Page 124 of Restless Hawke

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.”