Page 47 of Restless Hawke
The second I step through the doorframe, all conversation halts, and seven sets of eyes turn to me.
Savage assesses me from where he sits behind his desk, looking every bit the boss and patriarch that he is, while Gabe occupies his usual perch on the edge of the piece of furniture that dominates the room. Dad reclines in the corner of one of the two leather couches with his cane—now necessary due to the damage Satriano did when he shot up the Grind—propped against the armrest. Isaac sits across from him on the matching couch, a hard glare directed squarely at me. Saint leans casually against the far wall near the window, massive arms crossed over his chest with Bishop beside him, offering me an almost apologetic look. And finally, I let my gaze meet Luca’s, where he sits in one of the chairs facing the couches, his eyes, dark and hard, locked on me and filled with reproach.
Almost a full house…
Fucking great.
No one says anything, as if they expect me to delve right into this conversation somehow, like I didn’t burn down everything and then run away from the results.
What can I say at this point?
Gabe pushes off the desk, heads over to the bar, pours me a scotch, and slips it into my hand with a knowing look, his green eyes flashing with relief, anger, and a bit of sympathy. “You’re going to need this.”
Hell.
That warning sits heavily in my gut.
I scrub my hand over my face before I take a sip, then force my feet to move and take me to lower myself on the couch next to Dad. The leather creaks slightly under my weight, and I shift, suddenly uncomfortable in the seat I’ve taken thousands of times over the years.
This place has always been the core of Hawke Enterprises—this office. Where it all started with Uncle Savage and Uncle Gabe. It’s the heart of our business, and it has always felt like a home to all of us.
But it doesn’t feel particularly welcoming at the moment.
Dad’s blue eyes cut to me, and they hold so many warring emotions in them that the drink I just took instantly sours in my stomach. “Glad to see you’re alive.”
I flinch at the pain in his voice.
The accusation.
Thehurtthat I ran and didn’t come to him.
What can I even say that would help, that might help him understand?
Absolutely fucking nothing.
I take another sip, swallowing thickly. “It’s good to be alive…”
Savage raises a dark brow, settling deeper into his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrests. “Is it? Because from what I hear, you’ve been playing Russian roulette.”
I snort and shake my head at the implication. “Nope, just poker.”
“Fucking hell, Coen.” Dad practically snarls at me, turning toward me in his seat. “What were you thinking, disappearing like that? Going to Satriano?”
Wincing, I let my gaze move to the man who first asked me that question.
Luca just watches me stoically. He told them every word I said after he left me in Monaco…but hearing it from him is different than hearing it fromme.
I need toexplain.
Get them tounderstand.
“I thought I was protecting all of you.” I suck in a sharp breath, struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice so they don’t think I’m hanging on by a thread when I’m getting closer and closer to that. “I thought I was protecting Atlas and Wren?—”
Bishop pushes off the wall and walks around to the edge of the couch, getting closer to me—close enough that I can see her muscles twitching in her arms as she struggles not to grab me and do something she would probably not regret, even though she should. “You know damn well we can protect everyoneherefar better than if you’re gallivanting around the fucking world.”
She isn’t just pissed.
She’shurt.
