Chapter 5
5
COEN
THREE DAYS LATER
L aughter and music fill Hawke’s Daily Grind.
Angelina and Alessandra bustle around, serving coffee and pastries to everyone packed into the space for the reopening. The rest of the Hawkes sit scattered around various tables, playing board games and chatting, voices sometimes getting swallowed by the music coming from the small stage area and the overall vibrancy of the event.
For the first time in a long time, my heart feels light. Seeing everyone so happy. So laid back. So carefree. It allows me to—at least momentarily—forget all the threats still looming over us.
Those problems will still exist tomorrow, but today is all about celebrating with everyone I love.
Dad stands out in front of the café near the bistro tables, talking with Isaac and Kennedy, who appear to be in some sort of heated discussion about something. Knowing those two, it could be any thing. They love any reason to bicker—the CFO and the attorney going head-to-head to see who wins, the litigator or the ball-buster who takes down anyone who gets in the way of Hawke Enterprises faster than Gabe could with his sniper rifle.
Truth be told, Kennedy wins more than Issac, but even I don’t have the balls to point that out to him.
A car pulls up to the curb, dragging them away from their conversation.
Shit.
I know the man who gets out—we all do.
He’s the last person who should be here, and given how angry all three of them look talking to him, they’re telling him as much.
My back snaps straight, my entire body instantly going rigid as I watch it unfold in slow motion. Another car appears on the road. Before I can issue a warning, shots ring out, glass shatters, and blood splatters as they crumple to the sidewalk.
“NOOOOOO!”
I jerk awake in my hotel bed, woken by my own scream that still echoes around the room, off all the highly polished surfaces. Goosebumps cover my skin, slick with sweat. My heart thunders against my ribcage, my lungs seizing, refusing to allow me to draw in air.
“Fuck…”
Gasping, I shift fully upright and lean back against the headboard, needing the solid feel of it behind me to help ground me in the now as opposed to the past.
I scrub my hands over my face, hoping to wipe away the vestiges of the dream. Even though it comes every night, it still takes me far too long to convince my body and mind that it isn’t real.
At least, not now.
But it was real.
Not that long ago, it was my reality— our reality.
Satriano was responsible for almost killing Dad and wounding Isaac and Kennedy. He may have claimed Roselli was the target that day, but we all know the truth—it was a “two birds with one stone” scenario that benefited him either way.
My body won’t stop trembling, my hands shaking as I press them to my bare chest, attempting to force my breathing into a more normal pattern.
They’re fine.
Everyone is at home.
Safe.
I try to tell myself that each night when the nightmare of a memory comes for me, but it’s getting harder and harder to believe it. Especially when I’m not there to see it with my own eyes. When I’ve had my damn phone shut off for almost a month so they wouldn’t find me. When I know full well that no one is ever really safe as long as a man like Satriano has us in his sights.
Luca’s visit the other day proved it’s impossible to hide from someone who has the motive and means to locate you. When the Hawkes want to find someone, they will—the same goes for the man I’m now tied to for the foreseeable future.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand with a shaky hand and power it on, suddenly needing to confirm there aren’t any messages saying anything is wrong. It’s been three days since Luca found me, and anything could have happened in that time.
A flood of messages that were never received or read over the last several weeks all come in at the same time—including one from Isaac sent only a few hours ago.
ISAAC
TURN ON YOUR DAMN PHONE!
He had to know how useless it was to send it, but he did anyway. Just as he had the hundreds of others. I scroll back to the night of Cass and Kennedy’s wedding to when he realized I had left the reception.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING SOMETHING STUPID!
Am I?
Leaving seemed like the best option at the time.
The only way to protect the Hawkes and endeavor to undo the damage I did when I placed that bet. But what Luca said when he tracked me down was right—Satriano does have me by the balls now.
There’s no telling what he’ll ask me to do. I keep waiting for him to show up or to contact me some other way—a call to one of my hotel rooms, a note slipped to me during a game, an “associate” showing up to give me a message—to make his first demand beyond me paying back the ten million plus interest that I owe him.
