Chapter 7
7
COEN
T he familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the Hawkeye Club envelop me the second I walk through the front door. Somehow, after being gone for over a month, it simultaneously feels like I never left and like I’ve been gone forever.
Thumping bass vibrates through my feet and up my body as the door swings closed behind me, sealing out the sticky New Orleans air and me in with the scent of alcohol and the sweet perfume the dancers wear.
Chantell wraps herself around the pole center stage, draping backward and exposing her breasts to the patrons gathered closely around the front. She flips back up and catches my eye, winking in greeting before she continues the routine I know by heart now after seeing it performed so many times.
It’s a good crowd tonight—heavy with young tourists and a few older locals.
I scan the bar to check who’s working.
Tommy’s eyes widen slightly at me.
Guess he wasn’t expecting me to come home…
Given how long I’ve been MIA and that I never told anyone I was coming, it makes sense he’s surprised.
But someone knew.
The same way they found me in Monaco and knew I was in Macau.
He points toward the elevator, telling me what I already know.
Everyone is upstairs.
Since the second they were alerted that I boarded that plane in Macau to head back here, they’ve been waiting for this moment—the showdown I’ve been avoiding for the past month.
There is no way to dodge it any longer.
I bought myself a minor reprieve when Luca showed up and demanded I return, when I somehow convinced him that I had to stay and continue what I was doing, but it couldn’t go on forever.
We all knew I’d have to come back
It just took me a while to accept it.
And as restless as I’ve always been, unable to commit to one job or one place, somehow coming home, stepping off that plane and smelling the New Orleans air, driving to the club past the same buildings and spots that have been here my entire life, the anxiety I had eased somewhat.
Until I walked in here.
Now that dread has settled back heavily on my shoulders, knowing what’s waiting for me.
I don’t take the elevator, despite that being much easier. It would also be faster, and I’m not in any rush to get this going. Instead, I slam my hand onto the metal bar across the stairwell door and start climbing.
Tread after tread.
Up and up.
That bass shaking each one under my feet.
It gives me a few extra moments to prepare myself for what I’m about to face, which I desperately need because there’s no question it’s going to be unpleasant.
The cars lined up outside in our private parking area confirm it. Not only are Uncle Savage, Dad, and Gabe waiting, but Saint is also here.
And God knows who else may have ridden with any of them.
I’m walking into an ambush, but at least I know it and had a very long flight to prepare myself mentally for the showdown. Or at least, to attempt it.
My thoughts kept drifting away from what I should have been focusing on and to the woman I left in that restaurant. And she should be the furthest thing from my thoughts, especially right now.
I make it to the second floor, step into the hallway, and the rumble of familiar voices floats down from Savage’s office.
Each step I take draws me closer to facing the consequences of my fuckup in the worst way.
As if having to tell Atlas what I did that night wasn’t bad enough…
As if telling them wasn’t one of the worst moments of my life…
I went and made it worse.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I approach the open door, feeling more like I am walking the plank for my crime than about to see the people closest to me.
The second I step through the doorframe, all conversation halts, and seven sets of eyes turn to me.
Savage assesses me from where he sits behind his desk, looking every bit the boss and patriarch that he is, while Gabe occupies his usual perch on the edge of the piece of furniture that dominates the room. Dad reclines in the corner of one of the two leather couches with his cane—now necessary due to the damage Satriano did when he shot up the Grind—propped against the armrest. Isaac sits across from him on the matching couch, a hard glare directed squarely at me. Saint leans casually against the far wall near the window, massive arms crossed over his chest with Bishop beside him, offering me an almost apologetic look. And finally, I let my gaze meet Luca’s, where he sits in one of the chairs facing the couches, his eyes, dark and hard, locked on me and filled with reproach.
Almost a full house…
Fucking great.
No one says anything, as if they expect me to delve right into this conversation somehow, like I didn’t burn down everything and then run away from the results.
What can I say at this point?
