Page 132 of Restless Hawke

He barks out a laugh that gets swallowed by the noise around us. Gabe and Savage keep scanning to ensure no one’s overhearing, but people are too busy drinking, playing, and enjoying themselves.

“Let me play.”

His mouth gapes. “What?”

All eyes are back on me.

“Let me play in the tournament.” I tighten my grip on him, trying to emphasize my point. “I know how he operates. I know the deck. I can beat the man he sent.”

Coen glares at me, unmoved by my offer. “I’m surprised he didn’t send you in the first place.”

“I told him I wouldn’t do it.”

One dark brow rises. “Yet, you’re here.”

“Hell, I’m not here for him, Coen. You really don’t understand that, do you?”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes.

Disbelief.

Hope.

I’m not sure which.

Savage moves closer to us. “So, you want to play against the man sent here by Satriano to win this tournament? I am not seeing how that would be any different. He still wins either way and has gotten us to compromise our casino.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat at what I’m about to say, what I’m about to do, and what it could cost me. “No, he won’t win because I’m done working for him.”

As soon as I say the words, I know it’s the right thing to do.

I’ve been agonizing about it for weeks, going over every single moment I spent both with Coen and his family. And I realized one very important thing—I can’t do it.

I can’t watch a man like Satriano destroy these people.

Not when there’s anything I can do to protect them.

They’re not bad.

They’re loving. They’re ambitious. They’re brutal at times. They’re many things, but they’re not bad people, and his hatred of them, whether warranted or not, shouldn’t result in the type of things he’s been planning for them.

“This is just the first step in a massive plan, Coen. You can’t let him take it.”

His eyes narrow. “That’s almost exactly what I said to Gabe earlier.”

Gabe gives me a tight nod.

Coen looks at him and then at Savage.

The man who sits at the head of Hawke Enterprises, who runs a multi-billion-dollar empire, offers his nephew a nod. “Your decision. You know her and him better than anyone else does.”

“And how fucked up is that?” He tugs out of my grip and stares me down. “I want to make one thing very fucking clear, Allegra. If you do this, if this happens, if we let you play, it has nothing to do withus.” He motions between us. “I don’t care if you win or lose. As soon as you’re done, you fucking leave, and I never want to see your face again.”

I wince.

“This is about my family, our business, not about this sham of a relationship or whatever the fuck it was supposed to be that you created, got it?”

I clench my teeth to force myself to bite back the argument I want to make. The objection to how he classified what happened between us. Because it’s all wrong. He has itallso, so unbearably wrong.