Chapter 23 Hawk
HAWK
I get back to my place, pull into the drive, idle a second with my hands on the wheel, and listen to the engine tick as it cools.
I didn’t burn the barn.
Falcon went home to Savannah, none the wiser about Reyes or coordinates or AI flames. He believed my nonsense about scouting a guesthouse site and “checking structure.” He left in good spirits.
Inside, my foyer smells like lemon oil and laundry detergent. My cleaners are here. Fuck. The framed print by the door—Do The Next Right Thing—stares down like an accusation and a benediction in one. I set my keys in the dish just before my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Raven.
Judge says the DHS notice was fake. Dani’s not going anywhere. We’re 90% sure Agudelo’s chef is behind Belinda. V’s digging on a real name. We’re on it. Will update.
I shut my eyes, and the breath I let out feels like a pack is dropping off my shoulders.
Fixed.
One thing, at least, is fixed. Daniela isn’t going back to Colombia.
I take my boots off and leave them facing the door the way Dad drilled into us—always ready to move. I walk through the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and drink it down.
Then I head into my mancave, where the Nintendo controller sits on the coffee table—a portal to a world where you get three lives plus extras if you’re clever.
For a second, the idea is delicious. I could sit. I could hurl myself into make-believe and let the dopamine do its merciful job. No blood, no law, no family, no leverage. Just jump, duck, run, repeat.
Make the noise stop.
My hand hovers over the controller.
I pull it back.
Daniela isn’t leaving the US. But nothing else is fixed. The barn still stands. Reyes has leverage on me.
And worse…
Belinda is still missing.
And Daniela is still in danger.
Not just from the chef, Reyes, and Diego Vega.
But from the Huntington’s gene.
Damn.
I know Agudelo was lying to her. I just know it.
Is it just foolish hope on my part?
Maybe, but it’s worth a shot.
We have to get Daniela tested. And if she does have the gene? I’ll spend every minute with her and every dollar of my fortune trying to get her cured.
I can’t kill the disease if she has it, but I can at least kill the uncertainty. I can take the weight off her shoulders or, if I can’t, I can shoulder it with her.
That thought hits like cold water. It clears the static.
I go to my office, wake the monitor, and start searching. Everything says exactly what I expect it to—counseling required, insurance headaches, slow turnarounds. I grind my teeth and pick up my phone.
The concierge line answers on the second ring.
“Thank you for calling Rosen Genetic Labs,” a cheery voice says. “How can I make you smile today?”
For real?
This is what they tell her to say when they’re in the business of giving people bad news?
Of course, they give a lot of good news too, and I’m hoping Daniela will get some.
“You can get me a private appointment today.”
“Name, please?”
“Hawk Bellamy.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have—”
“Hold up. I thought you wanted to make me smile.”
“Mr. Bellamy, I—”
“I need a private appointment today,” I interrupt. “Genetic testing. Huntington’s. Blood and saliva. CLIA-certified lab, stat intake. I’ll pay, and then I’ll pay again.”
“Mr. Bellamy,” she says. “We can inquire with our partners. There are counseling requirements—pre-test, and sometimes post-test—depending on clinic protocol.”
“I know the protocols,” I say. “I’m not trying to bulldoze them. I’m asking you to book them. Today.”
Keys click. “We have a neurogenetics partner in Dallas. They can do a private appointment with a counselor on site. If we courier the samples immediately, the lab can begin prep this afternoon.”
“What about Austin?”
“Our Austin facility is booked today.”
“I’ve got money to spend, honey. Please check again.”
More tapping on keys. Then a sigh. “I can get you in. But you’ll have to be here by two p.m.”
“Perfect. Book it.”
“All right. Name of the patient, please?”
“Daniela Agudelo?”
“Your wife?”
“Uh…yes.”
“All right. I’ll notify the facility right away.” She rattles off the address.
“Thank you. How fast for preliminary?”
