Page 71 of Rebel Hawke

Pope raises a brow. “She’s opening Monday?”

I nod slowly. “Yep, and I didn’t really have a choice about moving her in. Would any of you have done anything different if it had been Jack or Allie and Satriano had shown up like that?”

Isaac and Pope exchange a look, and we all glance at Coen to chime in.

He holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m painfully single, remember? No woman to protect.”

I snort. “I don’t know. The way you’ve been sneaking around and acting shady lately, I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t a secret one.”

His shoulders tense, and he shifts in his chair, shaking his head. “No secret woman, I promise. Just”—he lifts a shoulder and lets it fall—“been busy.”

Isaac gives his little brother a look that tells me he doesn’t believe it any more than I do. “Mm-hmm.”

Coen fiddles with the label on his beer, peeling it off slowly, ignoring the pointed question in Isaac’s gaze. I have no intention of stepping into whatever might be going on between them.

Not when I have my own shit to worry about.

I climb from my chair and pace over to the now-bulletproof windows that overlook the river. Peaceful and calm this time of night, currently free of boats floating along it or tourists clambering along the banks, it really is beautiful. But I can’t enjoy it when my skin feels too tight and my entire body seems to be tensing up again after the brief respite my poker win gave me.

And it’s all because of one man.

“I don’t trust Satriano…” I glance back at the table for confirmation of my fears.

Pope drops his arms and nods. “You shouldn’t. That man has agenda upon agenda upon agenda. And he’s never going to let any of us in on them.”

“Did he say anything to you that night he picked you up? Because he showed up at Wren’s place like four hours later.”

And I still don’t know why.

That’s what’s been nagging at me the most.

The uncertainty.

This seeming “peace” since the last Roselli was put into the ground doesn’t feel real or lasting. More like a game of chess where we aren’t even in control of our own pieces, just being nudged into place on the board by an unseen force with shiny silver hair and a silky Italian accent.

Pope considers the question for a moment and takes a sip of his beer before answering. “No, just showed up, got me into the car, took me to the clinic, and had me treat one of his guys who had taken a bullet to the abdomen.”

I hiss, the memory of what it felt like to be hit by that sniper’s shot still so hotly vibrant in my mind. Absently, I reach up and rub at my shoulder as a shiver rolls through me. “Was it bad?”

He shakes his head. “No. Missed all of his vital organs.”

“Fuck.” I snort. “Why do criminals like that walk away practically unscathed while I get stuck with the short end of the fucking stick?”

The whole room goes dead silent.

Well, hell…

I didn’t even realize what I was saying, and now three sets of inquisitive eyes are locked on me.

Waiting.

For me to snap.

For me to shatter.

For me to finally break down after all this time.

They’ll have to just keep waiting…

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