Page 81 of The Fighter

Hot rage builds up in my heart. “I don’t care about Damir’s ability to provide for me,” I snap. “This isn’t real. You can’t seriously expect me to put my life on hold for a couple of months just so your business deal can go through.”

“Just so my business deal…” He splutters in outrage. “Do you think I’d ask for your help for a trivial matter? If this doesn’t go through, I will be ruined. Everything I’ve worked for all my life will be in shambles. I’m your father. Where’s your family loyalty?”

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a checkbook. “I looked into your gym,” he says. “It’s small. You can’t make more than twenty thousand euros in profit every year.” He scribbles a number on the check, signs it with a flourish, and pushes it toward me.

It’s a check made out to ‘Alina Zucaro’ in the amount of twenty thousand euros.

He spelled my last name wrong. I want to laugh hysterically. He’s trying to bribe me into breaking my engagement with Tomas and entering this arrangement with Damir Malinov, and he hasn’t even bothered to spell my name correctly.

Two weeks ago, Tomas bet on me winning Ciro del Barba’s underground tournament. He confidently wagered ten thousand euros on the fight, and when he won, he deposited all his winnings, all one hundred and twenty thousand euros of it, into my gym’s bank account.

I’ve wanted a family all my life. But family is more than blood. Maybe our family is who we want it to be.

I push the check back to my father. “I’m not interested.”

“You want more? Fine.” He tears up his first check and writes another. “Here.”

This time, it’s one hundred thousand euros.

I swallow the lump in my throat and get to my feet. “I came to Valencia to meet you,” I whisper. “All I ever wanted was a father. A family. I’ve waited for you all my life. But you just want your business deal to succeed. You don’t want a daughter, and you don’t want me.”

Then I walk out of the restaurant.

I can barely see through the tears that fill my eyes. I stumble forward, and I walk into a solid figure. Strong arms wrap around me, and Tomas pulls me into a comforting embrace. “I’m here, dolcezza,” he says, his eyes filled with concern and tenderness. “I’ve got you.”

51

ALINA

Tomas steers me into an empty cafe. For a few minutes, I just cry, and he holds me, his expression concerned. Finally, my sobs die down. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “My mascara ran on your jacket. It’s ruined.”

“I don’t give a damn about my jacket,” he responds. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing new. He offered me money to pretend to be Damir Malinov’s fiancée. His first offer was twenty thousand euros, and then when I turned him down, he increased it to a hundred thousand.” I smile bitterly. “He didn’t even spell my last name correctly. That’s how little he cared.”

Tomas’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t say anything.

“So I told him I was done.” I wipe the last of the tears away impatiently. “You knew who he was all along. You told me, and I didn’t listen. I should have.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I wish I had been wrong. I wish, more than anything else, Ali, that he was worthy of you.”

He’s looking really worried, and I don’t want him to be. “Forget him. I still have some Valencian things on my to-do list. Your sister told me I had to drink horchata and eat fartóns. I have no idea what fartóns are, but I’m in.” I force a smile on my face. “Besides, I can’t go back to your parents’ house with red eyes.”

“Don’t forget your red nose,” he quips, though the concern doesn’t fully leave his eyes. “If we’re heading toward the market for horchata, I have a fun surprise. I texted Gabriel about La Llotja yesterday, and he used his influence and arranged for us to visit.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand for me. “Want to go see it?”

La Llotja is spectacular. It’s also completely deserted. Since the building is under renovation, there should be workers there. Maybe they’re all at esmorzaret because there’s no one to be seen. I wander through the large trading hall with its carved pillars and high arched ceilings, marveling at the five-hundred-year-old building, but my favorite part is the courtyard filled with orange trees.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I tell Tomas, sitting on a bench in the courtyard and taking it all in. “This is… special.”

“It is,” he agrees, but he’s not looking at the building.

He’s looking at me.

My heart leaps in my throat. Suddenly, I have to know. It doesn’t matter if the answer is going to break my heart—I can’t take the uncertainty any longer. “Why did you come to Valencia with me, Tomas? Why are you helping me?”

“You asked me that two nights ago,” he replies. “My answer is the same now as it was then. Isn’t it obvious?”

This time, I don’t chicken out. “Not to me,” I whisper. “Tell me why, Tomas, because I need the words. I need to hear them.”

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