Chapter 17
17
COEN
T he only thing in the world that might have even a remote possibility of hurting as much as what Allegra did to me with her confession is getting punched by Atlas.
Which is why, as soon as I landed back in New Orleans and discovered he and Wren had come home over the weekend while I was in Vegas, this had to be my first stop.
Not home to my condo to wallow. Not to Mom and Dad’s house to tell them what happened. Not to the club to drown myself at the bar after revealing my defeat to Uncle Savage and Gabe and the rest of them.
Here.
I climb out of the SUV and stare at the gym, watching Atlas move around the ring through the massive glass windows. Even shadowboxing, he’s incredible. He moves with such precision. Such speed and power.
How did I ever doubt him?
That familiar guilt tears at my stomach again, and I let my gaze drift to the left, to Wren’s Pilates studio.
She bustles around inside with several of her clients, getting ready to start a class, with a bright smile on her face.
Apparently, their vacation did them both some good.
After the fight and the wedding, not knowing what Satriano might do, they had to leave to feel safe, but now that I have my deal with him, have taken the debt fully onto my back, hopefully they can concentrate on being happy and getting ready for their baby instead of constantly looking over their shoulders.
Bishop joins me on the curb, and the movement draws Wren’s gaze out to the street.
Her eyes meet mine, and her entire body stiffens for a second before a forced smile spreads across her lips. Then she returns to what she was doing, as if I’m not even here.
I can’t say I blame her.
It’s well deserved.
And so will be whatever the man in the ring decides I am due.
Bishop gives me a knowing look. “You sure you want to do this right now?”
Haven’t you been beaten up enough?
That’s what she’s really asking without actually doing it.
And frankly, I do already feel like I’ve gone eight rounds with the likes of Atlas after what Allegra did to me. But I owe it to Atlas to face him and what I did like a man instead of hiding and licking my wounds until I’m ready to get beaten down again.
Might as well take it all at once.
“Yep…”
I tug open the gym door and step inside with Bishop right on my heels.
Astrid and Isaac stand on one side of the ring, watching Atlas train, but all eyes turn to me the moment the door closes behind us.
Isaac raises a brow. “You’re back.”
I nod, shoving a hand through my hair. “Just landed half an hour ago.”
Astrid’s gaze travels over my athletic shorts and T-shirt—certainly not my typical attire, even when traveling. “And you came straight here…dressed like that ?”
The wheels are already turning behind her eyes, and Atlas spits out his mouthguard and moves to the ropes, leaning against them. “Why is that?”
There’s no point beating around the bush.
No excuse I can offer.
No apology deep enough to even begin to heal the wound I created.
Atlas and I haven’t spoken since the night before the fight when I confessed to him what I had done, the position I had put him in. When I revealed how little faith I had in him.
I couldn’t bring myself to face him after he refused to throw the fight and ended up walking away with the belt—and a major enemy in Satriano. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye at the wedding, either.
Not knowing I was the reason he had to take Wren and disappear from New Orleans, or he would be risking their lives.
But I have to meet his gaze now.
And I can still see the anger simmering underneath the icy blue, the same way it did that night I came clean.
I hold out my hands, palms up in surrender. “I’m here because there’s absolutely nothing you can do to me in that ring that I don’t deserve.”
His eyes widen.
Isaac guffaws, uncrossing his arms from his chest to hold up a hand. “You are not getting in the ring with Atlas today.”
I scowl at him, already tugging off my shirt. “I don’t need your protection.”
Bishop snorts from where she leans against the wall just behind me. I look over my shoulder and scowl at her, but she has the audacity to just grin at me.
Maybe I should invite her for a match, too.
Next to Atlas, Bishop is the most lethal in the ring, and she would certainly be a challenge.
But right now, my annoyance with her is overpowered by my need to make it up to Atlas somehow.
He scans my face, searching for something. Hesitation maybe. Fear. The normal things someone would feel when offering themselves up as a human punching bag for the light-heavyweight champion of the world. “You really want to do this?”
Astrid’s gaze snaps to her brother. “No, you can’t .”
Atlas steps back from the ropes, bouncing on his feet. “If it’ll make you feel better for me to kick your ass, I’m more than willing.”
