Chapter 23
23
EIGHTEEN HOURS UNTIL TITLE FIGHT
ATLAS
W ith Wren wrapped in my arms, body tucked so perfectly into mine, my palm across her belly, and my face buried in her hair, I can almost pretend things are all right.
Savoring the feeling of having her like this.
Safe.
Secure.
Mine .
Breathing in that almond and cherry scent that usually calms me…
But it can’t tonight.
Nothing seems to.
I’ve tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep, unable to quiet the warring voices in my head that want to pull me apart in a dozen different directions.
The biggest fight of my life looms, and rather than running over the strategy Jimmy and I perfected after reviewing all of Gordon’s fight tapes and fine-tuning my own skills, all I can think about is what will happen if I follow through with it.
If I defeat Gordon and take the belt, what should be the happiest day of my life—and certainly the biggest in my career—will be overshadowed by the knowledge that I just pissed off a mob boss and threw Coen at his mercy when I could have prevented it.
I release a frustrated sigh, tugging Wren even tighter against me.
She shifts in my hold, turning back toward me. “Hey, why aren’t you sleeping?”
Nuzzling her neck, feathering my lips across the soft, sensitive skin there, I release a little groan. “Trying, but—”
The condo door slamming shut downstairs jerks me upright, and I cut my gaze to Wren’s wide eyes. “Take your phone. Go to the bathroom. Lock the door. Don’t come out for anyone but me. If I’m not back in five minutes, call Saint and my dad. Then the police…”
“Atlas—”
Blood rushes in my ears as I scramble from the bed, slide my phone into my pocket, and tug open the nightstand, pulling out my gun. The weight of the weapon in my hand only seems to grow the closer I move to the cracked bedroom door.
I glance back at Wren in the bed, the comforter bunched up around her, apparently frozen in place. “ Go. ”
She throws back the duvet and climbs off the mattress in her sleep shorts and tank top, snatching her phone off the nightstand before she darts into the bathroom and secures herself inside.
The moment I hear that lock click into place, I nudge open the bedroom door and peek downstairs. Heavy footsteps sound across the main floor, echoing up. Moonlight shines in through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall, illuminating the intruder who moves into the living room and grabs the edge of the couch to keep himself upright.
Each breath I take seems agonizingly loud as I inch my way onto the landing. Every step down the metal staircase is an opportunity for whoever it is to glance up and see my approach.
Weapon leveled on him, I slowly descend, watching whoever is dumb enough to break into my place in the middle of the night shake their head like they’re trying to clear it.
Completely oblivious to my approach, the bastard releases a little groan.
I reach the end of the stairs, and his head snaps up, sensing the movement in front of him.
A familiar face stares back at me with unfocused eyes.
“Coen?” I lower my gun. “Jesus Christ, man. What the fuck?”
My cousin doesn’t answer, just rubs the back of his neck and staggers slightly, like he’s unsteady on his feet.
The fucker is drunk .
I charge across the space separating us and shove my left forearm against his throat, forcing him back against the wall and pinning him in place. My entire bodyweight pressed into him, Coen doesn’t stand a chance of bucking me off or regaining an ounce of control over the situation.
“What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the fucking night? I almost shot you!”
I probably should have.
He more than deserves it after what he’s done.
Coen struggles against my hold, hands wrapping around my wrist to try to get me to release him. “L-let me g-g-go.”
The rage boiling through my blood wants me to keep him here, to press harder against his throat until he can’t breathe anymore and crumples. But the fact that I actually love the SOB makes me relent, and I release him, letting him slump against the wall as I retreat.
“Where the fuck have you been, Coen?”
He takes a step forward and rubs at his neck, though I’m sure I didn’t really hurt him—even if he does deserve it. “My phone was off. I just got back to town for the opening and thought it must be important for you to have called and texted that many times…”
“Fuck.”
It is important.
Monumentally.
I run my palm across my cheek, trying to control the burning fury now I finally have somewhere to direct it. My hand tightens around the gun. “And you thought showing up at my place unannounced at two in the fucking morning without calling was a great idea?”
Coen sighs, then glances up toward the bedroom. “Shit. Is Wren here?”
“Of course she’s fucking here.” I stalk over to the coffee table to pull out my phone and set down my gun—so I won’t be so tempted to use it. “Now, be quiet. I don’t need her hearing any of this.”
I fire off a quick text to her.
Everything is fine but stay up there until I come get you.