It hasn’t come.
It will.
Reckonings always do.
And I have a big one in my future.
Isaac’s name flashes across the screen with an incoming call, almost like he somehow knew I had turned my phone back on. Which he probably did since the moment I hit that “on” button, the family would have been alerted that it was active.
“Shit…”
By now, everyone has heard what happened with Luca. That I refused to come back. That I made this deal with Satriano. There isn’t any point in attempting to hide where I am anymore. Not when they can so clearly track my passport and know I’m in Macau.
It would only take them a few moments to figure out what hotel, given what’s happening here in a few days.
One of the biggest poker tournaments in the world…with the largest purse.
I wouldn’t miss it.
I can’t.
My finger hovers over the “send-to-voicemail” button, but all I can picture is the pained look on Luca’s face when I told him I wasn’t coming back with him. Not to mention the fight I saw behind his eyes and his body language, him trying to tamp down his desire to physically force me to New Orleans.
It absolutely destroyed him to have to leave me in Monaco, to have to accept that I wouldn’t leave with him.
If he was that upset, I can only imagine how Isaac, Mom, and Dad feel. Doing this to them, leaving without a word, disappearing, was agonizing, but it was the right decision for everyone.
I just hope they can understand that one day.
Maybe tonight, I can do something to help move that needle.
Sucking in a long, deep breath, I swipe the “accept” button. “Hello…”
“Are you fucking out of your mind?”
I wince and climb from the bed in nothing but my boxer briefs, stumbling slightly, still half-asleep and in the lingering grips of the dream. The wall of windows overlooking the vibrant, sparkling city of Macau draws me to it, and I rub the back of my neck with my free hand as I move over to it, loosening the tightness that has formed there when my body went into full-on panic mode during that nightmare.
This late, the entire world is abuzz—stunning, busy, beautiful. Cars whizzing past on the streets below, people bustling along the sidewalks, even people in the hotel pool, despite it being two a.m. here.
All the things I love so much about Macau…the vibrancy and life that explode here are the same reasons New Orleans will always live in my soul. It isn’t just because I’ve spent my entire life there; there’s just something about the city, the people, the life that exists only in those streets.
I could have gone home between Monaco and coming here, at least spent a few days in New Orleans and seen everyone, tried to explain, but they never would have let me leave again. They would have found a way to keep me there, keep me locked away for my “protection,” when what I’m doing is for theirs.
Isaac’s frustration and anger are warranted, though, so I can’t let his response get to me.
“Hello to you, too, big brother…”
“Luca told us what you said.”
I rub at my temples and the headache slowly building between them. “I had no doubt that he would.”
His voice dips low, into that “lawyer” tone he takes when he’s trying to instill how important something he’s saying is. “You can’t play chicken with a man like Satriano, Coen.”
Gritting my teeth, I force out the reply I don’t want to admit. “I know that.”
“ Do you?” He releases a mirthless laugh. “I don’t think you do. You know, we would have given you the money to pay him back in an instant.”
I tighten my grip on my phone, swallowing back my inclination to snap at him for the suggestion. “First of all, he already made it very clear to Atlas and me that no one else could pay back my debt. And even if he had been willing to accept money from the Hawkes, I don’t want to take anyone’s money. I dug this hole; I need to be the one to get out of it.”
He releases an annoyed sigh that fills the line with all his irritation. “Fine. Even if I could justify you running around the world playing in these tournaments to try to pay back your debt, what you’ve agreed to after is going to get you killed.”
I cringe—both from the sincerity of his concern and the fact that he’s potentially right. Satriano could ask me to do anything . And I would be bound to do it, even if it means risking my life.
Still, I can’t dwell on that, nor can I agree to it. It would only give Isaac and the others more ammunition to shoot at me regarding why I shouldn’t have left.
“You don’t know that.”
Something slams on his end of the line, probably his fist on his desk. “I do. Have you forgotten who we’re dealing with here?”
Of course I haven’t.