He pops his mouth guard back in, motioning for me to come to him.
That man is going to kick my ass.
Anyone with any sense of self-preservation would run in the other direction, but I toss my T-shirt onto the bench that runs along the ring, toe off my shoes, remove my socks, and slide in under the ropes.
The familiar scents of the gym and feel of the mat under my feet help me focus on what I need to do to not die today.
Isaac grabs the ropes, face twisted in concern. “Are you fucking nuts? You haven’t trained in months, and Atlas has every reason not to have any control when it comes to you.”
I roll my shoulders and shake out my arms, bouncing on my feet and trying to warm myself up. Bishop appears with tape, gloves, and headgear and climbs in with me to help me put them on, since Isaac clearly won’t. She gives him a look that tells me she’s thinking the same thing, but Bishop also knows what Allegra did, so she understands she’s not going to be able to talk me out of anything.
Not when I need a good beating to distract me from the emotional pain threatening to tear me apart.
Astrid leans into the ring from the other side, murmuring something to Atlas that I can’t quite hear, but he waves her off, dismissing whatever she said with a determined set of his broad, strong shoulders.
My eyes drift to the massive scar across the left one—the very reason I bet against him in the first place.
That bullet should have ended his career.
Instead, he walked away from the devastation with a fiancé, a baby on the way, and the belt.
Was the pain worth it for all that?
Right now, I think I’d give anything not to feel this way. I’d take a bullet. I’ll take a fucking beating…
Bishop wraps my hands and finishes securing my gloves, looking up at me with intense, dark eyes. “I couldn’t find your mouth guard in your locker.”
I shrug off the concern. “It’s been a while. I don’t know what happened to it.”
Her lips curl. “Well, don’t lose your teeth, pretty boy.”
She attaches my headgear, then smacks me on the temple and climbs out to watch with Isaac and Astrid—neither looks particularly happy about what’s about to go down.
If Jimmy were here, this would never be happening, and if Wren were aware of what was going on here, she would be flying over in a second to stop it before it started.
But there isn’t anyone to stop it now.
I face Atlas.
People always called him a rebel.
They said he didn’t quite fit into the Hawke family or the perfectly coifed, manicured picture we present to the world. He never lived up to what was expected of him. In that way, we’ve very much been the outsiders our whole lives. But at least they had expectations for him. With me, I’ve always just floated by, drifted restlessly, like a lost puppy searching for a place to settle.
And look where that’s gotten me.
Look where it’s gotten all of us.
Atlas motions for me to come at him.
The anger in his gaze hasn’t abated. If anything, having me in here and within reach of his powerful right hook seems to have only made him more determined.
He takes the first swing, and I manage to duck out of the way to avoid being knocked unconscious two seconds into the sparring match.
We’ve always done this for fun and to help him train.
But this is neither.
Both of us entered this ring with an agenda, and he seems intent on his, throwing a right hook that glances off my shoulder. I take the opportunity to make a jab that glances off his rib cage.
He raises his brow. “I thought I was supposed to be the one kicking your ass.”
His words are garbled slightly by his mouthguard, but the humor in them and the surprise that I actually touched him remind me of who we were before everything went to shit.
I grin at him.
God, I’ve missed this.
The banter.
The comradery.
The challenge.
The love that underlies it all.
But I can’t even enjoy it.
Not when I know what I did to him.
His next swing is so fast I don’t even see it coming and lands on my temple. My head snaps to the side, and despite the head protection, my vision goes dark, my ears ring, and I stumble sideways.
The world sways, and I sag against the ropes, trying to clear the buzzing and fogginess encroaching on the edges of my brain.
“Careful, Atlas…”
Through the ringing, Isaac’s warning echoes through my head.
I don’t want him to be careful.
This is what I deserve, an ass beating to end all ass beatings.
And despite it all, even with as angry as he might be, I know Atlas and trust him. He will never use his full force against anyone who isn’t at his level—which means none of us. He may want to hurt me, but he won’t hurt me.
Atlas bounces on his feet. “Come on, Coen.” He mumbles the words around his mouth guard, then gives up and spits it out. “Let’s go. It’s just you and me now.”
But it isn’t.
It’s not just the two of us in the ring.