Coen has the audacity to appear miffed. “What’s going on? What don’t you want her to hear?”
I snarl at him, drop my phone next to my gun, and grasp the front of his shirt, practically lifting him off the ground again. “Do you really not know, Coen? Really ?”
Wide eyes stare at me, filled with confusion and fear. He isn’t used to me directing any ire at him, but he knows what I’m capable of in this state as well as anyone.
He holds up his hands. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“The bet , Coen.” I struggle to keep my voice low. “You bet against me.”
Coen opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s struggling to find some excuse. But absolutely nothing he can say could justify what he did or the mess he’s created.
Nothing.
I shove him away, letting him stumble back against the couch. “Don’t even try to fucking deny it.” Shoving my hands through my hair, I pace away from him, putting much-needed distance between us before I do something I can’t take back. “I had a visit from Satriano last week. He came to tell me that you placed a rather large wager against me in the fight.”
“How—” Coen gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly with the motion. “How could he know that?”
Stepping toward him again, I fist my hands at my sides until they ache. “It was with his bookies, Coen.”
His eyes widen. “No.” He shakes his head. “They weren’t…”
He trails off, the realization that he’s fucked up hitting him hard enough to make him stagger back and drop down onto the couch.
Satriano controls everything, and Coen is just figuring that the fuck out now.
Seething, my skin hot and tight, barely able to contain my desire to throttle the man who has been like a brother to me, I stand over him. “How the fuck could you?”
Coen sighs and drops his face into his hands. “I did it months ago, after the shooting, when I thought…” He looks up at me, regret and pity in his gaze. “When I thought there was no way in fucking hell you were coming back. I thought it was a sure thing.”
His words land squarely against my sternum, knocking me back a step.
“You thought me failing was a sure thing ?”
Coen shakes his head, opening his mouth a few times before he finally finds the bullshit excuse he wants. “I-I never meant for you to find out.”
“Well, no shit. Do you think that makes it any better? ”
“I-I just needed the money…”
“Fuck you, Coen.” I point a finger at him, clenching my jaw. “Money has never been a problem for any of us, and you know that. Any one of us would’ve given it to you in a heartbeat without you having to even tell us why.”
Though what he could possibly need that much for still lingers in the back of my head.
An unanswered question I don’t have the time to delve into with bigger issues at hand.
Coen releases a strangled groan. “I—”
I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses, Coen. None of it matters now. You fucking betrayed me. You betrayed all of us , and now, I have Satriano asking me to throw the fight I’ve been working my whole life for in order to protect your fucking ass and to ensure your fuck up won’t be used against the rest of the family.”
His head snaps back up, his mouth falling open. “He what ?”
Pacing away again, I release a mirthless laugh. “He won’t take my money to cover you, Coen. He doesn’t want it. He apparently has billions riding on this fight and needs me to lose. Your debt is a drop in the ocean. He’s just using it to force my hand because hurting you hurts me more than taking any of my cash. And if I win and you can’t pay, he’ll use it to get what he really wants from you—whatever the hell that might be.”
And not knowing that is terrifying.
A man like Satriano plays the long game, and he doesn’t do anything without a reason. He wants Coen indebted to him.
Coen pushes to his feet. “I’m sorry. I never meant—”
“Get the fuck out.”
My entire body trembles with my barely contained rage.
I thought seeing Coen, talking to him, might clear up something. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Perhaps it wasn’t what it seemed. But it’s only served to prove that my own blood betrayed me. He put me in an impossible position, and I see no good way out of it. Discussing it is making me angrier with him.
Coen seems to recognize that staying any longer won’t accomplish anything. He moves toward the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “What are you going to do tomorrow?”
The ultimate question.
I sigh and scrub my palm over my face. “What I have to.”
Without asking what that means, Coen opens the door and slips out into the hallway, and I beeline for the bar and pour myself a drink to try to calm my shaky nerves.
A flutter of movement in my peripheral vision draws my attention to the landing. Wren stands with her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes locked on me. She looks so sweet. So innocent. Yet so fierce. Most of her scars are on display in her tiny sleepwear. It’s a reminder that she’s the kind of woman who survived flames and isn’t going to let me blow over what just went down. She will dive right into the inferno.
Fucking hell.
I drop my head low, squeezing my eyes closed. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.”
WREN
When he sent me the text saying everything was fine but never came back up, I knew something was wrong.
