Page 134 of Restless Hawke
Not something any of the other people who have already been eliminated could say.
One by one, they dropped out, melting away from the table with their tails tucked between their legs, likely heading straight for the bar to lick their wounds.
We got lucky that no one noticed or suspected what was going on.
But Alan and I are both smart enough to know how to play and not draw attention to the fact that we’re walking away with it.
And I amsoclose to doing just that.
Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I lift my eyes from my cards and seek Coen’s where he stands against the wall in the far corner of the high-stakes poker room.
Watching.
Waiting.
Brooding.
He’s barely moved since the tournament started, other than to speak with a few employees who approached and whispered something to him. And I’ve done my best to ignore the man, to keep my focus on the game so that Alan doesn’t use any lapse in concentration to do something that could lose this for me.
That could lose it for the Hawkes.
Coen doesn’t even acknowledge when my eyes meet his. He continues to stare with that icy-cold gaze, his jaw clenched, body rigid and unyielding.
He doesn’t like this one bit. If he had it his way, I would have been tossed out onto the street. He didn’t want to accept my help. And he sure as fuck doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t trust that this is real, that I truly am willing to betray Satriano for him and the rest of the Hawkes.
There’s only one way to prove it to him.
I have to win.
And then, I have to do what he asked and walk away from him forever.
I shove the rest of my chips into the center of the felt. “All in.”
Alan raises a brow, then his lips twitch into a little feral grin, and he does the same, nudging his stack forward. He gives me a coy grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to just chop it?”
Hell no…
The offer to split the pot rather than have this final showdown would be enticing to a lot of players, but I see it for what it is—his attempt to save face rather than potentially lose.
And I won’t give Satriano even a partial win.
I smile at Alan sweetly. “I think I’ll pass.”
He shrugs and sits back in his chair. “Your fucking funeral.”
His words stiffen my spine.
He doesn’t mean it as just a colloquial saying.
He means it potentially literally because he knows I’m betraying Satriano.
Because he knows what will be waiting for me if this money doesn’t go to him—or even if it does.
Satriano will know I came and played.
He will understand I made my choice…and that it wasn’t him.
Which means he will come for me.