Gabe pushes off the desk, heads over to the bar, pours me a scotch, and slips it into my hand with a knowing look, his green eyes flashing with relief, anger, and a bit of sympathy. “You’re going to need this.”
Hell.
That warning sits heavily in my gut.
I scrub my hand over my face before I take a sip, then force my feet to move and take me to lower myself on the couch next to Dad. The leather creaks slightly under my weight, and I shift, suddenly uncomfortable in the seat I’ve taken thousands of times over the years.
This place has always been the core of Hawke Enterprises—this office. Where it all started with Uncle Savage and Uncle Gabe. It’s the heart of our business, and it has always felt like a home to all of us.
But it doesn’t feel particularly welcoming at the moment.
Dad’s blue eyes cut to me, and they hold so many warring emotions in them that the drink I just took instantly sours in my stomach. “Glad to see you’re alive.”
I flinch at the pain in his voice.
The accusation.
The hurt that I ran and didn’t come to him.
What can I even say that would help, that might help him understand?
Absolutely fucking nothing.
I take another sip, swallowing thickly. “It’s good to be alive…”
Savage raises a dark brow, settling deeper into his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrests. “Is it? Because from what I hear, you’ve been playing Russian roulette.”
I snort and shake my head at the implication. “Nope, just poker.”
“Fucking hell, Coen.” Dad practically snarls at me, turning toward me in his seat. “What were you thinking, disappearing like that? Going to Satriano?”
Wincing, I let my gaze move to the man who first asked me that question.
Luca just watches me stoically. He told them every word I said after he left me in Monaco…but hearing it from him is different than hearing it from me.
I need to explain.
Get them to understand .
“I thought I was protecting all of you.” I suck in a sharp breath, struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice so they don’t think I’m hanging on by a thread when I’m getting closer and closer to that. “I thought I was protecting Atlas and Wren?—”
Bishop pushes off the wall and walks around to the edge of the couch, getting closer to me—close enough that I can see her muscles twitching in her arms as she struggles not to grab me and do something she would probably not regret, even though she should. “You know damn well we can protect everyone here far better than if you’re gallivanting around the fucking world.”
She isn’t just pissed.
She’s hurt.
They all are.
And somehow, that’s so much worse.
I’ve always been a massive disappointment. The only one who has never seemed to have any direction in life. Always restless. Always seeking something. And it’s never been what they’ve offered.
What I did was the ultimate slap in the face to the people who’ve loved me the most through it all.
My ultimate failure.
I swallow my guilt and try to look each and every one of them in the eye—though it’s so much harder with Dad, Isaac, and Uncle Savage for some reason. Then I let my gaze drift to Bishop and her father.
Saint hasn’t moved. He just stands there, looking like an immovable mountain.
And that’s what he’s always been.
Our rock.
Our protector and friend.
Which is why what I’m going to say in response to Bishop’s statement hurts so much.
“I truly don’t mean this to be insensitive or to suggest everyone in this room isn’t trying their hardest.” This will ruffle the Hawke feathers, and I desperately need some air in my lungs to get it out. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the air that smells like the club. “But we keep saying that. You all do. Yet…look what has happened. First, Jack got taken from a building that was supposed to be secure. That was supposed to be safe?—”
Isaac opens his mouth to object, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“And I understand there were extenuating circumstances. That she did what she had to in order to protect Vivi, but he shouldn’t have gotten that far. He never should have gotten his hands on your daughter, and we all know it.”
God, it feels like ages ago…
So much has happened since, only compounding the pain.
Dad presses his lips together in a firm line, as does Uncle Savage, like they’re both biting back retorts they know they can’t make because it’s all true. Luca and Saint keep their hard gazes on me, letting me continue, even though I can see the tension building in both of them. Gabe leans against the desk, hands curled around the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
And I’m only going to make things worse.