“Preliminary data may be available by evening,” she says, “with the understanding that only a full analysis is definitive.”
“Book it,” I say. “I’ll cover everything. I’ll also make a significant donation to the lab’s research arm, and I want that to be received without raising flags. Discretion matters.”
“Understood. I’ll text a private entry code and parking instructions.”
We go through the legalese that matters. Consent must be the patient’s, not mine. Counseling is not optional. Results will be delivered in a manner agreed upon in writing.
I give my details and hang up with an appointment on my calendar and a PDF of pre-test materials in my inbox.
My hands are still on the desk when the stupidity of relief hits me.
I laugh once—too loud in the quiet of my office—and then rub my eyes.
The line between fixing and controlling is slim.
This falls on the right side of it only if I mean what I told myself I mean.
That it’s her choice, not mine. The appointment is a door. I hand her the key and step back.
For years I tied my existence to the act of fixing.
You needed the guy who would answer at three a.m., drive without headlights, tell you when to duck and when to stand.
I stepped into that shape so hard it fused with my bones.
It served me until it didn’t. It kept me from feeling like the kid in Dad’s office falling to the floor while trying to protect a friend.
A friend who was more of a father to me than that stranger who pulled the trigger.
Now?
What is fixing, really?
Fixing doesn’t really fix anything. It just rearranges the cracks into a pattern we can live with.
What if I can’t fix Daniela? What if she does carry the gene?
I can still do something. I can love her. Take care of her.
I can talk to Raven about adding Huntington’s research to her Raven’s Wings foundation.
My phone vibrates again. My heart leaps.
Maybe it’s from Daniela. Or more from Raven.
Instead it’s a bland automated message from the clinic with a secure link.
I pace. I look at the time. Two p.m. gnaws at me. Plenty of time to ruin things by thinking. I consider the Nintendo again and reject it. I don’t deserve a break right now.
I check the burner phone. Still dead-eyed blank. Good. Reyes bought the photos. Maybe I can now have six hours where I get to be a human man again and take care of the woman I love.
Time to text Daniela.
I’ve got a medical appointment reserved at 2 in Austin. It’s for you. It’s elective. If you say no, we cancel and go get something to eat. If you say yes, I drive and keep my mouth shut until you want it open. Your call.
I stare at the screen. I put the phone face down on the desk. I pick it up again.
Dots. No dots. Dots. Disappear.
Finally—
What kind of appointment?
Genetic testing. HD. Counselor on site. Private entry, no waiting room hell. No pressure.
The dots again…
Don’t book things for me without asking.
You’re right. I’m sorry. I wanted the option. That’s all.
Another pause.
A long one.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
And then—
Pick me up at 1:15. Don’t be late.
I grin like a maniac at nobody. Then I get practical again.
I shower and throw on a clean shirt. Wallet, keys, phone.
I stand in the entry and look at the sign—Do The Next Right Thing—and for once it doesn’t feel like it’s bashing me on the head.
It feels like a hand at my back pushing me out the door toward the one person I want to be worthy of.
On the console table, the burner phone lies face down, silent. I leave it there. If Reyes wants to yank the chain he wrapped around my neck, he can wait an afternoon. He owes me that sliver of a day.
On the way out, I pass the mirror. My reflection looks like a guy who’s been up too many nights pretending.
“Don’t try to fix her,” I tell myself. “Just stand with her. Be with her.”
The road to Raven and Vinnie’s is muscle memory. I drive with the quiet hum of a plan in my chest and a ridiculous hope tapping a rhythm under my ribs.
If the result is what I pray it is, the world opens in a way I haven’t let myself imagine. If it isn’t, I’ll cross that bridge then.
Either way, tonight, after whatever this afternoon brings, I’m taking her to dinner. Not because a meal fixes anything—it doesn’t—but because someone I love deserves to be treated like she is loved. Because for once I want to give her a night that isn’t a crisis.