Page 56 of The Fighter

And then I leave.

37

ALINA

From the moment I walked into a martial arts class for the first time and found structure and discipline there, I’ve wanted to run my own gym. It’s stressful running a small business, and it’s a lot of work. But every time I walk into Groff’s—I really need to change that name—it’s felt like home.

Until today.

Tomas wasn’t lying; his fellow mafia henchman Omar is staffing the lobby. A young woman I don’t recognize is at the smoothie stand, whipping up protein-infused smoothies for the gym goers with a cheerful smile on her face.

Tomas strikes again. Any other day, I’d be tempted to pull out my phone and text him with a snide reminder that, according to the contract, he can’t make hires without consulting me. But today, my new phone is another reminder of the events of last night. Another reminder that the men who threw my phone in the canal are now dead.

Men who were trying to abduct you. If Tomas hadn’t intervened, what do you think would have happened? Where do you think you would have woken up this morning?

I’m not saying I’m not grateful, okay? I am very grateful for Tomas’s help. I owe him my life. But I’m in shock. Tomas told me he was part of the mafia, and I should have taken that as a sign that I needed to keep my distance from him. Instead, I let his calm, even-tempered demeanor obscure the fact that he’s a killer.

A killer who saved your life.

Luke gives me a friendly grin when he spots me. “Hey, Ali,” he says cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

For one hysterical second, I wonder what his reaction would be if I answered with the truth. Let’s see, Luke, I imagine myself saying. I had the hottest sex of my life with a man who turned out to be a killer. Oh, he also owns half the gym, and one of his mafia enforcer buddies is at the front desk. For all I know, the perky blonde making smoothies is an assassin.

“I’m good,” I say instead. “Thanks for covering my class this morning. Sorry about the late notice.”

“No worries,” he says. “I was happy to help. I forgot how much I enjoy teaching. Like I told your boyfriend?—”

My what? I almost blurt out, and then I remember my petty display of jealousy in front of Sara earlier this week. Of course, the news has spread. If there’s one thing my members like more than protein shakes, it’s gossip. I brought this upon myself.

Luke is still talking, saying something about how he’s ready to take on more classes and would I also be interested in hiring one of his friends? I promise to look at her resume, excuse myself, and approach Omar. “Hey,” I say cautiously. “Thank you for opening this morning.”

“Of course, signorina,” he replies with a smile. “I did what I could, but some members asked me questions I couldn’t answer. I took down their information and told them you’d be in touch.” He hands me a notepad. I scan it quickly, and as I suspected, most of the questions are about the email I sent out about the double-billing issue. Thank you, Simon.

I have a ton of work to do. There are classes to teach, bills to pay, emails to write. Member questions to answer. But I can’t focus on any of it. The events of last night loom large. If Tomas was telling the truth, someone tried to abduct me. But why? I’m neither rich nor famous. I’m just an ordinary person.

The application form. “Has Gemma come in?” I ask, rummaging through the paperwork to find her membership application.

Omar’s expression turns grim. “No,” he says. “She has not.”

I’m half-expecting a blank form, but it turns out that Gemma did fill it out. I pull out my new phone and dial her number, the one she listed in her application, but the call doesn’t connect. “This number is not in service,” an automated message says. “Please check the number and try again.”

According to the application, her last name is Ridolfi. I google Gemma Ridolfi, and an Instagram profile comes up. I scroll through her posts, growing steadily colder as I read. All the details match what Gemma told me about herself. Her favorite city is Paris. Her mother died four years ago. She works out at MMA Roma, and is considering a transfer to Venice, but wonders if there are too many tourists in the city.

But when I look at her selfies, they’re of a completely different woman.

Everything ‘Gemma’ told me about herself is a lie. Every single thing.

“Omar, can you cover the front desk for another hour and a half?”

“Certainly,” he replies agreeably. “Get some rest, signorina. Take all the time you need.”

He thinks I’m going to take a nap, and I don’t bother correcting him. Instead, I turn around and head back out the door. I’m going to return to the scene of the crime. I need answers, desperately, and that’s where I’m going to find them.

The osteria is gone.

I stare at the empty storefront with a tattered For Rent sign stuck on the dusty window. I was here yesterday—I swear it. I sat in that far corner and ate bad pizza with Gemma. We talked about travel, her desire to blend in, and her attempts to learn to speak Venetian. I liked her. I thought she could be a friend.

But there’s no furniture inside the storefront. Nothing to show that I had dinner here. The battered wooden tables, the rickety chairs, the photo of James Gandolfini on the wall—all of it is gone. It’s like yesterday never happened.

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