Page 139 of Rebel Hawke

Something I’ve never had to do before.

Jenkins always took care of it.

He spent nights working with other boxers, mostly younger, up-and-coming people who needed his strong guidance and wisdom gained by almost seventy years in the sport.

His old, arthritic hands would have turned this key, securing this place each evening when I was long home, recovering from whatever trials he put me through.

Those damn tears threaten to fall again, my eyes already red and burning from the ones I’ve shed today and over the past week.

Swiping them away, I turn back toward the street and dig in my bag for my keys.

I’m coming home, Little Bird.

It should have been hours ago, and I’ll make it up to her—however I can.

But I barely make it two steps toward my Range Rover before a dark SUV pulls up, the back end blocking the driver’s side door of my ride, ensuring I have nowhere to go.

Fuck.

Narrowing my eyes on the intrusive vehicle, alarm bells sound in my head louder than the ones that signal the end of the rounds in the ring.

Something isn’t right.

I tighten my hand on the strap of my bag, sliding it lower, toward the back pocket. Hopefully, whoever sits behind that tinted glass doesn’t notice the surreptitious movement. That could mean even bigger trouble than I’m already anticipating.

The rear window rolls down, and the last person I want to see examines me with a shrewd gaze. Satriano doesn’t seem to care that he’s literally ambushing me in broad daylight. “Get in.”

Self-preservation instincts should make me agree to his command, but I’ve never been very good at taking orders from anyone—not even Jenkins. And I certainly don’t intend to do it with Satriano.

“Like fucking hell, I will…” I slide my hand down farther, toward where I’ve kept my gun tucked since he first showed up at the studio, threatening Wren all those weeks ago.

Always within reach.

Satriano shakes his head, his gaze lowering as if he can sense what I’m about to do. “I wouldn’t do that, Atlas. There’s no need for hostilities. I just want to have a conversation.”

He’s fucking delusional.

This man doesn’t have “conversations.” Satriano gives orders veiled as suggestions or requests. No doubt, he will do the same with whatever he wants from me.

“A conversation? Like you had with Wren at the charity event?”

He grins, probably remembering as well as I do how beautifulmywoman looked that night and how incredible she felt in his arms on that dance floor. “Did I harm her in any way?”

I take a step toward the vehicle, despite my instincts screaming to retreat. “Youknowyou fucking did.”

Satriano may not have struck her. He may not havephysicallyharmed her by his hand, but he certainly did in other ways.

She was terrified.

Shaking.

Could barely breathe.

Hanging on by a thread until I rescued her from him.

It doesn’t matter that their confrontation ran her straight into my arms and led to the eviscerating of the rule in the choir loft. It doesn’tundothe terror he caused her in those moments. She still feels it. We all do, knowing he somehow got past our security to get in and got that close to her.

The bastard holds up his hands, though no one who knows who and what Satriano is would take it as an act of surrender. “A conversation. That’s it, I promise.”

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