Chapter 20
20
WREN
T he almost-scalding water beats down on me, and I tip my head forward, letting it pelt the back of my neck and release some of the tense muscles there and in my shoulders.
After spending almost the entire morning in bed, I finally had to force myself to move, to get up and come in here and step into the spray. I needed to feel human again—or, at least, try to—before Atlas gets home.
It feels like a nearly impossible task today.
Atlas’ attempts to cheer me up and get me to come into the gym with him, even if I didn’t want to open the studio, weren’t enough to lift this dark haze that has settled over me.
What Nana said at the graveyard should have made me feel better, should have helped me work through all the feelings of guilt and uncertainty that keep threatening to overwhelm all the good things in my life, but instead, they made me feel worse.
Gramps justified letting Sam get into that ring because he was protecting Grandmother and Mom, but by doing that, he let a monster win.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t get it out of my head, and it only makes my unsettled stomach feel so much worse each day.
“Fuck!”
I smack my palm against the wet tile, then force my head up, letting the spray hit my face for a few moments—a last-ditch effort to eradicate the bad feelings and overall ickiness that has clung to me for days.
After a moment or two, I relax, the warm water and the steady sound of it beating against the tile lulling me before I finally crank off the faucet. I slide open the glass door and step out onto the fluffy mat to grab a towel from the warming rack.
Wrapping it around me, the sound of the door opening and slamming shut downstairs carries through the condo and up to me.
Is he finally home?
Even though I know he needs to be at the gym and must continue to prepare for the fight, the thought that I let him go alone this morning has made his absence seem even longer, the condo even emptier.
I quickly towel off as I make my way through the bedroom toward the door.
“Wren?”
The voice that carries up the stairs to me isn’t Atlas’, and my heart sinks slightly, my footsteps faltering. I stick my head out the door and find Skye climbing the steps.
“Oh…”—her Hawke-blue eyes widen—“there you are. I knocked, and when you didn’t answer, I got worried and let myself in.”
I tighten my grip on the towel around me. “Sorry, I was in the shower.”
“No need to apologize, hon.” She motions behind her toward the kitchen, where a large cast-iron pot—that definitely wasn’t there before—sits on the stove. “I brought something you need to try.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought of eating, while it also churns and offers that same threat it has almost every day at seemingly random intervals. The morning sickness has been plaguing me, a constant companion, reminding me that it isn’t fully going away just as I start to think I’m finally feeling better. “I’m not so sure I could keep anything down.”
Save for plain bagels, boiled potatoes, and my pre-natal vitamins, I haven’t been able to eat much, despite Atlas ensuring I have just about everything under the sun as an option.
Skye gives me a sympathetic smile. “You might be able to with this. It’s one of Nana’s recipes. It was practically all I ate for months when I was pregnant with Atlas and Astrid.”
“Really?”
Her head bobs as she turns to descend to the kitchen. “I’m going to go get it heated back up while you get dressed.”
“Okay.”
I slip back into the bedroom and close the door, taking a moment to try to quell the disappointment that Atlas isn’t home.
Where are you?
With a week until he faces Gordon, he can’t possibly have been at the gym this long. He knows better than to work himself that hard before a fight, especially when his final cut will be physically taxing enough.
Does he, though?
He hasn’t been thinking clearly, hasn’t been himself since Gramps died. And I can’t blame him since I haven’t been, either. I’ve had to cancel so many classes that I’m afraid my clients won’t be there when I get back.
Just make it through the next week.
It’s what I keep telling myself: that things will quiet down, get better.
I just hope I’m not filling my own head with bullshit.
After surviving the fire, I’ve always done my best to keep a positive outlook on life, and I’ve tried to maintain one during the long nights working with Atlas over the last three months, but recently, it’s become harder and harder to maintain that mindset.
One. More. Week.
I quickly slip on my clothes, run a brush through my damp hair, then make my way downstairs. The smell of something savory hits me before I’m even five steps down, and my confused stomach does an uneasy flip-flop.
Sliding my palm over it, I take a long inhalation. “Come on, little one. I have to eat something, or you’re never going to grow.”
At first, I thought Atlas was crazy, talking to the baby and asking it to be “nice” to me, as if he or she could understand what we meant. But I’m desperate at this point to have a real meal, to not feel so dizzy and awful all the time.