“And the Grind went up in flames, thanks to Satriano.” My eyes cut to Dad. “Then we almost lost you, Kennedy, and Isaac because of that fucker.” I throw up my free hand. “Then Dan Roselli was able to get to the girls and Benjamin…to hurt Atlas and Astrid.” I wince, remembering how they looked when they were finally rescued. “We’ve done everything we can to keep everyone safe, and it hasn’t been enough. So, forgive me if I didn’t trust in the innate ability of the Hawkes to keep ourselves safe. I think I had reason to be worried…”
That silences everyone.
No one breathes.
No one moves a muscle.
But I can feel Saint’s eyes boring into the back of my head.
I turn to look at him—the one in charge of security for the entire Hawke empire—and he glances around at all the men in the room.
The big man finally shifts his massive weight, his jaw hard. “You’re right.” He runs a hand over his shaved head. “And we’ve had this conversation before, trust me. There is never any way to one hundred percent guarantee everyone’s safety when there are forces outside our control. But going to Satriano isn’t the answer.”
“Isn’t it?” My hand tightens on my glass, and I slug a drink from it, relishing the burn down my throat and stomach. “Pope is stuck stitching up his henchmen to keep him at bay for the ‘repayment’ he believes he’s owed for assisting with the Roselli situation. The man only saved Atlas, Kennedy, and Astrid because he knew it would indebt us to him, and he took full advantage of it.” I lock gazes with each and every one of them. “It only makes sense for me to do the same. It only makes sense for me to see what I can do to protect us all.”
There’s nothing different about what I’m doing and what Pope is…
Except they don’t believe I can do it.
They don’t think I’m capable of handling a man like Satriano.
They don’t think I’m capable of handling myself.
And I’ve given them reason to question me.
Uncle Savage finally releases a long, heavy sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “What has he asked you to do?”
I shake my head and take another sip of my drink. “Nothing yet. I’m still working on the ten million I owe him.”
A muscle in Savage’s jaw tics. “I’ll give you the money.”
Fucking hell.
Anger scorches hot through my veins, and I slam my free hand down on the couch beside me and push to my feet. My drink splashes over the edge of my glass, but I don’t even care. “And he’ll fucking know about that. Don’t you get it? It’s not about the money. It never has been. That man wants more , and he’s going to take it from me.”
All the frustration and guilt that have been building for weeks finally boil over. There isn’t any containing it now that I’ve opened the floodgates, and their insistence that what I did was wrong is only making me angrier when I wanted to come in here and smooth things over.
“And I’m okay with it because I betrayed Atlas. I betrayed all of you, and I’m not in any position to be doing anything other than begging for all your forgiveness…and doing what I can to make things right.”
Dad climbs to his feet with the help of the cane, stepping up into my face, and it’s like I’m looking at an older version of myself—if I had actually had half the drive that he seems to have been born with. “Not by sacrificing yourself.”
His hand trembles as he reaches out and clasps my forearm.
“Do you think we haven’t all made mistakes?” He snorts. “Look at me. Look what happened with Abello and the fallout from it. Everyone got hurt, including my goddamn wife. Yet your mother forgave me. God knows I don’t understand how, but she did. So did your Aunt Dani. And we all forgive you, but we won’t be able to forgive ourselves if something happens to you.”
I clench my jaw, torn between pulling him into an embrace and retreating from the way he’s looking at me right now—that mix of love, concern, and empathy. “I’m smarter than you give me credit for, Dad.”
His dark brows wing up. “No one here ever said you weren’t smart, Coen. You’re probably the smartest of any of us?—”
I choke on those words and the laugh that they elicit. “Yeah, real fucking brilliant. I walked right into that man’s trap.”
“No, you didn’t.” He scowls. “You have a gambling problem, and he took advantage of it. With my history, it’s no wonder you were predisposed and probably born with an addictive personality. You can’t blame yourself?—”
“I do, and I will.” I finally tug out of his hold. “And when he asks, I’m going to do whatever he wants me to if it’ll ensure everyone’s safety.”
Savage clenches his fists on the top of his desk. “And until then?”
I shrug. “Until then, I keep playing until I pay it back on my own.”
“How much do you still need?”
“Five million. But there’s a game in Vegas in two weeks, and I plan on being there to end at least that portion of my debt to the man.”
