Page 10 of Restless Hawke

It means he’s emotional.

And emotional players give itallaway.

With a $500,000 buy-in, things will undoubtedly get testy, especially because Ned Fairbanks is playing today. He sits at the far end to my right, back ramrod straight.

Impassive.

For now.

But I know what lies beneath it.

The man’s unstable—shockingly so—and when he loses, you don’t want to be within a ten-foot radius of him, which is why I prefer to avoid any tournaments he’ll be at.

Today is an exception—one I had to make in order to ensure I’m utilizing every opportunity presented to me. Missing a single tournament could make the difference between paying Satriano back quickly or his demanding it in blood from someone else in the family, like Atlas or Wren.

I shudder, picturing how happy she looked the moment he dropped to his knee at the reception and proposed. Not because I am not happy for them—I had a hard time keeping tears at bay. Because I couldn’t handle it if anything bad happened because of me. And while Atlas may have chosen to stand against his demands by refusing to throw that fight, he never would have been in the position tohaveto if it weren’t for me.

And I’m the only thing standing between them having a happy future with their unborn child and the monster lurking under the crib, waiting to strike.

That same monster haunts my dreams and waking hours, but I can’t dwell on it when I should be concentrating on the upcoming game.

Don’t give them the rope with which to hang you…

Our dealer appears, standing on his side of the table, hands behind his back, waiting to be called to his seat once our final player arrives and settles into the single empty chair on the left end of the table.

Next to me, Butch drums his fingers on the table, the annoying incessant sound already starting to irk everyone, given the dirty looks they toss him. He finally seems to catch on and pulls up his hand. “Sorry, just anxious to get playing.”

You and me both.

Once I’m in the zone, there’ll be no getting me out of it, but these few minutes before the first hand is dealt are always the worst—just like Dad said they were when you were walking into a courtroom that first day of trial.

Right now, staring at a potential jury pool sounds a lot nicer than owing a mobster…

Maybe I should have gone to law school.

Giorgio Nikolaou smirks from my right at Butch’s comment. “I heard you cleaned up in Atlantic City last week.”

My back stiffens at his lightly accented words, but I try to stay casual. Giorgio and I have always been civil, but when the Greek sits at the same table, I know I’ll have strong competition.

The fact that he’s been keeping tabs on me doesn’t sit well. Acid climbs my throat, and I force myself to relax my hands out of the fists they’ve become on my lap.

Even if no one can see them, that doesn’t mean they can’t read the tension building in me with Giorgio’s comment.

“Where’d you hear that?”

His smirk grows, his green eyes sparkling with mischief and something else—maybe the knowledge that he was able to throw me off for a split second, something he’sneverdone at the table before. “The Hawkes aren’t the only one with connections, you know.”

Believe me, I do.

The Nikolaou family is to Athens what Satriano now is to New Orleans. Which is why I don’t fuck with him or even speak to the man outside these tournaments.

I grunt and nod at him, unwilling to engage in the conversation about my win—or the fact that I’ve been dodging the Hawkes. I would rather no one know where I am, especially not a man who can obviously pull strings and isn’t afraid to use his knowledge to his advantage and mydisadvantage.

If he can find me, they can, too.

A vise starts to tighten around my chest, squeezing tightly.

Nothing but complete focus will bring victory.