I know part of it is the emotional turmoil now, but if this baby could just calm down for a bit, it would make my life so much easier.
Skye stands at the stove, stirring whatever she brought, and when I reach the kitchen, I slide onto one of the stools lining the counter. She ladles something from a pot into a bowl, turns back, and sets it in front of me.
I look down into what appears to be some type of soup, not that different from what I used to get served from the red can as a child. “What is it?”
She grins. “My mom always called it ‘penicillin soup.’”
Eww.
I must inadvertently make a face because Skye chuckles, motioning toward the steaming bowl.
She taps the side of it with a fingernail. “I know it doesn’t have the most appetizing name—”
“No”—I shake my head, staring down into it and trying not to think about the taste of penicillin from when I had to drink that awful pink stuff when I had strep as a child—“it doesn’t.”
“Well, let me try to put you at ease. It’s just chicken stock, tiny star pasta, celery, onion, and carrots. Pretty basic. But Nana swears it’s a cure-all for anything that might ail you—including morning sickness.”
My mouth waters. “Oh, that sounds good, actually.”
“Try it.” She smacks her palm on the granite. “I swear. It was just about the only thing I ate my first trimester, and the twins turned out all right.”
I smirk at her. “At least one of them did.”
She cackles, her head tipping back and her dark hair falling around her. “Which one?”
Everyone thinks Atlas is so much like Gabe, with his blond hair, heavy muscles, and badass attitude. But I see so much of Skye in him at times. Especially in the way he cares for me.
Like she’s doing now.
“You’re their mother, Skye. You would know better than I do.”
She leans her elbows on the counter and smiles at me as I take my first spoonful and bring it to my mouth. I pause for a moment, both to blow on it and ensure I don’t burn myself and because I’m not entirely sure I trust my stomach to take it. But Skye just offers me a reassuring smile and a nod.
The moment the hot soup hits my tongue, I release a little groan of appreciation.
Simple but delicious flavors that seem to warm my soul from the inside out.
My stomach doesn’t immediately revolt as I swallow the first bite, then another. “This is really good.”
“And easy.” She turns back to the stovetop and places a lid on the pot. “I don’t spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen other than occasionally baking cookies. But this”—she twists back and motions to it—“I can manage.”
I take a couple more spoonfuls, not wanting to risk eating too quickly and having to pay the price.
Almost immediately, my body responds to the food. The shakiness and constant dizziness seem to melt away, and the utter exhaustion I’ve felt for weeks lifts—little by little with each bite that fills my stomach.
Skye watches me, clearly wanting to say something that she isn’t, as I slowly eat, but the longer she looks at me, the more I realize we’re worried about the same thing.
I push around a chunk of carrot in my bowl, then glance at the clock on the microwave. Mid-afternoon. He’s been gone for over eight hours. “Have you talked to Atlas today?”
It isn’t like him not to call or at least text to check in on me every hour or so, and I haven’t heard from him for several. Which means he’s likely lost himself in training—or something worse.
She shakes her head. “No, but Astrid and Isaac went to the gym…”
Oh, thank God.
Skye doesn’t need to tell me why they went.
Everyone has seen how he has deteriorated since Gramps’ death, and each of us worries endlessly about him. He just won’t let anyone in, not even me. The pain he’s suffering could make him spiral somewhere very dark and at the worst possible time. Knowing they were there with him, at least at some point today, does alleviate some of the unease for me.
I swirl the soup with my spoon and stare down at the tiny little star-shaped pasta in it, then glance up at her. “Do you think he’s okay?”
She offers a sad smile. “Are you okay?”
Her simple question makes the dam break again, and tears fall before I can stop them. A deluge that leaves wet streaks down my cheeks and drops all over the counter around my lunch.
I shake my head, trying to fight a sob that finally slips out. “No.”
She rounds the counter quickly and wraps an arm around my shoulders, settling onto the stool next to me. “I know, sweetheart. It isn’t easy to lose somebody you love that much.”
The surety of her voice comes from someone who knows what they’re talking about.
Even though she was super young when Sam died, she wasn’t when she lost her twin sister. The Hawkes have always talked about Star, ensuring her memory is never forgotten, but I still feel like I don’t know her. Not really.
