Page 122 of Rebel Hawke

“What? What are you talking about, Gramps?”

Jimmy Jenkins has never been a religious man. As a child, I don’t ever remember him taking me to a church or even mentioning religion in any way, save for vague references to God and angels watching over me.

This babbling must have been brought on by his condition.

His lips quiver. “I should have—”—he coughs—”should have told you a long time ago. I should have told all of them.”

I bring his hand to my lips and press a kiss to the back of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gramps, but now isn’t the time.”

He squeezes me hard. “Now is the only time. It’s about Sam.”

What the hell is Gramps rambling about?

“Atlas’ grandfather?”

He nods.

I’ve always known how guilty Gramps felt about what happened in the ring, but none of it was his fault. No one can predict an aneurysm. No one can know when one is going to rupture or when someone might fall prey to it, especially back then. They didn’t have the medical technology we have today. They didn’t monitor fighters in training camp the way we do or have the capability to see inside someone’s head. And if heisdying, like I think he is, I won’t let him die with that weight on his soul.

“Gramps, you don’t have to say anything. None of it was your fault.”

“That’s just it, Birdie.” He opens his eyes to meet mine, tears soaking both our gazes. “It was.”

I try to object again, but he manages to lift his other hand.

“No, let me finish.” He tries to swallow and coughs, his voice getting weaker. “I knew. I knew something was wrong.”

My back stiffens as I struggle to process the words. “What do you mean?”

“I knew Sam for two decades, had trained with him, and then became his trainer. I knew fighters, and I knew Sam inside and out, all his weaknesses and strengths.” He coughs again, the sound rattly and thick, like fluid is filling his lungs. “I knew something was wrong with him before that fight…”

“How?”

He shakes his head. “His reactions were slower, sluggish…like he was in a fog some of the time.” He looks at me again, andfor a split second, I don’t see him as the old, dying man he is but as the young, energetic one he was back then. “I went to Dom.”

The name makes my blood run cold. “Dominic Abello?”

“Yes…they were…best friends. I told him I didn’t think Sam should be fighting, that there was something wrong and he should pull out of the fight. But—”

A rattling cough shakes him, and I reach out and slide my hand along his back, helping support him as it attacks his body. My lungs scream along with his, threatening to steal my air even as he struggles for his own.

Somehow, a tiny sob slips from his old lips. “But instead of pulling him, Dom fixed the bets…bet against him. Told me to keep him in the fight…that he’d be fine…”

The reality of what he’s telling me threatens to crush me, but I keep myself upright and hold on to him, clinging to any few moments I might have left. “Why didn’t you warn Sam? Why didn’t you pull him?”

“Because…of your mother, your grandmother. Because Dom was the most powerful man in New Orleans and the most dangerous.” Another aggressive round of coughs hits him, and he battles through it. “Because he would have hurt our family if I had done or said anything to interfere…”

Jesus Christ.

I swipe at the tears streaming down my face, and he pulls his hand from mine, shaking as he brings it to his mouth.

“I killed him.” He shakes his head as his own tears slide down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t let him in that ring…”—his breaths come thick—“if I had insisted he’d get another medical check…if I had warned him, he might still be alive today.” His gaze cuts to mine. “If Atlas isn’t ready, don’t let him fight. I won’t be here to stop him. I can’t be responsible for another Hawke dying that way—”

“He is ready, Gramps.”

And I actually believe the words.

After working so hard for so long, he’s finally ready.

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