It’s all of us.
Atlas is every one of the Hawkes I betrayed, everyone I lied to, who I’m still lying to since I haven’t told anyone but Bishop about the truth Allegra laid out for me.
Guilt claws at my chest as I push off the ropes and advance on him with renewed purpose.
He wants me to put up a fight, so I’ll at least try .
I throw out a combination, hoping to sneak one past his guard, but he’s too good, anticipating every move and easily blocking, only to land a blow to my shoulder and chest.
The pain renews my purpose—give him what he needs.
Pushing through it, I swing, dancing around him and looking for any opening. I somehow manage to land one to his shoulder, but in the process, I expose myself to a right uppercut that lands squarely in my rib cage.
Fuck.
Pain explodes.
All the air rushes from my lungs.
My vision goes completely black.
I double over, crumpling to my knees.
“Enough!”
Astrid’s voice cuts through the cloud of agony. Forcing my eyes open, I see her climb into the ring and put herself between me and her brother. She pushes on his sweat-slicked chest, his breaths heaving in and out of him as he glares at me.
“Atlas! Stop!”
He stares down at me. “If my new championship belt isn’t enough, maybe that proved to you that I’m not the fucking pussy you thought I was.”
I gasp for breath, struggling to get to my feet again, and swaying unsteadily. Isaac slides into the ring and wraps his arm around my waist, helping me stand.
Wincing at the icy-hot, shooting pain through my ribs, I shake my head. “You know…it…wasn’t…like that.”
Atlas’ eyes meet mine. “It was. You dug yourself into a hole, and you thought my weakness was your way out of it.”
That much is true.
But it isn’t that I doubted how good he is. It’s that I saw how much damage that bullet had done to him, how he wasn’t fully recovering. His struggles tore all of us apart, but in the end, it was too tempting a proposition. An easy way to get back to even.
Atlas rolls his shoulders and finally releases a long, heavy breath, as if he’s resigning himself to something. “But it’s over now…”
“What is?”
“This.” He motions between us with his gloved hands. “I forgive you.”
“What?”
I couldn’t have heard him right…
He pushes Astrid out of the way slightly and steps up to me. “What you did was really shitty. Beyond shitty, but at the end of the day, we’re family and we always will be. No matter what kind of things we do to each other. You bet against me, and I broke your ribs. So, we’re even.”
With that, he saunters to the edge of the ring, then slides under the ropes and stalks back toward the locker room.
I sag against Isaac’s hold.
He shakes his head, helping me toward ropes. “You’re such a fucking idiot, kid.”
Isaac isn’t wrong.
“I am.”
And I didn’t learn my lesson.
I let Allegra walk right into my life and betray me. I didn’t learn anything about making rash decisions with my heart instead of my head. But I won’t make that mistake again.
* * *
ALLEGRA
THREE DAYS LATER
I would have thought, after weeks of traveling, going from country to country, tournament to tournament, that finally being home at my place in New York would be a relief.
Comforting.
Relaxing even.
But in the last couple of days, since I came back from Vegas, none of those things have been true.
Nothing has felt right.
Not my bed.
Not my clothes.
Not my life.
If I can even call this living.
It’s as though I’m wandering around in a thick, dark fog, with no sense of direction, unable to find anything solid to cling to or orient myself with. And it’s all because of Coen.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
When I said those words to him, I meant them.
I never intended to fall for him.
Never intended to care about what Satriano was doing to him, about how he was twisting a knife in the Hawkes’ backs and forcing Coen to be a pawn.
It was just par for the course.
The same things Satriano has done for as long as I’ve known him.
None of it mattered until I actually met the man with the Caribbean-blue eyes, warm smile, and wicked mouth. Now he’s gone—for good.
And it feels as if a part of me has been ripped away, like those seams Coen tore apart and then expertly mended with his touch, his kiss, his affection, are all unraveling again.
Even venturing out for my favorite bagel and coffee hasn’t done much to improve my mood. Yesterday, I couldn’t even take a bite. But at least I made it out of the condo.
Today, I haven’t even gotten out of bed, and it’s almost noon.
Bone-deep exhaustion has kept me under the covers, head buried beneath a pillow, blocking out the sounds of the vibrant city just outside the windows that let in the offending light.