All I think about is Satriano. About what he’s done. It even haunts me when I close my eyes and try to forget the world in sleep.
I would much rather embrace the dreams about Allegra that have been interspersed with the less pleasant ones. Dreams of having her in my arms again. Dreams of the way her mouth tasted. Dreams of her saying yes to my invitation and what could have resulted from it.
Those are few and far between, though.
And they’re not enough to shake this constant dark cloud that hangs over me.
Sighing, I wander to the bar and pour myself a double bourbon—though I have no desire to consider why I chose that instead of the Lagavulin sitting right next to it.
I take a sip as I lean against the couch, examining the opulent suite I’ve been comped for the tourney. Over the years, I’ve played so many times here—won and lost so much—that they always offer me the best. Yet tonight, it feels cold and empty, and I get no enjoyment from it like I normally would.
Because you want a specific someone to be here with you.
But even if she were, would it even be safe for her?
Can anyone be safe?
“I had to do some thing, Isaac.” My fingers tighten on my crystal tumbler. “You know he would have come for Atlas, and that would have put him, Wren, and the baby in jeopardy. Atlas did nothing wrong. I did by ever betting against him and putting him in the position for Satriano to ask him to fix the fight. If I hadn’t placed that bet against him, Satriano might never have pushed those odds and lost so much. It was all because of me. I fucked up?—”
“You’re right, you did. It was fucking stupid, Coen. No one’s going to argue with you about that. Did you hurt Atlas by betting against him? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did you bring Satriano down on us— again? Sure as shit right, you did.” Anger rises in his tone. “But that doesn’t mean we wanted you to run, especially straight to that man. It doesn’t mean we don’t want you here .”
He mutters something under his breath, his exasperation clearly growing.
I can picture him pacing in his office this time of day, having this call with me when he should be focusing on all the other important work he has to do in order to protect Hawke Enterprises on all fronts legally.
Isaac takes a long inhalation that crackles over the line. “Satriano doesn’t just want a pound of flesh. He wants ten b illion pounds. What do you think he’s going to have you do to work that off—to ever satisfy him?”
Anything and everything.
It’s an astronomical figure.
The amount he lost when Atlas won that fight. When he did the right thing and took back his own life by knocking that fucker out in the ring rather than taking the fall that would have benefited Satriano and the odds his bookmakers had set.
Atlas did everything right.
And I did everything wrong.
“I don’t know what Satriano will ask of me, Isaac, and I don’t care. I’ll do it if it means he stays away from Atlas and Wren, if he leaves the rest of you alone. Luca said he hasn’t been in contact with anyone since I left.”
Isaac sighs. “No, he hasn’t…”
I feel the but he doesn’t say.
Because he doesn’t have to.
We all know there’s always an eerie, peaceful calm before a hurricane comes blowing in off the Gulf. And that’s exactly what Satriano is—a dark, sinister, swirling maelstrom who brings nothing but pain and leaves catastrophic destruction in his wake.
I can’t allow anyone else to be collateral damage.
“That’s good. It means I’ve at least kept him at bay for a while.”
“You really think this is going to work? That you’re going to be able to appease a mob boss like Satriano, a man who shot at us and who blew up The goddamn Grind?”
I flinch at his words, his screams from that day echoing in my head, along with the flashes of crimson splattered across the bistro tables, chairs, the Grand Opening sign, and the people I love the most. Isaac, Kennedy, and Dad’s blood pouring out onto the sidewalk in front of the café. All of us rushing to help to try to save them. Sitting beside their beds in the hospital. Wondering if Dad was ever going to walk out of there alive or if it would be in a coffin.
“Believe me, Isaac, I haven’t forgotten. That’s why I’m here. I have to?—”
Shit.
I don’t even know what I want to say.
“I have to fix this somehow, and this is the only way I know to do it.”
A silence lingers through the line.
