Page 2 of Restless Hawke

What I owe is nothing compared to the retribution Satriano seeks in exchange for what Atlas did. That knockout sealed my fate—and put his life as well as that ofeverysingle member of the family in mortal jeopardy.

One punch set Satriano backbillions.

And he doesn’t want it repaid in cash.

He wants it repaid inblood.

Owning a Hawke means controlling all of us, and he knew precisely what he was doing when he asked Atlas to throw that fight. If he had, Satriano would have made bank and had Atlas in his pocket. If he didn’t, Satriano would own meandAtlas. It was a win-win for the man who now controls the New Orleans underworld. And a loss-loss for the Hawkes.

That’s whythisis so important—sitting here now, winning this game, buying some time and goodwill.

My single remaining opponent checks his cards for the tenth time. Casually. A mere glance, as if he couldn’t care less what he holds.

An act.

The same one I perform every time I play.

After more than six hours at the table, it’s down to just the two of us—all the other players who started out around this felt have dropped away. With everyone one, my odds of walking away with the massive pile of chips increases.

Fifty-fifty odds aren’t bad.

I would feel a lot more confident about my chances, except so far, I haven’t picked up his tell.

Everyone has one—except me.

I’ve trained myself not to fidget, how to hold my cards to ensure my hands stay steady and relaxed, how to look at them so that my pupils don’t dilate and facial features don’t reveal anything.

A decade of perfecting the art in high-stakes games.

Since the first time I sat at a table, I knew this was where I belonged.

Not behind the bar at the club or running one of the dozens of other Hawke businesses throughout town.

Definitely not with Dad in the courtroom.

That has always been Isaac’s domain, where he wants to be and where he excels. But for me, it has always beenhere—at a table like this—with cards in my hand and nothing standing between me and that purse except one man or the occasional woman.

Only now, I’m not playing for myself.

I’m playing for all ofthem.

To say I’m sorry. To supplicate myself at their feet and beg for forgiveness the only way I know how. And to protect them from what will come if I don’t try to fix things.

If that’s even possible…

Jake “the Snake” Nelson finally looks up at me and pushes his massive pile of chips to the center. “All in.”

He didn’t have to do that.

He could have placed a bet that would have protected some of that money so, if he loses, he won’t walk away empty-handed.

He did it for a reason.

And now I’m finally seeing his tell.

Jake is a bravado player, relying on a big bet to shake me.

But he doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with.