“What was Star like?”
Skye’s face lights up, and she smiles as tears shimmer in her own eyes. “Pretty much the opposite of me.”
“Really?”
She bobs her head, gently rubbing my shoulders, almost absently. “I was always the one getting into trouble and pushing boundaries. She was more of a rule follower, quieter.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was talking about her own kids. “A lot like Atlas and Astrid…”
“Yeah, actually, kind of crazy how that happened that way.”
Not so crazy, really.
The longer I’m around the Hawkes, the more I see it. How different they each are, yet how they also seem to be true products of their upbringings. Whether it’s genetics or environment, the Hawkes are clearly Hawkes.
Isaac is practically a carbon copy of Stone with that hint of Nora that keeps him from being too uptight, while Coen is darker and moody, so much like his father. Kennedy is a mini Danika in looks and attitude, with a splash of Savage thrown in that makes her an unstoppable force. Angelina and Alessandra share so much of Storm and Landon’s warmth and need to care for other people. Pope and Bishop are brilliant badasses like Caroline and Saint. And Jude, who hadn’t even been adopted by Luca and Byron when I was living in New Orleans, who didn’t even join the family until he was ten, has become a true Hawke.
And they all share something so powerful—a commitment to each other.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for them when the accident happened. “How did you go on and cope after you lost Star?”
She pulls her arm from around my shoulders and rests her hands on the counter, lacing them together, almost as if in prayer. “I didn’t, really, in the beginning. I was a hot mess. I acted out and lashed out at everyone because I was feeling so much pain and thought that everyone else should, too. I was missing my other half.” She shrugs. “And at that point, I didn’t have Gabe to lean on—at least not the way I wanted him.” A little pained noise slips from her lips. “We had almost lost Savage, too. I think if we had, I probably wouldn’t have been able to process it, ever.”
I know what she’s saying without actually saying it, and it shatters my heart for her.
“I got through it because everyone was there. They were there for me , even when I didn’t want them to be. They didn’t let me carry the guilt of not being there with her when she died, of staying behind on that trip I was supposed to have been on. And when I finally managed to get through Gabe’s massive wall, having him changed everything. It helped open me up to see what I still had, even though I lost her.”
My tears continue to stream down my cheeks, and I swipe them away. Hating my inability to keep my shit together.
Skye offers a kind smile. “Your grandfather was important to all of us, and so are you, Wren. What he revealed…”—she takes a deep breath and shakes her head—“it doesn’t change that. The Hawkes always take care of their own.” She slides her hand over mine and interlocks our fingers. “Did you know I came to see you in the hospital after the fire?”
I whip my head toward her, the tears blurring her for a moment before I blink them away. “What? You did?”
She nods. “You were heavily medicated at the time, in and out of consciousness. So, I’m sure you don’t have any memory of it, but a few of us came. We didn’t want the kids to know how bad it was. We didn’t want them worrying, but we all had to come see you.”
“With my grandfather?”
“Yes.”
I definitely remember him being there, but I struggle with the other memories of my time in the hospital. Most of them are vague in the early days. More cloudy flashes than anything. Soft, comforting voices talking to me, people holding my good hand, gentle touches on my cheek. Some of those were probably Skye.
“Who else came?”
“All the girls. Storm, Dani, Nora, Caroline. We stayed for two or three days before we had to come back. But we wanted Jimmy to know that we were there to support him and you with anything you needed.”
“I had no idea. He never told me.”
She offers a little half-shrug. “He was always weird about accepting anything from us, even when we offered him the gym.”
“What do you mean? You bought it from him…”
She nods. “We did, and then we offered it back to him for a single dollar. But he wouldn’t take it, said he didn’t need handouts from us. We never saw it that way because you and he were always part of the family.”
“Jesus…”
“I know you came back because you thought he might need the financial help when he couldn’t work anymore, but we’ve always had a plan for him, to take care of him when he couldn’t earn a paycheck from the gym. We would’ve made sure he was all right, even if you had stayed in Texas.”
They had a plan for him…
I don’t know how I never suspected as much, given everything else they’ve done, not only for us but for everyone in the community. Between their medical clinic and the charity, they’ve pumped billions into the area and helping anyone they can.