Isaac finally rises to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, clearly unhappy about what just went down between our father and me. “You lost in Macau?”
My back stiffens at the memory of that game—Allegra’s roaming hand and what mine did after—and I clear my throat. “I did.”
“To whom?”
An evil temptress…
“No one you know or would want to.”
* * *
ALLEGRA
My family is in the business.
When Coen told me that, I hadn’t imagined this …
Good God…
I do a slow, three-sixty spin in the grand lobby of the Hawke Hotel, trying to take in everything around me. But that’s nearly impossible.
Even after spending most of my life traveling and countless nights in ritzy, over-the-top luxury hotels, this place has still managed to render me speechless.
And it isn’t just the glittering opulence.
It’s the unique touches.
Things I can only imagine to be authentic New Orleans flair scattered throughout the design—the golden fleur-de-lis carved at the corner of each door and inlaid in the shiny, Italian marble floors. Bright, festive carnival masks decorating the walls. Magnolias flowing out of massive crystal vases placed on tables and pedestals throughout the massive space…
It somehow feels rich, yet homey. Welcoming, yet clearly offering an experience that will go far beyond what anyone can imagine. And I haven’t even made it into the casino yet…
My gaze drifts to the right, toward the entrance to it, where slot machines and tables extend as far as I can see.
Before I can take a single step, a warm, calloused hand curls around my elbow, and a familiar scent wraps around me, invading my startled inhalation.
Crisp ocean waves.
Coen…
“What are you doing here, Allegra?” His deep voice rumbles through me like an earthquake, threatening to knock me off balance in my heels. When I don’t answer immediately, his grip tightens and his lips brush my ear. “Well?”
I clear my throat and turn toward him slightly until I can see the warning in his gaze. “I came to play.”
It’s as honest an answer as I can give the man who will probably never trust me.
One of his dark brows rises slowly, and he shifts closer, until his entire body is pressed into the side of mine, his breath fanning my cheek, raising goosebumps along my skin. “Came to play what?” Those callouses drag lightly over my skin as he shifts his grip. “Me? Because we both know that isn’t going to happen…”
I shake my head immediately.
Not after what he did to me the other night…
He made it very clear that he will not be played—despite my best efforts, which came back to bite me.
Hard.
I tried to distract him at that table in Macau, but apparently, all that came from my little game was the awakening of a sleeping giant intent on revenge—which he served excessively cold before he walked away.
He left me breathless, trembling, wet, and wanting.
Not a position I often find myself in, nor one I ever want to be in again.
Coen holds my gaze, patrons of the hotel and casino moving around us, eyeing us speculatively. Apparently, the tension between the couple standing so close and glaring at each other in the middle of the lobby is as evident as it is for me as part of the stare down.
What’s he going to do?
Walk me out of Hawke Hotel and drop me on the street…
It should be his first inclination and honestly what I expected him to do once he discovered I was here, but I thought I’d have more time to scope out the hotel and casino, to get the lay of the land, and perhaps establish some sort of defensive position before I was captured by the enemy.
That didn’t go well.
And the longer this goes on, the two of us unmoving, pressed together with his tight grip on me, the harder it becomes to keep staring into those icy-blue eyes.
It’s my turn to raise a brow at him, to force him to act, and the secretive grin he sends my way in response elicits a little shiver of fear and anticipation.
A security guard in a black suit approaches, with his gaze zeroed in on Coen’s hand on my arm. “Is there a problem, sir?”
Coen finally drags his focus away from me to smile at him. “I’ll take care of Ms. Knight personally.”
The man gives him a little nod of acknowledgment. “Yes, sir.”
As soon as he moves away from us, I turn my head toward Coen. “You’re going to take care of me, how? Throw me out on my ass?”
He starts to lead me away from the lobby and casino, his firm grip on my arm directing me toward a bank of elevators and preventing me from holding my ground unless I want to be dragged across the Italian marble. “I should, shouldn’t I?”
Probably.
If I were in his position, I likely would.