I probably should have stayed put and waited like he asked.
But as one minute ticked over to another, just sitting there, not knowing what was going on, was making my lungs seize and morning sickness return with a vengeance. Once I cracked the bathroom door to try to grab my inhaler off the nightstand and heard Atlas and Coen’s raised voices, I couldn’t stop myself from tiptoeing to the bedroom door to listen to their argument.
And what they said explains why he’s been acting so strange.
So damn much.
But I need him to tell me. I need him to give me the details instead of the snippets I caught while trying to eavesdrop up here.
“Is that what happened the other day, Atlas?” I reach out and grip the railing that surrounds the landing, staring down at him at the bar—the last place he should be the night before a fight. “Satriano showed up?”
He nods, tipping back his drink and hissing as he sets the tumbler down. “He came to the gym as I was leaving to come home to you…”
I slowly make my way down the stairs, watching him and trying to gauge how close he is to going nuclear. “And he wants you to throw the fight?”
His hand tightens on the glass. “It isn’t just about Coen, Little Bird. He set odds that I was going to lose, and if I win…”
Stopping at the bottom step, gripping the banister until my knuckles whiten, I finally see why he’s been so out of sorts this week.
It wasn’t nerves.
It had nothing to do with his shoulder.
It had nothing to do with losing Gramps.
It had nothing to do with that final cut.
It was the fact that he had been put in an impossible position.
“You can’t throw the fight.”
He whirls toward me, frigid turmoil swirling in icy-blue eyes as he advances toward me. “You think I don’t know that? Christ, I spent my whole life working for this, Wren. The family needs me to win. I need to win for you and your grandfather. I need to win for me . But winning would give him reason to come after me, Coen, and the rest of the family.” His body vibrates so badly that I can feel it, even though we are still inches apart. “I have to protect everyone”—he slides his hand over my stomach—“and that includes you and the baby.”
Tears stream down my cheeks now, watching him be torn apart by this, knowing what having this decision weigh on him must feel like. There is no winning in this. Either way, someone is going to get hurt.
But he’s seeing this all wrong.
He’s spent so many years protecting everyone else, so long on the defensive where the Hawkes are concerned against any enemies who rear their ugly heads, that he can’t even see the forest for the trees.
He can’t see what this will do to him.
To us.
“Don’t make this about me, Atlas.” I lace my fingers over his on my belly and press them into my body. “I don’t need the protection. I’m tougher than I look.”
His eyes flicker up to meet mine, a tumultuous cyclone of confusion and love spinning across the blue waters. “Believe me, Little Bird. I know how fucking tough you are, but there are some things you can’t fight. Satriano is one of them.”
Which is the entire point.
That’s what he can’t or won’t see.
That there is no way to win.
Not really.
Only different ways to lose—some better than others.
“Atlas, I know I haven’t been around for most of this thing with Satriano, but I’ve been here long enough to know that he’s not going anywhere. This tension with him existed long before this fight, and it won’t go away if you throw it.”
Damon isn’t leaving New Orleans.
He isn’t breaking his ties with the Hawkes.
There will always be the threat and uncertainty.
“Your family will figure out a way to ensure everyone’s safe, Atlas, regardless of what you do. Coen, you, me, and the baby. No matter what.” I squeeze his hand. “You can’t throw the fight in some futile attempt to protect us from something that will always be there, always be looming. We’ve worked too hard. You’ve worked too hard to just toss it all away.”
The look in his eyes tells me he knows I’m right, but there’s reservation there, too.
It might not matter.
He has spent so long being a protector. Defending the family, even at his own peril. Taking a bullet for his cousins doesn’t seem to be enough for him to realize he can’t single-handedly shoulder the responsibility for their safety.
I slide my free hand over his stubbled jaw. “The Atlas I know isn’t a quitter. The Atlas I fell in love with isn’t. If you throw the fight…”
Atlas flinches slightly in my hold. “If I throw the fight, what?”
What I have to say weighs heavy on my chest.
It needs to be said, no matter how painful it might be.
“I understand your desire to protect Coen and the rest of the family, to protect the baby and me, but if you give in to Satriano’s demands now on this, he’ll own you . He’ll own us . You and I will never be free of him. Neither will this baby.”
Atlas blinks away a tear that slowly travels down his cheek to my fingers. “What are you saying, Wren?”
What am I saying?
The words burn like acid in my mouth. I don’t want to say them. They will hurt too much—both of us. But every word I said to him is true.