“Did he know?”
She presses her lips together and offers a little half-shrug. “He probably suspected.”
“Then…he really did only bring me back to help Atlas.”
Skye smiles. “He brought you back because he missed you and loved you, and he wanted to spend what time he had left with you. Helping Atlas was just the icing on the cake for him. And you’ve done it. I noticed the change in my son right away. He was smiling again, and he hadn’t done that since the shooting. And the longer you were here, the happier he got, the more focused he became. And then I started seeing the physical changes, how much better his shoulder was getting.”
“So, everyone knew I was working with him?”
She nods and squeezes my hand again before releasing it. “We may not always say it out loud, but the Hawkes pretty much see everything.”
“Yeah.” I nod and stare down into the soup, trying to wrap my head around everything she just told me, all the things the Hawkes have done that I wasn’t even aware of. “I’m coming to understand that.”
She pushes up from her stool and motions to the bowl. “Try to eat more. You and my grandchild need the nourishment.”
Thank God it isn’t twins.
If this baby turns out anything like the other Hawkes, he or she is going to be exactly like their father, and handling and worrying about one Atlas is hard enough.
ATLAS
My fingers itch to touch Wren.
I’ve spent way too much time here at the gym today, far too long away from her—the one person who can actually soothe the beast that rages inside me at times like this.
It’s always hard the week before a fight. The anticipation. The physical toll. But this is different, and she’s the only thing I want right now.
Which is why I’m finally heading home and directly into her arms.
I run my towel over my head one final time, then toss it onto the bench and tug on my shirt.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text just as I’m about to grab my bag. The message from Mom releases a tiny bit of the tension that’s been threatening to cave in my chest all day.
MOM
Wren’s okay. I just checked on her and made her something to eat. Hopefully, she can keep it down.
I run a hand through my damp hair, then lean back and rest my head against the metal lockers.
Hopefully, she can keep it down.
Guilt at leaving her this morning, even though she practically forced me out the door instead of spending the day at home with her, taking care of her, gnaws at my ribcage.
I’ve hidden out here.
I’ve pushed myself harder than I should, trying to battle something I can’t change and have no control over.
Even my talk with Astrid and Isaac hasn’t seemed to make anything better.
I don’t know that anything can, except maybe going home and climbing into bed with Wren, holding her in my arms, whispering to her and the baby, and convincing her—and myself—that things will be okay.
Eventually.
The thought gets my feet moving, and I grab my bag and head through the empty, silent gym and out the front door, locking it behind me.
Something I’ve never had to do before.
Jenkins always took care of it.
He spent nights working with other boxers, mostly younger, up-and-coming people who needed his strong guidance and wisdom gained by almost seventy years in the sport.
His old, arthritic hands would have turned this key, securing this place each evening when I was long home, recovering from whatever trials he put me through.
Those damn tears threaten to fall again, my eyes already red and burning from the ones I’ve shed today and over the past week.
Swiping them away, I turn back toward the street and dig in my bag for my keys.
I’m coming home, Little Bird.
It should have been hours ago, and I’ll make it up to her—however I can.
But I barely make it two steps toward my Range Rover before a dark SUV pulls up, the back end blocking the driver’s side door of my ride, ensuring I have nowhere to go.
Fuck.
Narrowing my eyes on the intrusive vehicle, alarm bells sound in my head louder than the ones that signal the end of the rounds in the ring.
Something isn’t right.
I tighten my hand on the strap of my bag, sliding it lower, toward the back pocket. Hopefully, whoever sits behind that tinted glass doesn’t notice the surreptitious movement. That could mean even bigger trouble than I’m already anticipating.
The rear window rolls down, and the last person I want to see examines me with a shrewd gaze. Satriano doesn’t seem to care that he’s literally ambushing me in broad daylight. “Get in.”
Self-preservation instincts should make me agree to his command, but I’ve never been very good at taking orders from anyone—not even Jenkins. And I certainly don’t intend to do it with Satriano.
“Like fucking hell, I will…” I slide my hand down farther, toward where I’ve kept my gun tucked since he first showed up at the studio, threatening Wren all those weeks ago.
Always within reach.