Yet, this elevator clearly doesn’t lead outside to the streets of New Orleans.
The doors glide open the moment he hits the call button. We step in, his hand still coiled around my arm, ensuring I’m not going to bolt. My heart thunders against my ribs; the thought of being confined in an elevator with Coen Hawke again is enough to make my legs shake.
Coen maneuvers us to one side, then swipes a keycard across a reader and hits the button labeled PH . But before I can be sealed in with him and my fate, two other couples enter, which means that whatever Coen wants to say or do is going to have to wait until we don’t have an audience.
Because something tells me whatever it is wouldn’t play well with Hawke Hotel customers.
And here, Coen has to maintain some level of professional decorum.
This is the shining jewel in his family’s empire, and he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish it simply to get his revenge against me.
Would he?
Coen offers the others a smile as they each scan their keycards and press the buttons for their floors.
The elevator doors close.
Tension permeates the air.
Everyone seems to notice, glancing toward us a few times, even though we haven’t done or said anything to draw their attention.
We rise three floors, each number ticking by slowly. It stops, and one of the couples disembarks, leaving us facing the other.
I give them a tentative smile, and they shift awkwardly, their gazes dipping to Coen’s hold on me.
Coen’s hand tightens as if in response.
I turn my head slightly so I can whisper to him. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere private where we can have a conversation .”
Why do I think that word doesn’t mean to me what it does to him?
I raise a brow at him. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
He smirks, dark humor dancing across his cold gaze. “This isn’t the type of conversation I’m talking about…”
Well, that’s ominous.
The other couple finally exits on their floor, and the elevator continues up until we reach our destination without another word from either of us.
It dings, the doors opening to reveal a small entryway and a single door labeled PENTHOUSE .
“You have a thing for penthouses, huh?”
He scowls and leads me toward the solitary entrance. “I happen to know it’s unoccupied at the moment.”
Coen swipes his key and pushes open the door, directing me inside, but it’s impossible to concentrate on what the room looks like when he still has his hand on me.
Those callouses brush my skin. The heat of his fingers seeps into me. And I can’t help the way the memory of them moving inside me rushes to the forefront of my mind.
He marches me into the main living space—two floors tall, with bright Louisiana sunlight pouring in from the windows and a crystal chandelier hanging in the center. A rounded staircase curves up the far wall, leading up to what I have to assume is the main bedroom, but I don’t have time to examine it any further.
Coen loosens his hold on me, allowing me to slip free and turn to face him fully.
One of his dark brows rises over the vibrant blue. “What are you doing, Allegra? Because I’m sick of the games. You know you’re not welcome to play here.”
I set down my purse on an end table next to a low, white leather couch. “Who says I came for the tables?”
His pupils dilate, his throat working on a thick swallow. “Apparently, my warning didn’t take.”
“Oh”—I approach him cautiously as one would a wounded, untrusting animal, nodding slowly—“it definitely took. My legs shook all night.”
And I had to slide my own hand between them to ease the ache when I got back into my room—though I refuse to admit that weakness to him.
I stop just in front of him, only a few feet separating us, offering a coy smile as the memory of our game in Macau surfaces, blazing hot. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
Inching closer, I allow my gaze to dip to his crotch. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you adjusted your cock before you slid out of that booth, Coen. I wasn’t the only one affected by your little game.”
“ My game?” His brows rise incredulously. “What about yours ? You’ve been playing one with me from the minute we met.”
There isn’t any point in denying it.
“I was, but can you blame me?” I smirk. “Don’t you research your opponents?”
Coen crosses his arms over his chest, the motion pulling at the crisp white dress shirt he wears. “Of course, I do.”
I spread my hands to point out the opulence of the suite and the life he clearly lives. “You just pay your minions to bring you the information, right?”
He scowls at me because I’ve hit the nail right on the head. His family is precisely the type to have a massive security force and people who specifically do their digging and dirty work. All he has to do is request information on anyone he knows will be at those tables he sits at, and his people will bring him anything they can find.
