Page 161 of Restless Hawke

I pull out my phone from my pocket and use voice commands to initiate a call to Mom. Pope will be next. Both Allegra and Jack are sick, and we just discovered one of Satriano’s “associates” is in town.

A sense of absolute dread settles over me as I wait for her to answer.

* * *

BISHOP

The new redheadat center stage isn’t bad.

She could have a decent career here, if she hadn’t been stupid enough to dance to Nora’s song.

Doc isn’t going to be happy about this…

I chuckle to myself, picturing the fallout that will result from her discovering what happened.

And shewillfind out.

My guess is that at least three people have called or texted her or Stone about it already.

But maybe I should, too, just in case…

I reach into my pocket to grab my phone when the women’s bathroom door flies open, and Coen stalks out with Allegra cradled in his arms.

Oh, shit.

Rushing to the other side of the club, I meet him on his way to the front door. “Is she okay?”

He shakes his head. “She’s sick, and apparently, Jack is, too.”

“Shit. That can’t be random, right?”

His jaw hardens as we reach the bar. “I don’t know.” He nudges Isaac with his arm. “Mom and Pope are going to meet us at the clinic. Go get Jack—now.”

The panic in his gaze sets Isaac in motion. He launches off his stool, already bringing his phone to his ear as he heads toward the door.

I follow Coen closely, unable to tear my gaze from how pale and clammy Allegra looks. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, stay here. If something is going on, where would the most likely place be for him to hit? Either the hotel or here. Call your dad and tell him what’s happening—and keep your eyesopen.”

“I always do.”

He finally reaches the door, and I pull it open for him and watch Isaac rush to help get Allegra in the car.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Not good.

This is not good.

I pull out my phone to call Dad, and movement at the end of the bar catches my eye.

A blond guy sitting at the other end from where Allegra, Coen, and Isaac had been slowly pushes his stool back and rises to his feet. With his back to me, all I see is the sandy mop of hair and black leather motorcycle jacket.

He reaches into his back jeans pocket, pulls out his wallet, and tosses cash onto the bar before he slowly saunters toward the entrance.

There’s something about the way he carries himself.

The set of his shoulders.

His sure steps.

Whoever he is, he’s trouble.

* * *