Satriano shakes his head, his gaze lowering as if he can sense what I’m about to do. “I wouldn’t do that, Atlas. There’s no need for hostilities. I just want to have a conversation.”
He’s fucking delusional.
This man doesn’t have “conversations.” Satriano gives orders veiled as suggestions or requests. No doubt, he will do the same with whatever he wants from me.
“A conversation? Like you had with Wren at the charity event?”
He grins, probably remembering as well as I do how beautiful my woman looked that night and how incredible she felt in his arms on that dance floor. “Did I harm her in any way?”
I take a step toward the vehicle, despite my instincts screaming to retreat. “You know you fucking did.”
Satriano may not have struck her. He may not have physically harmed her by his hand, but he certainly did in other ways.
She was terrified.
Shaking.
Could barely breathe.
Hanging on by a thread until I rescued her from him.
It doesn’t matter that their confrontation ran her straight into my arms and led to the eviscerating of the rule in the choir loft. It doesn’t undo the terror he caused her in those moments. She still feels it. We all do, knowing he somehow got past our security to get in and got that close to her.
The bastard holds up his hands, though no one who knows who and what Satriano is would take it as an act of surrender. “A conversation. That’s it, I promise.”
I open my mouth to object again and tell him to go fuck himself, but one of his goons in the passenger seat rolls down his window, eyeing me, making it abundantly clear that if I reach for the gun or say “no,” he’s going to make me pay for it.
“Fuck.”
Satriano loves to pretend he’s our friend now, that things have calmed down and tempers have cooled, but he’s the same thug he’s always been, just with a nicer smile.
I pull my hand away from the bag—not because I don’t want to shoot the smug fucker, but so I don’t end up with another bullet in me—and reluctantly stalk to the SUV.
He slides over in the back seat, making room for me.
Last chance to run.
Scanning the street both ways, I search for any potential escape route, but with the SUV blocking my ride and the sidewalks empty, there isn’t anyone to even alert anyone to what’s happening. No way I would get back inside the gym and the door locked before bullets flew, and even if I could, that glass wouldn’t keep them out for longer than it takes to shatter it.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I tug open the door and step up into the Devil’s ride.
The goon from the front turns around and holds out his hand across the center console. “Your weapon.”
And my only means of defending myself in here.
With Satriano this close, I could easily knock him out with one well-placed strike, but I’d never get the driver and front passenger before one of them got off a shot.
Now I know how Pope feels whenever this asshole shows up with a medical emergency for him to solve.
Like a sitting fucking duck.
I dig my Sig out of my bag and hand it to the passenger goon before the driver pulls away from the curb. “Where are we going?”
Satriano smiles. “You’ll see.”
“What do you want to talk about, the weather?”
Which has been about as shitty as I felt the last week…
He glances out at the gloomy sky threatening rain again. “No. The fight.”
My hackles immediately rise, my hands fisting on my lap. “What do you care about the fight?”
“Oh”—he glances back over at me—“I care a great deal, actually.”
“Why is that?”
Satriano has absolutely nothing to do with The Hawke Hotel. He may have been one of the original investors in Cass’ attempt to compete with it, but once Cass kicked him to the curb and joined our ranks, it took Satriano completely out of the equation.
Supposedly.
And he certainly hasn’t had anything to do with my training or shown any interest in the boxing world at all, as far as I know.
The SUV makes a right turn, and a light rain starts to fall. Satriano watches it out his window, casually leaning his shoulder against it. “You know very well that I’ve stepped in and taken over all the interests previously controlled by Roselli in town.”
“Of course.”
Where the hell is he going with this?
His dark eyes meet mine. “That includes the sports books.”
Shit.
I don’t know how I never saw this coming. His appearance at the studio…connected to the damn gym. The way he tried to get close to Wren and question her at the event about my training. He was checking up on me. “What are you getting at, Damon? Cut to the chase.”
Because if I have to spend one more minute in this car with this motherfucker, I might take my chances and deck him.
“I’ve been monitoring you the last few months, ever since I saw you and your lovely sister bleeding out on that warehouse floor.” He offers a little grin. “I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”
“Truly flattering, but your point, besides the fact that you love to gloat about the Hawkes being in pain?”
