Page 95 of Restless Hawke

That silvery-gray gaze cuts to mine again. “Life isn’t fair, Coen. That’s something I learned a very long time ago.”

“Believe me, I’m well the fuck aware of that fact. But youdeliberatelygoing out of your way to mess with me, to rattle me, to throw me off my game…” I tighten my fist on my drink, remembering thethreatin Satriano’s gaze when he sat across from me in my condo and laid down his expectations. “You have no idea what you’re putting at risk.”

I need to win to pay him back.

I need to win to keep him from lookingelsewherefor someone to assume the debt he believes both Atlas and I owe him.

“Then explain it to me, Coen.”

“I can’t. But know it’s about more than winning a fucking card game for me.”

Her dark brows rise, surprise lighting her face. “What could possibly be worth more than five million to you?”

“You met all of them on Sunday night.”

* * *

ALLEGRA

Coen’s wordstwist like a knife in my gut as the faces of all the Hawkes flit through my head like a movie. Replaying every minute I spent with them all on Sunday—a night that reminded me of what a family really is.

And made me realize that not having one had caused more damage than I cared to admit.

His mother, who sought me out after dinner and apologized for the interrogation, saying she would love to grab coffee one-on-one and get to know me better.

Those little girls who begged me to play Trouble with them while everyone else enjoyed their dessert and sat around chatting.

The babies who eventually woke and wanted attention, each of them cuter than any human being has a right to be.

All the cousins who chatted with me like I was always a member of the family, explaining inside jokes and telling me stories about each other that I have no doubt someone in that house didn’t want told.

Even the less-than-welcoming members of the Hawke family, like Luca, Saint, and Gabe, who all watched me suspiciously, were never outright hostile. Given how I met Coen, I couldn’t exactly blame them for getting that vibe and questioning my motives.

But through all of it—every conversation, every joke, every playful rib, even the minor arguments that broke out—I could feel how much theycared.

Not just about Coen but about every other person at the table.

Guilt and jealousy eat away at me like acid, burning me from the inside out the longer I sit here with him. He waits for me to respond to his statement, but I’m not sure how.

It shut me downfast.

The winnings from this tournamentaren’twhat is most important to Coen Hawke, and I should have known that the moment I walked in Nana’s door—if not before that.

I manage to swallow that lump in my throat and nod slowly. “I see…”

Coen fingers his glass, allowing that smooth, polished, practiced façade to fall back into place. “So, tell me, Allegra, what doyoucare about?” His gaze shifts to mine, filled not with anger but pity. “Besides stabbing me in the back?”

I flinch at his words because they’re not far from the truth.

He leans forward again. The blue of his eyes sparkling from the candle in the center of the table. “I looked into you, you know. After Monaco. We have a lot of connections, people who can find out anything about anyone…”

Stilling my desire to shift restlessly, I raise a brow. “And?”

“And your mother passed away when you were twelve.”

Despite my best effort to remain unaffected, I flinch again. “Yes. I already told you that at dinner.”

The corner of his lips tips up slightly. “You offered some very broad brushstrokes of your life, but you definitely held things back. Where did you go after that?”