Satriano won’t end it with this fight.
He will twist the screws into Atlas. Control his career. Use his fights as a way to ensure his sports books make money hand over fist by fixing the odds, knowing the results because he’s demanding them.
This won’t be a one-time thing.
It will cement a relationship with Satriano going forward, establish a precedent.
One I can’t live with.
One Gramps couldn’t have if he were here and knew what was happening.
“If you intentionally lose the fight, Atlas”—I swallow thickly—“then you’re losing me, too.”
They might be the most painful words I’ve ever spoken, and they hit as if they are for him, too.
Air rushes from his lungs, and he staggers back a step, my palm slipping from his cheek and his hand sliding away from my belly. “You don’t mean that.”
Tears stream down my face, blurring my vision, my bottom lip quivering as I struggle to maintain control and take the stand I have to, even when my heart breaks. “I do.”
“How can you say that after everything we’ve been through?”
I swallow a sob, wrapping my arms around myself to try to hold myself together. “How can you even think of throwing the fight for the same reason? You have fought for this your whole life. Three months ago, your career was over; you just didn’t want to admit it. And now, you have the chance to get what you’ve always wanted. You’ve battled your way back to win that belt.”
“You think I want to do it, Wren?” He roars, shoving his hands through his hair, pacing away from me. “You think I want to give up everything ?”
“Of course not. But you have a choice, and you’re acting like you don’t. You know what I said is true, Atlas. If you do this for Damon, he will own you the same way he does Pope, and he will use it to make you do things you will hate yourself for, beyond just losing this fight. Like what Dom made your grandfather do…”
He flinches at the mention of Abello and the dirty deeds he had Sam Hawke perform to repay his debts.
Acting as muscle for him.
Hurting people.
Doing the dirty work.
He turned Sam into a thug.
Exactly what Atlas would end up doing for Satriano if he caves to the man now.
“He’ll do the same thing if I don’t—to Coen.” His shoulders tense, like he’s gearing up for a battle. “I’d much rather it were me than him. I can fucking take it, Wren. Coen can’t .”
For all his strength, Atlas’ bleeding heart and loyalty to his family are his weaknesses. He will sacrifice himself over and over again before ever allowing anyone else to get hurt.
“It isn’t your responsibility to take on the debts and ramifications of everyone else’s actions, Atlas. I think you’ve done enough by taking a bullet for your cousins.”
He freezes behind the couch and turns to face me, gripping the leather in his hands so tightly it creaks.
I’m sure he’s thought all these things himself; he just never expected someone else to say them to him. But that’s what Gramps brought me here for—to push him. To make him stronger. To help him achieve the only dream he’s ever had.
And I won’t let him flush that down the fucking toilet.
“The Atlas I know, the one I fell in love with, the one I’ve always loved, isn’t a quitter. He isn’t going to give up and roll over for a man like Satriano. “We’ve all worked too hard for this. Gramps, me, and especially you, for you to throw it all away because your cousin made a stupid fucking mistake.”
Atlas shakes his head. “He’s such a fucking idiot…” He releases a long, deep sigh, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine again. “You’d really leave me? You’d really take my baby and go?”
The waver in his voice almost breaks me on the spot.
But my first priority has to be this baby and having Atlas beholden to Satriano, allowing that man into our lives that way, isn’t going to be good for any of us.
A little sob slips from my lips, and I grab the banister to help keep me upright. “I don’t have a choice. I knew this Satriano thing wouldn’t just go away, but it was always so removed. Vague threats and an unsteady truce. That isn’t the case anymore. If you win and he comes at you for his financial losses, it doesn’t change anything from where we already stood. Not really. Watching our backs. More security. And at least it would have been for something. But if you make a deal with the Devil, then you’re destroying yourself and telling him that you’ll do it again and again for him. That you’ll be his puppet.”
“I wouldn’t do that—”
“Unless he threatens another one of the Hawkes?”
Because Satriano clearly knows the biggest weakness of every single one of them—love for each other.
He weaponized Coen, and he hit his target with Atlas.
“Fuck.” Atlas sucks in a wheezing breath and shakes his head, releasing the couch and making his way to the door. “I can’t—”
“Where are you going?”
He shoves his feet into his shoes and grabs his keys off the small stand next to the door, turning back to look at me. “I need some air. I need to think, and I can’t do that around you. I love you too damn much.”