Page 9 of Restless Hawke
Otherwise, Dad would’ve had me locked in my condo with Gabe, Saint, and probably even Bishop, armed at my door every fucking minute to ensure: one—that I wouldn’t leave, and two—that Satriano wouldn’t come for me.
Because we all knew it was inevitable.
I did them a favor by leaving, by staying hidden as I try to right my wrongs by calling in every favor and using every connection I’ve made at the various casinos over the years to get into games and pay for their silence to the family about it.
But it’s only a matter of time before my luck runs out and someone who knows they’re looking for me sees me and spills where I am. And once that happens, the plan I have to get this runaway train under control will come to a screeching halt when they drag me back kicking and screaming—and make thingsworse.
The elevator stops its descent, and the doors glide open.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
That same paranoia settles over me again—at the least opportune time.
Just as I’m about to walk into and sit down at a tournament that could be worth millions, exactly what I need to make a dent in my debt to Satriano.
I step out onto the casino floor and release an annoyed sigh. The last time I was in Monte Carlo, it was under much more pleasant circumstances. But I won’t be able to enjoy the amenities or the potential company when I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve run out of time.
As soon as the tournament ends, I have to go.
If I keep moving and am careful about it, maybe I can buy more time. Four weeks haven’t been enough. Not nearly when I must wait for the big games and tournaments to make any kind of difference. When I am trying toprovemy usefulness to the man who holds all the cards.
I make my way toward the room where the tournament is taking place, and the casino host sees me coming, his smile brightening. “Good morning, sir.”
“Anton.” I incline my head toward him and let my eyes sweep over the other players already gathering. “Are we prepared to start?”
I never arrive early.
Prefer to be the last, when possible.
Not because I want to make an entrance, but because the longer I stand around, waiting for the other players to show, the greater the chance everyone has to try to size me up. And though I’m familiar with most of the players on the circuit who have enough money to compete at this level, there are always a few outliers—folks I’ve never played against. Especially away from the States.
And that always makes the games so much more interesting.
Anddangerous.
Anton smiles and glances over my shoulder into the main casino. “We’re waiting on one more player, but if you’d like to take your seat…”
He motions toward the chair in the center of the table directly across from the dealer, exactly where I always like to be—where I can see everyone and read them but can also gauge at least what the first half of the players might be holding before I place my bets.
I slowly make my way over, casually lowering myself into the chair as the others still milling around take their seats as well.
The guy next to me leans over, almost bumping me with the brim of his cowboy hat, and offers me his hand. “Hey, there. Butch Kavanaugh.”
I stare at him.
American, too.
And too dumb to comprehend I’m not here to make friends.
I look away without taking his hand.
He’s one of the few American players I don’t know and have never faced, which means he’s new blood.
That could be a very good thing or it could be disastrous. Having an untested player in a game like this could throw off the entire balance of the table. But if he’s green, he may also make more mistakes and get out early, which means more money on the felt right away and less competition throughout the day.
Butch shakes his head and huffs, holding up his hands defensively. “Geez, all right then…”
He’s offended by my brush-off, but that’s good.
