Page 5 of The Fighter

“But the feeling’s not mutual, is it?” Daniel gives me a sidelong look. “She’s very pretty. I wonder if she’s seeing anyone? I should ask her out.”

Daniel’s clearly baiting me. “Signorina Zuccaro seems like an interesting woman, and under different circumstances, I might be interested,” I say calmly, tamping down my annoyance. But I am going to own a business with her, and there’s no need for that kind of complication.” I pull out my phone. “She mentioned a contractor, which suggests she’s hired somebody who’s not doing his job. I need to remind him that’s a terrible idea.”

“You’re going to call the contractor? I thought you were planning to be a silent investor, not take an active role in the day-to-day operations.” He chuckles. “Time to revive the office betting pool.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. First, the padrino gets married, followed quickly by Dante, and then Leo gets engaged to the woman he’s been pretending he’s not interested in, and now everyone is looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Even people like Daniel, who, as a practicing lawyer, has seen the worst of people and should know better.

I fell in love once, five years ago. It cost me my home, my job, and my family. I’m not interested in repeating that disaster.

“I’m just protecting my investment, Daniel. That’s all there is to it. The gym is in an excellent location. Despite its current state of disrepair, and despite Groff harassing every woman there, membership has not taken a precipitous drop. People keep showing up because Alina is extremely good at what she does. Last week, she won an industry award for innovation in teaching. With a little effort, I’ll be recovering my money in no time.”

“Hmm. You paid a million. You think you can get a one point three in a year? That’s a thirty percent rate of return.”

“I’ve put an additional two hundred, so it’s really a twenty-five percent return,” I correct. “And if that’s the best I can do, Antonio should fire me.”

“You’re really planning to sell in a year? To whom? Alina?”

“Alina, someone else, I don’t care. I bought the gym to get Simon Groff out of Venice. This isn’t the kind of business I typically invest in. My goal is to improve it enough so I can sell at an acceptable profit.”

He gives me a sharp look. “You’re going to let Alina do all the hard work, and you’re going to profit from it? And then, just when she’s in the black again, you’re going to sell it from under her feet?”

When he puts it that way…

“It’s just business, Daniel. It’s not personal. If Alina can afford to buy me out, she’s welcome to make an offer. Once the contract is signed, I doubt I’ll be seeing her again.”

Daniel smirks. “Au contraire, my friend. You’re going to see her on Monday for a walkthrough, remember? You want to be consulted on how she spends your money.” His smile turns positively gleeful. “Or maybe you just want to see her again.”

I give him a withering glance, but he’s undeterred. “I also noticed you didn’t contradict her when she thought you weren’t a fighter.”

My lips curl into a grin. “No, I didn’t.”

“She’s going to feel pretty foolish when she finds out.”

Yes, she will. I can picture her fury. Maybe she’ll come at me, spitting fire out of her eyes, and shove me hard against the wall. Then I’ll pull her down on top of me and roll over, trapping her underneath my body. “Tap out,” I’ll whisper, licking the shell of her ear. “Tap out, and I’ll let you go.”

But she won’t give up that easily. She’ll fight back, her body moving under me, her rage turning into hot passion…

I hastily shut off that train of thought. Alina Zuccaro is the last person I should be physically attracted to, and there’s no reason I should be fantasizing about her. It’s obvious what’s going on. I’ve been busy at work, and it’s been a while since I’ve had sweaty, mindless sex. It’s an itch, and I need to get it scratched. That’s all.

That’s the only reason I’m picturing Alina naked.

4

ALINA

I’m exhausted once I finish teaching my classes. I drag myself upstairs to my studio apartment, shower and put on pajamas, and survey the contents of my refrigerator. For a change, it isn’t empty—there’s a glass container of couscous salad I made on Thursday. I spoon some into a bowl, head to my couch, and turn on the TV, looking for something mindless to watch.

The salad was my mother’s recipe. It was her way of getting rid of the stray vegetables in the crisper. Half a cucumber? Toss it into the bowl. Strips of red pepper left over from the stir-fry she made earlier in the week? One solitary chicken breast? It all went into the bowl on Friday nights, then liberally garnished with raisins and unified by her herb-lemon dressing.

God, I miss her. It’s been two years, and I’m no longer walking around with a hole in my heart, but every now and then, a wave of sadness hits me so hard that it almost knocks me off my feet.

It was always just my mother and me. I never met my father; I don’t even know who he is. Every time I asked her about him, she’d refuse to discuss it. I asked her about my grandparents once—her parents—and her reply was terse. “They’re dead,” she said shortly. “And before you ask, I don’t have any brothers or sisters, polpetta.”

I was desperately curious about my mother’s childhood. I used to snoop when she wasn’t at home, looking in her closet and under her bed for hidden family photos, but I never found anything. I stopped asking about her family when I realized my questions were bringing her pain, but I never stopped being curious. After she died, I even took one of those online DNA tests to see if I had any long-lost family, but there was nothing. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins.

It’s a lonely way to live.

Enough self-pity. I shake my head violently as if that’ll get rid of my feelings and warily eye the red folder containing the new contract.

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