Page 8 of The Fighter

I doubt I’ll find anything useful; Tomas doesn’t strike me as the sort that spills his heart on social media. But Google comes through. The first result is from the Università Ca’ Foscari. Tomas Aguilar is an Adjunct Professor there, and he teaches an Introduction to Accounting class twice a week on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

I stare at his picture on the screen and try to reconcile it with the man I met. On the screen, Tomas is smiling, a wide, affable grin that makes him look like the friendliest accounting professor you’d ever meet. The short bio tells me that before moving to Venice five years ago, he taught accounting at the Universitat de València. He has a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s degree in accounting from the same school.

He’s Spanish? That explains his faint accent.

I reread his bio, a frown turning my lips down. This doesn’t add up. Adjuncts are not well paid, and Tomas only seems to teach that one class. He’s good at it, though, judging from his flattering reviews, but even so, there’s no way he can afford to buy Simon’s share of my gym on his salary.

Where does the money come from? What’s paying for the fancy suit, the handmade shoes, the expensive watch? Am I being scammed somehow? Is this all an elaborate con?

That’s not the only thing that doesn’t make any sense. Let’s say Tomas is really a lecturer. Where would Simon meet someone like him? It couldn’t have been at the university. I can’t picture my former partner spending time in a place of higher education, not unless it was to chase after pretty, barely legal undergrads.

I’ve never seen Tomas Aguilar before; I’m sure of it. I would remember him. Simon’s never mentioned his name either, which suggests he’s not a friend. Yet he was in the right place at the right time when Simon decided to sell?

Something’s going on here, something fishy.

Shortly after eight, I take the contract to the Legal Aid society. Jon Burke reads it from start to finish, and when he’s done, he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “So, Simon finally quit. Who is the buyer, this Tomas Aguilar? Someone you know?”

“No, he’s a perfect stranger. What do you think of the contract?”

“It looks legit.”

“No hidden catch? Are you sure? Because I googled Aguilar this morning. He’s an Adjunct Professor at the Ca’ Foscari. How does someone like that have more than a million euros to invest in a gym that’s barely breaking even?”

“Family money?” Jon suggests.

“Or I’m being scammed.”

“How?” my lawyer asks practically. “And for what? Like you said, you’re barely breaking even.”

“But I own the building outright. That’s in my name, not in the gym’s.” Simon hated it, but I stuck to my guns. “Maybe he’s targeting that somehow?”

“Hmm. Well, to answer your question, if there’s a scam here, it’s not in the contract. Everything in here lines up with what they told you. Well, with one exception—the money Signor Aguilar is injecting into the business. In the contract here, it says he’s putting in seventy-five thousand euros, not two-hundred-thousand.”

There it is. “I knew it,” I say grimly. “I knew there was something fishy.”

“It’s marked as provisional,” Jon points out. “It might just be an honest mistake.”

“Since when do you believe that lawyers make honest mistakes?”

“I don’t, but this might be the exception to the rule. This is the clearest legal document I’ve ever read. The lawyer who drafted it is extremely good at their job. If Aguilar is planning on cheating you, this is too obvious.”

I’m unconvinced. “That’s one explanation. The other is that Tomas Aguilar thinks I’m an idiot who will sign a contract without reading it.”

“I’m sensing some hostility, Alina.”

“I’m sick of being jerked around,” I burst out. “First, Simon barely does any work, ignores our contract terms with impunity, and gets away with it every single time. Then he sells to this random guy, completely ignoring the part where he needs to come to me first, and once again, I’m supposed to go along with it. This is my gym, Jon. My sweat and blood. I’m the one who’s there at the crack of dawn every single day. I’m the one teaching all the classes. And somehow, my wishes never seem to matter.”

And Tomas called it a dump.

Jon regards me levelly. “You’re frustrated, and I’m sympathetic,” he says. “But you’re not blameless here. You chose not to take Groff to court to make him live up to his contractual obligations. It would be a mistake to bring those emotions into this new partnership.”

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s got a point. “Fair enough,” I mutter sullenly. “Though you could really work on your delivery. There are other lawyers here, by the way. Nicer lawyers.”

Jon chuckles. “You should consult them,” he advises. “See how far niceness gets you in court.”

My phone beeps. I glance at it. “I just got an email from Daniel Rossi,” I tell Jon. “Tomas Aguilar’s lawyer. He says he made a mistake and has attached a revised contract.” I open the attachment and scroll to the relevant section, and sure enough, the seventy-five-thousand-euro amount has been replaced by two hundred thousand.

“In that case, I’m going to recommend you sign the contract. It’s more than fair, Alina. You need a partner who will invest in your gym in a way Groff never did. Judging from this document, I’d say that Tomas Aguilar is your man.”

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