It’s the only place I can feel anything even remotely resembling peace because I certainly can’t find it when I try to sleep.
All that comes when I close my eyes are memories that only bring pain.
After spending the night in his arms, in his care, being worshiped and consumed by that man, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again.
That realization, the anger of knowing this agony will never get better, finally forces me to shove off the covers and slip out of the sheets that I wish smelled like him, like us.
It would be torture, but it would be something to cling to.
Anything.
I don’t have anywhere to go. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do except let my anger and despair build as I wander around the condo, aimlessly moving from one room to the other, staring at all the luxurious things that decorate it…
And hating all of it.
I walk over to the stunning handmade Murano glass sculpture shaped like jasmine—my favorite flower. It likely cost a small fortune, and when I first received it, the gift took my breath away and made me feel special and loved. It made me feel seen.
Now, all I see is the ugliness it represents.
It’s evidence of the spiraling of my life that I’ve been trying to stop.
I knock it off the pedestal it sits on.
It falls to the polished tile floor and shatters, but I don’t even flinch at the sound or the shards of green and white glass that scatter across the room.
I relish it because it matches the way I feel.
Shattered.
Splintered.
Torn apart.
Destroyed.
That look on Coen’s face when he realized I continued to lie to him, even though I promised no more games, was enough to break me.
He had every reason to believe nothing had changed over time. Every reason to question my motives and feelings and not to believe a single thing I said to him. But it was too hard to tell him, knowing what it would do to him and to us.
It was selfish to keep the truth hidden so I could have more of him.
But I knew it wouldn’t last forever, it couldn’t, and now I have to deal with the fallout, no matter how painful it might be.
I aimlessly walk over to my television, the only companion I’ve had for days, and yank it off the wall. The massive 100-inch screen crashes onto the floor, cracking with a noise that echoes through the loft space and helps cement the reality that he’s gone in my heart.
You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself…
I move over to the bar, ready to either drown myself in alcohol so I won’t feel the agony anymore or toss the crystal decanters of expensive booze so I can get that moment of satisfaction from watching them shatter.
But the condo door clicks open behind me before I can grab one.
Shit.
Only one other person has the key, and it’s the last person in the world I want to see right now.
“What happened here, bambina ?”
The nickname he always used with me when I was a child floats over me. And where it once brought comfort, like a familiar, loving caress that soothed my tears through scuffed knees and other childish problems, now it only feels like salt being poured on an open wound.
I turn to face him.
As the door closes behind him, he raises a white eyebrow at me. “Redecorating?”
I’ve spent days on the edge of a full-on breakdown, and today, I’m trembling, right at the precipice, but I refuse to cry in front of him. I won’t let him see how much all of this has affected me.
He doesn’t understand weakness.
He doesn’t appreciate the intricacies of caring about someone the way I do Coen.
He wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around my anguish, and he certainly won’t offer me a shoulder to cry on even if he somehow did.
I square my shoulders and make my way into the kitchen, giving him my back. “I’m going to make an espresso. Would you like one?”
His low chuckle follows me, and he settles on one of the stools at the counter. “That’s a silly question, bambina . I never turn down an espresso.”
I know.
And I hope that it will take his focus off what he just walked in on.
But something tells me his arrival wasn’t random.
He knows I’ve been home for days, that I didn’t stay in Vegas as planned to play in the tournament. His men have probably been watching the condo, letting him know when I have ventured out and that I basically haven’t, except for those few vain attempts.
He hasn’t called, hasn’t appeared until now.
I keep my back to him as I make the drinks, the sound of the machine firing up, filling the awkward silence between us, until I have the two tiny espresso cups. The rich smell of espresso brewing hits my nose, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I have barely eaten in days and desperately crave caffeine, too.
He remains at the counter, watching me as I drop a cube of sugar into mine, then turn back toward him and set his in front of him.
“ Grazie .”
I take a sip, knowing better than to look away from him while I do. This man uses any chance he has to assess people, to find their weak spots and learn how to exploit them.
It’s what he’s good at.
Far too good.
I learned from the best, which is why it’s so much harder to keep him from seeing the things I want to keep hidden from him.
