Page 93 of Rebel Hawke

“I do.” He swirls me around the dance floor effortlessly, moving with the music, his motions fluid. The same way Atlas moves. Satriano is a fighter, too. “I have a, let’s just say, a vested interest in him after saving his life and all.”

“Saving his life?” I huff at his characterization of what happened in that abandoned warehouse. It may have happened before I set foot back in New Orleans, but Atlas has ensured I’ve been filled in on every intricate detail of the showdown with Daniele Roselli. “That’s not the way he tells it.”

“I doubt it would be.” He offers an almost sad smile. “The Hawkes never like to give me credit for anything.”

“Why should they? You shot Stone, Isaac, and Kennedy—”

His eyes widen behind the silver mask. “Incredibile! Is that what they told you?”

“It isn’t true?”

The Hawkes have no reason to lie to me, especially not Atlas.

He tsks and shakes his head. “That was an unfortunate accident.”

“I don’t think unleashing gunfire into a crowd is really an accident, Mr. Satriano.”

“It is when they aren’t the intended targets.”

His argument makes me straighten my shoulders. “But you hate the Hawkes. Why wouldn’t they be targets?”

“Hate is such a strong word,bellezza. I use it very sparingly, and the Hawkes and I have come to somewhat of a mutually assured destruction type of agreement.” He spins me away to the beat of the music, then pulls me right back into him, not missinga step. “I might control the underworld in New Orleans now, but they still run the city in many ways. The politicians, even people at the basic street level who are so essential to the city’s operation. If they wanted to say, call a strike with one of the major labor unions at the docks, they could arrange that, and it would thwart my business.”

“So that’s why you’ve reached this stalemate?” Something about what he’s saying doesn’t ring true. “Or are you just biding time until you can finally take them all out?”

His lips curl. “Clever girl.”

“Not clever enough to see why you’re here or why you have any interest in me at all.”

“As I explained, I have an interest in Atlas, andyouare important tohim. After seeing him almost bleed to death on the floor of that warehouse and stepping in at the last moment to ensure his safety and that of his lovely sister, I’ve developed a soft spot for the boy.”

I snort and shake my head, peering over his shoulder to the bar, hoping Atlas will look over and make eye contact with me and see what’s happening. But he continues to argue with his father and uncles about something while Isaac stands next to him with his arms crossed, looking just as annoyed.

Shit.

“What do you want with Atlas and me?”

Damon takes us on another turn around the dance floor before he responds, almost as if he’s actuallyenjoyingour dance and not just using it for whatever ulterior motive he certainly has. “How’s his recovery coming?”

I stiffen in his arms. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I care about the boy and want to ensure he’s doing well.”

Bullshit.

Over the years, I’ve spent enough time working with clients—both in P.T. and the Pilates studio—to know when someone is full of shit. Lying about doing their exercises at home. Exaggerating their skills on the reformer to try to impress me when they fumble with the most basic movements. And this man is overflowing with it…

“You expect me to believe that after the confrontation you two had in my studio?”

“Believe whatever you want.” His shoulders rise under my hands. “I’m telling you the truth.”

I don’t believe him for one second, which makes the fact that I’m about to lie to him so much easier.

“Things are great. Atlas is more than ready to destroy Vince Gordon at the hotel opening.”

His eyes dance with something I can’t quite place. “Is he now?”

Maybe it wasn’t a lie, but it may have been an overstatement of the truth.

---