“Come home, Coen. We’ll work this out together, I promise. There are ways we can protect Atlas and Wren?—”
I wander over to a big, plush leather chair and slowly lower myself into it, dropping my face into my palm and scrubbing it over it. “What about the rest of you? He could come after any of us. You know he wanted a Hawke in his pocket, and now he has it. We all know I’m the most expendable one.”
“What?” Isaac’s voice drops. “Coen, is that really what you think?”
Shit.
I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now that the words are hanging there between us, it’s not like I can just snatch them back any more than I can the confession I made to Allegra or my final words on the matter to Luca before he left my suite.
“It’s true. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a purpose, doesn’t play a role in the Hawke world. None of our businesses rely on me. No one does.”
This time, Isaac’s silence somehow vibrates with anger even from across the world. “Are you out of your motherfucking mind? You truly have lost it if you believe that.” He releases a frustrated growl. “ I need you. Mom and Dad need you. Everyone needs you.”
“Bullshit!” I shove up out of the chair and stalk back to the bar to refill my drink and immediately down it. “I’ve been gone for a month, and everything has been chugging along, just as it always has. Am I right?”
He snorts. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a fucking mess. Everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to find you, worrying…”
I flinch. “Mom and Dad?”
Isaac releases a heavy, long sigh that sounds so much like our father that I cringe, squeezing my eyes closed. “They’re terrified they’re never going to see you again. You can’t do this. You can’t run and hide, and you certainly can’t get further into bed with a man like Satriano. Come home, please.”
“I have a tournament in a few days.”
“In Macau?”
Shit.
Guess I was right about not needing to hide anymore.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” He snaps. “Play in your tournament if it’ll make you feel better. Pay off the goddamn debt and then get the fuck back to New Orleans. Come home, and we can deal with the rest.”
“I’ll think about it…”
“Goddammit, Coen.” He sighs. “I knew I should have gone with Luca…”
“You have enough to worry about there without trying to track me around the world, Isaac.”
“That’s pretty much what everyone else said, but I can’t believe he left without bringing you back.”
Really, neither can I.
Luca could have forced it.
He could have had men far bigger and stronger than me physically remove me from that hotel room, force me into his car, and drag me onto the private jet.
But he didn’t.
Because he knew I had to do this.
“I’m an adult, Isaac. I’m not your little kid brother anymore. I can make my own adult decisions.”
“Yes, and how has that been working out for you lately?”
I wince and down the rest of my drink. “Love you, too, brother.”
Ending the call, I toss my phone onto the small table next to the chair and lean back, letting my head drop to the headrest and my eyes close.
I really fucked up everything.
And Isaac is right.
Satriano is going to come calling.
He’s going to figure out what he can use me for, and I’m going to have to pay up. I won’t like it. Not one bit.
But I’ll do it.
I have to.
* * *
ALLEGRA
FOUR DAYS LATER
There’s no mistaking the heat of the gaze raking over me.
It sizzles across my skin.
Burns through my core.
Makes me wish I could press my thighs together without anyone noticing me shift in my seat.
He hasn’t even fully entered the poker room yet, barely made it to the doorjamb, but I know it’s him.
No one else has ever raised this kind of response in me simply by looking at me. I haven’t even met his gaze. I intentionally keep mine focused on the man to my right, whom I’ve been chatting with casually since I took my seat at the table several minutes ago.
Giorgio was a pleasant-enough opponent in Monaco, and today, he is almost overly friendly, like he realizes he missed some major opportunity then and doesn’t want to let it get away now that he has me within his reach.
Perhaps seeing that I am real competition last week has altered his opinion of me.
When I first sat at that table, I didn’t have the respect of anyone, but by the time I left—after almost crushing Coen in the final showdown—I had hoped to have gained it.
His flirtation suggests he has less professional reasons for his interest, but the gleam in his eye certainly wasn’t there in Monaco. Knowing I can hang with the boys has gotten me a new admirer, one who appreciates a woman who can play a strong game.
But I have zero interest in Giorgio Nikolaou—now or ever.
Only a single man has occupied my thoughts the past week, and it certainly wasn’t him.