“I’m worried about you, Allegra.”
Resting my hip against the counter, I try to remain casual, even though he just saw the evidence of my meltdown. “How come?”
He very judiciously doesn’t mention the broken television or the pieces of glass glittering all across the floor. “Because you haven’t been yourself lately…”
How could I be?
I bristle at his comment, the ease with which he dismisses the reason I might be upset with him and the entire situation. Shifting uneasily on my bare feet, I lock gazes with him to ensure he understands I’m not messing around. “I’m done with Coen Hawke.”
His silvery brows rise as he takes a sip of his drink and assesses me over the rim. “Are you?”
“My effectiveness has reached its end.”
He spins his cup in his hands, staring down into it. “I believe I’m the one who should make that determination. Not you.”
Under any other circumstances, with any other mark, it would be his call, but he has no idea what went down between Coen and me. He can’t possibly comprehend how impossible it would be to get within ten feet of Coen again. “He’s done with me.”
He tenses. “What happened?”
I know that look.
I’ve seen it a thousand times in my nearly thirty years on this planet, and I know what comes after it. The reason he developed the reputation that always precedes him.
He doesn’t like failure, and what I have done is fail.
Spectacularly.
I could lie to him. I could tell him things just didn’t work out, but he would see through that, see through me. The same way he always does everyone else.
“He knows the truth.”
He freezes, his hand curling around the espresso cup. “And how did that happen?”
His sharp gaze watches me carefully to ensure I won’t try to bullshit him. He wants the truth; he needs it to advance his plans.
I can’t lie to him.
I won’t ever be able to.
“I told him the truth.”
He slowly raises his cup to his mouth and sips his espresso before setting it back on the counter and leaning back slightly. “Why’d you do that?”
It’s posed as a simple question, but it’s one that doesn’t have a simple answer, nor is he as casual about it as he’s trying to make himself appear. Anger simmers just beneath the surface of his olive skin. Anger I’ve seen directed at so many people over the years but never at me until this moment.
My legs tremble, and I try to steady myself against the counter before I make this admission. “Because I care about him.”
He stills, his back stiffening.
“You do what you have to, but I’m done fucking with Coen Hawke.”
What’s left of my heart can’t handle seeing him again or being asked to push him and play him any further.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have gotten personally involved…”
I slam my mug onto the counter, my frustration boiling over as the tears I’ve been fighting start to burn in my eyes. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
He rests his arms on the counter, leaning toward me, ensuring I meet his gaze. “Your help in securing my empire. And you know exactly why I’m doing all this.”
“It’s fucking secure!” I spread my hand out absently. “Look at the way you play everyone like they’re puppets. You already have him by the balls. He doesn’t want anything to happen to the rest of the Hawkes. He’ll do whatever you ask. You don’t need me involved.”
He raises a brow. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Coen will do anything to protect the Hawkes, and that includes selling his soul to this man across the counter from me.
Settling back again, he shakes his head. “I never expected this from you, bambina . I thought I could trust you.”
“You can. I just can’t be involved with anything having to do with the Hawkes.”
He issues a low humming sound, as if he’s considering my words and downs the rest of his espresso. His eyes stay locked on me as he climbs to his feet, rebuttoning his suit coat. “What am I to do with you now, Allegra? If I can’t rely on you to be my ally, does that make me your enemy?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. But I just can’t. I can’t mess with him anymore. Find another way to keep an eye on him. If you really need another weakness, it can’t be me. I won’t ever see Coen Hawke again.”
He raises another silver brow. “Able to predict the future now?” A slow grin spreads across his face. “That’s an incredible talent to have, Allegra. I hope it serves you well.”
“I’m not your enemy…” It comes out sounding far too much like a plea for my liking, but I had to reinforce those words. “You have Coen for whatever you need him for. Please don’t push me on this anymore. Please.”
I hate asking him for anything, even more so to actually have to beg for it.
But I don’t have any other choice right now.
We both know what he’s capable of and how dangerous he is when he wants to be. The Hawkes are still squarely in his sights, and that means there’s always a chance Coen’s going to get hurt even more than I’ve already hurt him.
I can’t be part of making things worse.
I’m barely surviving Coen as it is.