking her to open up meant she would do the same to me.
“Astrid…”
She pulls my other glove free and gives me a tight smile. “Don’t. I’m good.”
We both know she’s lying. But she doesn’t want to talk about it now. And after spending months pushing everyone away, shutting down, and dodging the inquisition when all I wanted was to be left alone, I’m not about to push her if she’s not ready or willing to discuss it.
I lock gazes with her, ensuring she knows that I know she’s lying and that we will have a conversation later, and she turns and walks over to the ring.
Isaac wanders over to the bench next to it and lowers himself onto it, trying to appear casual when he continues to assess me with that “lawyer” look.
Shaking out my hands, I watch Astrid set my gloves beside my bag. “Did Mom and Dad tell you to come?”
She gives me an annoyed look. “No. I just had a feeling I should.”
Of course, she did.
Sharing a womb makes having any sort of privacy impossible for the rest of my life, apparently. Though, it goes both ways. The strange feelings I get that tell me to call her, the dreams that seem to coincide with hers, the way I can sometimes hear what she’s saying without her ever uttering a word.
When I want to be left alone, it can be annoying. Intrusive. But at the end of the day, she’s another part of me, and I can’t be mad at her for wanting to check on me when I obviously need it.
I turn to the other intruder in the fancy suit. “And what about you?”
Isaac holds up his palms defensively. “I was told to come, explicitly .”
Snorting, I offer him a scowl. “By whom?”
“My dad and Uncle Savage”—he looks away for a second, clearing his throat to try to cover the last few words—“and your dad.”
Fucking hell.
Dad would send Isaac rushing to do his dirty work.
Isaac leans back against the ring, crossing his arms over his chest casually. “Surprised he didn’t come himself. I think he wanted to, but he probably figured you’d lock the door on the gym before you’d ever let him in here right now.”
I lower myself onto the bench next to him and drop my face into my palms, sweat rolling down my chest and back, dripping onto the floor beneath me.
Astrid moves restlessly in front of me, her white sneakers shifting in my narrow view.
Isaac leans closer, lowering his voice, as if he doesn’t want to say the words out loud. “Are you going to be okay for the fight?”
Jesus fucking Christ…
Like I need him asking me that question when I don’t have my head on straight and have no fucking clue what shape I’ll be in next week. Before Jenkins died, before he left us with this unsettling truth about what Dom did, I was ready. Physically and mentally prepared for anything Gordon threw at all—literally and figuratively.
But it feels like everything has been flipped upside down.
That doesn’t change the reality of what next weekend is, though. How important it is for the Hawkes and for me and everything I worked with Jenkins for my entire life.
I glance over at Isaac, then up at Astrid, whose blond brows are raised. “I have to be. What would it do to the opening if I lost this fucking fight?”
A minute passes while I wait for them to argue with me, to object and tell me that it isn’t as important as I’m making it out to be.
They don’t.
It confirms what I’ve always known to be true from the very moment ground broke for The Hawke Hotel and we scheduled this fight—this is the biggest project in Hawke Enterprise’s history, and we need it to be successful in every way.
We’ve sunk billions into it.
Not to mention all the time and energy everyone has spent on plans, designs, construction, personnel…
The sheer amount of work that goes into creating an experience like the one we want to offer at the hotel and casino is staggering, but it’s something the Hawkes were more than willing to take on, considering the payoff.
It’s the start of what will hopefully be a whole new empire for us, a hotel chain that will stretch along the entire Gulf Coast—if this goes as planned. And it starts with the single building and me in the ring, kicking Gordon’s ass and winning the belt as the big grand-opening act.
If I lose, all the air will be blown out of the sails.
The hurricane snuffed out.
Isaac finally manages to find his words, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, dipping his head low near mine. “Who do you want in your corner?”
It’s a simple question, but one I haven’t been able to get my head around since Jenkins died.
It’s always been him.
Every single fight I’ve had since I was a goddamn child, it’s been Jimmy Jenkins in the corner, coaching me, encouraging me, patching me up. The thought of doing this without him chokes my breath again, and I swallow through it, refusing to fall apart in front of Astrid and Isaac.
“Other than Grayson who has always been my cut man, I don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck and smirk at him. “You offering?”
Isaac nods. “ Always. ” He sighs deeply, then pushes upright and turns to face the empty ring. “I know I’m not him, but I’ve spent enough time in this gym with you, been through hundreds of training sessions, and sparred with you. I’ve been at every one of your fights and know your strengths, weaknesses, and strategies. I’ll be there, if you want me there.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “I also think you should bring Bishop.”
He’s probably right about that.
Bishop knows me in the ring better than anyone, has sparred with me the most, and given me the toughest challenge of any of the family. She’s relentless, and that’s what I need next weekend.
Of course, I could call in a different trainer…
It’s what most fighters would do.
Bring in someone to push me through this last week.
But this close to the fight, with Jenkins gone, I can’t stomach the thought. I don’t want someone stepping in and trying to fuck with what he’s created, with what Wren and I have fought so hard to get me to.
The only way this fight happens is by putting people in my corner who know Jenkins, who understand his plan for me and this fight, who will keep pushing me the same way he would and never let me quit.
I hold out my hand to Isaac, and he slides his palm against mine, gripping it tightly. He pulls me up from my seat and tugs me in for a chest bump.
Sweat still slickens my skin from the hours spent trying to kill myself today. “You’re going to have to get your suit dry-cleaned after that.”
He hugs me tightly. “I don’t care.”
Astrid laughs lightly. “Jack might when you come home smelling like him.” She grins at me. “I’ll be ringside, cheering you on, too. You know everyone will be.”
I pull back and step around Isaac to get closer to her.
A single tear slips from her eye, and she swats it away. “You know I love you, right? No matter how fucking annoying you can be.”
“Me? Annoying?” I grin at her. “Ditto, sis.”
She didn’t have to tell me she would be there—or that the rest of the family would be. Even if it weren’t happening at the hotel opening, they’re always there to support me at every single fight.
And Jenkins will be there, too.
In spirit, at least.
Represented by his granddaughter and great-grandchild, who will never get the chance to meet him.
All I have to do is make it through the next week and my final cut and then keep it together in the ring for enough rounds to knock that motherfucker Gordon out.
I can do that.
I have to.