The one currently being forced to take the sole available seat, immediately to my left, is another story entirely.
Coen…
The heat of his glare sears every fiber of my being as he approaches with sure, unhurried steps—as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and doesn’t give a shit that I’m here and am directly next to him.
This seating arrangement isn’t by chance, and he knows it.
Anyone who has done any research into Coen as a player knows where he likes to sit, which made it very easy for me to make the request to be seated here. Where I have access to him. Where I can use everything in my arsenal to my advantage.
It gives me the high ground in this battle of wills.
He slides into his chair, his immaculate black suit pulling slightly at his shoulders as he leans over slightly toward me, but he doesn’t meet my gaze or even look me in the eye. Instead, he grins at the man to my right. “Giorgio, always a pleasure.”
Giorgio inclines his head in response, and Coen settles back in his seat, unbuttoning his coat so it hangs loosely over the crisp dark shirt he wears under it. Cuff links with a family crest featuring an H with wings glint at his wrists as he casually turns to his left and starts up a conversation with the player to his left—something he typically never does.
So, that’s the game we’re playing today in addition to poker…
He’s angry with me.
Mad that I left him standing on that curb in Monaco.
Annoyed I’m here and didn’t tell him I would be when he was so frantic to know when he might see me again.
The man is smart enough to see this for what it is—another tactic to get under his skin.
I knew I’d be at this table in Macau when he asked me that question. I knew he would be sitting at the felt with me. I also understood what letting him know that would have meant—giving him hope.
Walking away and leaving him wanting without any idea when he might lay eyes on me again was the stronger play—and I was taught well to always look for the upper hand.
He’s off-balance again.
Which means I’ve already won.
He doesn’t acknowledge me at all during the minutes leading up to play, merely watches our game host and dealer as they talk, as if they’re discussing the most interesting topics in the world.
The cold shoulder doesn’t bother me.
Not when I know what fire blazes inside him right now, what he is struggling to contain. I’ve seen and felt flickers of it, and even though he’s giving off the icy vibes that match the current state of his eyes, he can’t undo what’s already been done.
He revealed himself to me, parts of himself that any opponent would relish having access to because they make the biggest weaknesses, the easiest to exploit during play. And Coen Hawke makes me want to play with him as much as I do the cards being shuffled by the dealer directly in front of me.
Even as the cards are dealt around the table, Coen doesn’t glance at me, doesn’t acknowledge me. He scans the other players as they check their cards, assessing each of them for a moment or two before moving to the next.
Like me, he’s done his homework. He knows how each and every one of them plays, understands any tells they might have, recognizes any weaknesses, but he forgets that I know his now.
And I am not afraid to use it against him.
When the betting gets to me, I finally check my cards and toss in my chips, calling. Coen barely glances at his before calling, too, leaving only five of us in this round.
Many players prefer to be conservative in early hands, wanting to get a better sense of the table and the cards, waiting for an opportunity to strike against an unsuspecting opponent.
Coen usually plays this way. Conservative. Smart . His game is intelligent, built on years of honing his skills. He’s won far more than he’s lost since he started playing competitively, but he’s going to have to get used to things changing in that regard.
Because I’ve never been one to hang back and watch, waiting for opportunities.
I make my own.
The dealer pulls the flop cards, giving us the first real feel for what our hands might be.
Coen doesn’t move.
He doesn’t breathe.
He is fully in the moment, completely unaffected by the fact that I’m sitting beside him—or at least, he wants me to believe he is.
I may not have spent a great deal of time with Coen, but it was enough to understand how this man lives—with a kind of burning passion that he focuses on the things he loves.
Some assume that’s this game.
And Coen certainly does love poker.
But that crack I managed to break in his armor in Monaco taught me something very important—that passion can be redirected, and when it is, he loses some of that cool. The way he followed me out of that casino and to the limo, the way he almost begged me to stay, was enough to prove to me that he is far more fragile than even I knew.
Far more vulnerable.