His eyes widen slightly, as if he’s somehow shocked I would take his statement that way. “It wasn’t meant as a gloat. Far from it.” One corner of his lips tips up. “I appreciated your tenacity, the fact that, even as you lay dying, you still had the energy to voice your displeasure about the situation, to try to protect the girls. Quite valiant, really.”
I sneer at him, fisting my hands so tightly my knuckles ache. “Gee, I’m glad you approve. Now, what the fuck do you want ?”
The vehicle takes another turn, and he glances out his window again. “I want you to throw the fight.”
My back stiffens, and I turn fully to face him. “You what ?”
He twists toward me and gives me a tight smile as we make a left. And I suddenly realize where we’re going—straight toward The Hawke Hotel.
Now, fully staffed and bustling, everyone is preparing for the opening of the hotel and casino floor, not to mention the fight.
“I have to say, Atlas, I’ve been impressed with your improvements. Three months ago, I never thought you could win this fight.” His shoulders rise and fall, as if the insult isn’t meant as one. “And I made some odds with that understanding, with the belief that you would never come back to full fighting shape, that you would never stand a chance against Gordon.”
My lungs tighten, making it almost impossible for me to draw in air.
“I never thought you could win, but now…”—he drums his fingers against his thigh—“I think it’s more than likely. And if that happens”—he gives me a hard look—“I’ll lose billions.”
Billions with a B .
Holy fuck.
That’s what this has all been about. From the day he weaseled his way into meeting Wren, it has always been about getting inside information on me . So he would know where he stood when it came to the thousands of people who placed bets with the various illegal books around town he now controls.
He set the odds, and they are not in his favor now.
If I win, he’s fucked.
We pull to a stop in front of The Hawke Hotel, and I stare up at it in all its glittering, opulent glory.
A stunning building, truly.
Storm and Landon outdid themselves with the design and construction, both inside and out. And Kennedy’s visions for the interior helped ensure it will become a major destination for those hoping to experience the crème de la crème that New Orleans has to offer.
I wish I could enjoy it.
But now, it’s become a place I avoid.
Mostly because going anywhere near the arena built on the backside where events will be held—including my fight—makes me queasy. Looking at it now, knowing what Satriano wants, I know what I have to do.
Without looking at him, I offer my assessment of his predicament. “That seems like a you problem.”
He leans over to stare up at the building himself out my window. “I would agree with you, save for one tiny factor.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The fact that your cousin placed a ten million dollar bet on you to lose, and I know he doesn’t have the money to cover it if you win.”
The hell?
Satriano must be mistaken because what he just said makes absolutely zero sense. No one would ever bet against me. But if they did, getting together that amount wouldn’t be out of the question for anyone.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He shifts in his seat, crossing one ankle over his knee, showing off his Italian loafers. “I don’t know how it’s managed to slip the Hawkes’ observation, given the number of eyes and ears you have all over the city, but your cousin, Coen, has a bit of a gambling problem.”
My ability to speak seems to have fled as I try to process his words.
Coen…
The most restless Hawke has been unusually so lately.
He’s been secretive.
Dismissive of our concerns over his well-being.
Fuck.
Damon shrugs nonchalantly, as if we’re discussing the weather and not a multi-million-dollar potential debt that, apparently, he thinks Coen can’t pay. “I’m sure he has no idea the bookies he’s been placing bets with work for me or that the debt would be to the Satrianos. If he did, he likely never would’ve done it. But as it stands, if you win that fight, Coen is going to find himself in a very precarious situation.”
Like the one I’m in right now.
Jesus Christ.
Satriano doesn’t have to tell me explicitly what would happen.
I’ve been around this town and these people long enough to know. I’ve seen what men like him, Roselli, and the Abellos are willing to do. And this time, I can’t even blame him because Coen’s the one who has apparently gotten himself into this shitstorm.
“I’ll pay what he owes. Whatever it is, I’ll cover it.”
He issues a dark chuckle. “Oh, Atlas, I don’t want your money. I don’t even want his. If you were to win, it serves my purposes much better to have Coen indebted to me.”
Of course it does…
“But you’re not going to win, Atlas. You’re going to do what I ask.”
Coen has dug himself into a hole, inadvertently gotten into bed with the mob, and yet, I’m the one with my head in the fucking guillotine.