“Well”—I reach out and run a finger down his chest, his hard pecs tightening under my touch—“not all of us have the benefit of a staff to do our bidding. I don’t own a hotel…”
“Neither do I.”
I lean in. “Your family does. It’s semantics. Anything you want is within reach…”
In retrospect, that might have been the wrong thing to say while I had any part of my body touching this man. I hadn’t meant the words to sound like an invitation, but it’s exactly how they came out.
His brow rises slowly, heat flickering in his gaze that goes far beyond that of the anger that’s permeated it so heavily. “Is that so?”
The way the question rolls off his tongue, he might as well be on his knees with it buried between my legs.
This would be the time to retreat.
To back away a few steps…
To put space between him and me before things go horribly awry…
But things already have gone awry.
They have since the minute he sat next to me at that bar in Atlantic City.
So, I don’t retreat.
I nod.
He considers me for a moment, his hand coming up to wrap around my wrist where my finger is still pressed to his chest. “It could be…if I actually trusted you.”
Good God, I have completely lost control at this point.
“Do you have to trust me to me fuck me?”
His eyes flare, and he steps into my finger until my hand is fully flattened against his chest, and I can feel his heart beating a rapid tattoo under it. “Is that what you want, Allegra, for me to hate-fuck you?”
I grin at him. “Do you hate me?”
He snorts. “You cost me the win in Macau.”
“You cost yourself the win.”
His lips part to offer an argument.
“Coen…don’t blame me because you lost control, because I played the better game…”
And played him.
It may have been dirty tactics. It may have gone well beyond the bounds of what any player would consider appropriate. But he was still the one who let it affect him. It still broke his epic control.
“You may have beaten me at poker that night, Allegra, but I think I won .”
Raising a brow, I tilt my head slightly, examining him. “How’s that?”
That mouth that has promised so many sinful things curls into a smooth grin. “You’re here , aren’t you?”
Shit.
And he knows why.
Because my legs still wobble slightly at the memory of his hand between them. I still get wet at the thought of his fingers moving against my clit. My body vibrates, even now, like it did that night, ready and waiting for him to finish the job.
He shifts closer, our bodies now fully aligned, our hands pinned between us, his still wrapped around my wrist. “I must have done something right. I figured I’d never see you again, or at least, not until the next big tournament.”
“Vegas?”
That scowl of his returns. “I should have known…but what I don’t understand is why the sudden interest?”
“What do you mean?”
He searches my gaze as if he’ll find the answer there. “I’ve never seen you on the circuit before. Now, you’re everywhere.”
I raise a shoulder and let it fall. “I didn’t need it as badly before.”
“Need what?”
Isn’t that the ultimate question?
What do I need…
What does anyone…
Leaning in, I ghost my lips over his. “The wins.”
“But you do now?”
I nod.
He slides his free hand through my hair, grasping my head and holding me steady, preventing me from pulling away, exerting his dominance and letting me know I’m not going to pull one over on him again. “You’re not going to win with me.”
I shift my body to his and feel his cock harden against my stomach. “The evidence would suggest otherwise.”
“If what you need is a good, hard fuck, I’m more than willing to comply, Allegra. But what I won’t do is continue whatever this fucking game is between us. I need that win in Vegas. So, I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“This.” He rolls his hips against mine, and I have to stifle a groan at the rush of need that simple motion sends through me. “In exchange for your word that you won’t play.”
I raise a brow. “Because you know I can beat you?”
“Because I don’t want any distractions, and somehow, I’ve let you become one. A beautiful, beautiful distraction.”
I consider his offer for a moment. Consider walking away from this so I can still play. But with his body pressed against mine, his hot breath fanning over my face, the desire and hatred burning in his eyes, we’re so close to combusting that I don’t know if it’s possible to stop it at this point.
“Okay, Mr. Hawke, I agree to your terms.”
He grins, but the way it splits his face sends a shiver down my spine. “Good, because I would much rather slide into you than take my cock in my hand like I had to in Macau…”