I place my bet, then wait for him to make his move. As he reaches forward to move his chips, I shift slightly closer to him until my leg brushes against his.
Coen freezes, his entire body going taut beside me, and I have to fight the grin threatening to pull at my lips.
There we go.
It doesn’t take much.
A heated glance.
A tilt of the lips.
A simple touch.
Men unravel so easily, and Coen is no exception to that rule.
After the heated kisses we shared in Monaco and the hopes he held for what would have happened if I had stayed, it will be particularly easy with him.
Barely a challenge.
The next few players to his left place their bets, and the dealer draws the turn card.
Another opportunity to scan the players, to watch for any reactions to what the next-to-last card gave them. To make a decision on how much to wager before the river appears.
Every single person at this table is a true professional with years of experience. If they have a tell, they’re good at concealing it. And everyone is doing a very good job today.
At this point, all I have to go on is the cards in my hand and those on the felt.
By the time the next round of bets moves to me, the heat of Coen’s thigh permeates my own bare one, even though his dress pants, and he’s done nothing to pull away, to put any sort of space between us.
Bad move.
He’s playing with fire, and he has to know he’s going to get burned.
But maybe that’s what he wants.
Maybe he thrives on the pain.
If that’s the case, I am more than willing to make him hurt.
He tosses in his chips, calling, as do two more players to his left.
The dealer pulls the river, and I catch Mason Farewell to my far right, flinching slightly as the card appears. Whatever he has, he doesn’t like it. Probably a flush or straight that only needed one more card that didn’t appear.
Coen remains stoic.
Giving nothing away.
For all I know, he could have a royal flush or a pair of twos.
Time to see if he has a new tell…
I slip my free hand, already resting on my thigh under the table, over to his, which immediately tenses under my palm. Coen’s body twitches at the contact, but then he sits absolutely stock-still.
He doesn’t look at me, even out of the corner of those shimmering blue eyes.
He doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t raise the alarm bells with the tournament host or the dealer.
And he won’t.
Coen Hawke will never publicly announce that anyone has rattled him or that it’s possible to get under this seemingly thick skin. Admitting that kind of weakness would be tantamount to opening the floodgates—anyone with any sense would start looking to crack him the same way.
He’s the type to suffer in silence.
To try to work through the discomfort and pretend it doesn’t affect him when I can feel his flesh trembling and tense under my hand.
Now that all the community cards are on the table, players start dropping like flies, including Giorgio next to me, who tosses his cards face-up onto the table.
I place my bet, raising $5,000, and Coen stares at the cards for a moment, and I give his thigh a squeeze, letting my fingertips dip to the left, brushing against his already semi-hard cock.
A challenge.
One I know he can’t refuse.
He leans forward and pushes his chips in, calling.
Everyone else to his left folds, leaving only the two of us.
A showdown that feels awfully familiar. Only unlike in Monaco, this game is just beginning, and we have a long way to go before the final hand will be dealt.
Hours and hours of this.
Me toying with him.
Him pretending it isn’t happening and doesn’t affect him.
It will be a sheer battle of self-control and wits—something that is going to make this game far more interesting.
I flip over my cards—a pair of queens to go with the one in the community cards, along with the pair of threes on the felt.
Coen grins, flipping over his pair of kings to go with the king pulled as the river.
He’s beaten me.
And despite doing my best to distract him, I never noticed any tell that would have alerted me to the fact that the river gave him a very strong hand.
Impressive.
It just means I’ll have to try harder.
I squeeze his thigh, sliding my hand up and in farther, my knuckles grazing his cock. And I have to hand it to the man—he doesn’t twitch this time, doesn’t move, remains as stoic as ever.
Even as I can feel the tension in his body starting to coil…he manages to maintain.
It’s a game of chicken.
Who will give first, Coen Hawke or me?
I know it won’t be me.
So, this is going to be fun.
It could be hours before everyone at this table is eliminated, before a winner finally comes out on top. But given the way I can feel his cock rising against his pants, only a few millimeters from my touch, I know I’ve already won in every way that matters.