Page 20 of The Fighter

Joao’s grin widens. “If you say so,” he says. “Looks like the work agrees with you. You’ve been in a good mood all week.”

I give him an exasperated look. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“No,” he says. “You’re always even-tempered. But this week, you’ve been smiling throughout the day.” He shudders exaggeratedly. “It’s freaking me out. Tell us about her, Tomas. What color are her eyes?”

Dante laughs out loud at my expression. “Alina Zuccaro is my business partner,” I bite out. She has big brown eyes that mirror everything she’s thinking. When she’s angry, the color of her eyes reminds me of an aged cognac—fiery, lush, and irresistible. When she’s laughing, they deepen to a dark chocolate, addictive and sinfully tempting.

And I’ve just missed what Dante said because I was daydreaming about her eyes.

“Yeah, she’s totally hot,” Joao answers. “Even better, she can handle herself. I went into her gym when she first opened, and she was sparring with a partner, her face all flushed and pretty. Huh. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember why I never went back. I really should work out more often. What do you think, Tomas? Is there a friends and family discount?”

“Yes,” I reply pointedly. “For friends. Don’t you have anything to do? According to the calendar, you’re supposed to meet the padrino at…” I glance pointedly at my watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” he swears. “How did I miss that?”

He takes off running. Dante pulls out his phone and navigates to the shared calendar. “That wasn’t nice, Tomas,” he chides, though he’s laughing as he says it. “Joao looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He’s going to run all the way to Antonio’s house before he realizes there’s no meeting.”

“How do you know there isn’t one?”

“Because you’re giving the padrino your analysis of Spina Sacra’s holdings in five minutes. Antonio asked me to sit in on it. Ah, speaking of the devil, here he is.”

Antonio Moretti walks up to us. “The devil?” he asks. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.” He enters my office and sits down. “What do you have for us, Tomas?”

Dante shuts the door behind him and takes a seat. I flip my screen toward them. “Spina Sacra’s investment strategy has changed in the last six months,” I begin, forcing myself to drag my thoughts away from my maddening partner.

My maddeningly attractive partner. Who makes me smile with her sassy mouth and smart-ass remarks. Who sleeps in a T-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s translucent, with a vibrator within arm’s reach. Who I can’t stop fantasizing about.

She won’t be smiling when you sell your share of Groff’s to the highest bidder. No. There’s only one way she’ll take that—as a betrayal.

I have to keep my distance from Alina. I can’t start letting myself care. The last time I did that, it almost wrecked me, and I will never put myself in that position again.

By the time I’m done with teaching Thursday evening, I’m cranky and restless. Of course, Joao notices and gives me grief about it. “Didn’t get your daily fix?” he says. “You could still drop by, Tomas. Doesn’t she teach a beginner class tonight?” He has a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe you could take it. She’ll show you some moves, and then the two of you could wrestle.”

“Very funny,” I retort. “Don’t you have someone else to harass? Leo, for example?”

“Why would I harass Leo?” Joao asks. “He’s obviously head-over-heels in love with Rosa. They’ve even set a wedding date. You’re much more interesting, Tomas. Are you planning on asking her out?”

“Asking who out?” I say, pretending ignorance.

“Ah, that’s the way we’re playing it. If I wandered down to Dorsoduro and took Signorina Zuccaro’s class, you’d be okay with that, would you?”

I imagine Joao and Alina on a mat and see red. I slam the lid of my laptop shut and get to my feet. “Do whatever you want,” I say coolly. “As for me, I’m getting out of here.”

I don’t have any plans for the evening. Nowhere I want to be and no one I want to be with. In any case, I’d be terrible company. Right now, all I want to do is punch someone.

Then I remember that Ciro Del Barba always runs a fight at midnight.

I can be in Milan in time.

Two hours of beating the shit out of my opponents is exactly what I need to get my head on straight.

The fights take place in a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Milan. Del Barba isn’t usually there on a Thursday night. But when I’m done with my fight, Renzo Gallinari, Ciro’s second-in-command, shows up and tells me his boss would like a word.

I wipe the blood off my face—split upper lip, a lucky hit—and follow him up a flight of stairs to a balcony that overlooks the ring and provides a great view of the action. Ciro Del Barba is there, ensconced in a black leather chair, contemplating a cigar with expressionless eyes, looking for all practical purposes like a king surveying his kingdom. He’s not alone. A dozen other people crowd around him. Eight women dressed in skimpy gowns and four men in tuxedos. They all burst into applause when they see me.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ciro says with a flourish. “I give you tonight’s champion. Tomas Aguilar, or, to use his ring name, The Asset.” He waits until the applause dies down and waves me to a seat. “Cigar?”

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