Page 28 of The Fighter

Renzo laughs and holds up his hands. “I’m not getting involved in this pissing match.” He gestures to the staircase. “Don’t bother making your way through the crowds—just go on up. The first fight is going to start any minute now.”

I didn’t come here to attend another of Ciro del Barba’s parties. I came for a fight, and it looks like I’m not getting one. And I don’t want to watch the women in the ring. It’ll remind me too much of Alina.

I’m about to turn around and head out when the bell rings. The first two contestants enter the ring to shouts and applause. Zarina Simonini bounds out onto the octagon, as does her opponent.

Alina.

The woman who’s taken up center stage in my fantasies. The woman I’ve been trying to get out of my mind for the last twenty-four hours. No, longer. From the moment I first set eyes on her, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Alina. Her face haunts my dreams, and her touch lingers on my skin like a brand.

She’s cast a spell on me.

I drove three hours to escape her, and here she is. In a country of fifty-eight million people, I’m drawn to Alina like a magnet.

It’s as if fate is willing us together, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Shrugging my shoulders, I head up the stairs to find a vantage point to watch Alina Zuccaro fight.

19

ALINA

After the tumultuous day I’ve had, fighting feels amazing. There is no room for ghosts in the octagon. No space to wonder why my mother left my father, no room to question why she kept my existence a secret from him.

I found jiujitsu when I was seven. A kid in my class taunted me about not having a father, so I punched her in the mouth. My mother made me apologize, and then she took me to a nearby gym to see if they could redirect some of my aggression.

The first time I stepped out on the mat, I felt like I’d come home.

Before she got sick, I used to fight all the time. Once she started forgetting, I made myself stop. She didn’t always remember why I was coming back hurt from the gym, and the bruises distressed her.

It’s not until I pin my opponent down on the mat, my forearm wrapped around her neck until she taps out, that it sinks in how much I’ve missed this. There’s something clean about a fight. Something cathartic. When you’re in the middle of it, there’s no room for thought. Muscle memory takes over, and it’s all about instinct and action.

The ref holds up my hand. The crowd hoots and hollers. I fully expect them to scream out ribald suggestions about other things I can do with my body, but to my surprise, there’s none of that. The overwhelming majority of the crowd are men, and they’re definitely here to ogle the fighters, but they’re not crossing a line.

Maybe that’s Ciro del Barba’s influence. His stone-faced people are everywhere, and nobody looks anxious to cross them.

I have thirty minutes until my next fight. I grab a towel and wipe off the sweat. One of the other fighters brings me a bottle of water. “You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you here before. Are you from Milan?”

“Venice. What about you?” I drain the contents of the bottle down. I need to stay hydrated. The evening’s only just beginning; I still have three more rounds to go.

“Bergamo.”

Her name is Samia Kouri. She sits next to me and tells me her life story. She’s eighteen years old, and her parents are from Egypt. Her mother isn’t happy about this fight, but her father used to be a wrestler and is in the audience tonight, cheering his daughter on. “What about you?” she asks. “You tore through Zarina. It was textbook. Anyone here to watch you fight?”

A pang goes through my heart. All day, I’ve stared at the photo of my parents. Memorized every word of my father’s letter. I craved a family so badly as a child. I wanted uncles and aunts and cousins, grandparents who would fuss over me and buy me presents. I dreamed of a father who would teach me how to ride a cycle. He would pick me up when I fell and kiss my skinned knee better.

Maybe some of my childhood dreams can actually come true.

A thousand times during the day, I reached for my phone. But I never called the number. I went so far as to program it into my contacts, but I couldn’t follow through.

“Ali?” Samia prompts, her expression concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”

I shake free of my thoughts and smile at the young woman. “No, of course not. Looks like you’re up. Good luck.”

She leaves. I pull out my phone and stare at the screen again. Should I call my father now? But it’s too late; he might already be in bed. There’s so much I don’t know. After my mother disappeared, did he ever get married? Does he have other children?

My finger hovers over the call button when I receive an incoming text. It’s from Tomas.

I’m planning to spend ten thousand euros of the gym’s money on an investment opportunity.

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