Page 42 of The Fighter

Someone comes up to me to ask a question, and I set aside my phone. But the rest of the evening, I can’t stop smiling. Our banter always leaves me feeling fiercely alive. It’s only been a couple of weeks since we met for the first time, but already, I can’t remember a time when Tomas wasn’t part of my life. Bossing me around, checking up on me, making sure I’m taking care of myself. He doesn’t ride roughshod over my wishes—no, he makes me feel supported and cared for.

And it’s been a long time since anyone make me feel that way.

Tomas isn’t the only person in my thoughts. I’ve been avoiding thinking about Vidone Laurenti, the man who says he’s my father, but he’s always there, lurking in the background of my mind. I don’t feel excited when I think about him—no, my only emotion is a cold, gnawing uncertainty. I have too many unanswered questions. Why did my mother run away? Why did she hide my existence from Vidone?

But my mother is dead, and I can’t ask her why. If I want answers, only one person can give them to me.

It isn’t until Wednesday that I finally summon up the courage to call Vidone. With shaking fingers, I bring up my contacts and scroll to his name. My thumb hovers over the entry, as I talk myself into moving forward. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he does? What if this changes everything?

Taking a deep breath, I press the Call button.

It rings four times. No, five. I doodle ominous clouds on the notepad in front of me as I wait for him to answer. I’m almost ready to hang up when the call connects. “Hello?” a woman says.

“Hi,” I say cautiously. “Could I speak to Vidone, please?”

“Vidone?” Her voice turns suspicious. “Who’s this?”

Umm, what do I say? If this is his wife, I don’t feel entirely comfortable introducing myself as Vidone’s long-lost daughter. I don’t want my existence to come as a shock. Well, any more than it already has.

“My name is Alina Zuccaro.”

“Alina—” she starts before her voice is replaced by a male one. “Alina?” a man who must be my father says. “Is that you?”

My heart starts to beat faster. My grip tightens on my pencil. “Yeah.” I start adding droplets of rain to the sketch. “It’s me. Alina. Teresa’s daughter.”

“My daughter.”

I bite my tongue to keep quiet. There are so many raindrops now that it’s a veritable thunderstorm. For good measure, I add streaks of lightning. Where were you when I needed you? I want to scream. Where were you when my mother was dying in the cruelest way possible? You don’t get to call me your daughter. You haven’t earned it.

But I’m not being fair. Going by his letter, Vidone didn’t know I existed until a few days ago. His story certainly has the ring of truth to it. My mother was secretive—there’s no denying that. She never volunteered information about my father, and she actively discouraged me from asking questions about him. Even toward the end, when she stopped recognizing me, he never came up. It’s as if she locked the memory of him into a vault and threw away the key.

“Yeah.” I don’t know what to say next. “I got your letter. Thank you for the photo.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice turns warmer. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Umm, you already know I live in Venice.” I frown. “Wait, how did you know that? How did you know where to send the letter?”

My question must take him by surprise. There’s a split-second of hesitation, and then he says, “I looked you up on the Internet and found Groff’s.”

“Right. Of course.” Simon spent a lot of time obsessing about search engine optimization. “I’m working on the SEO,” he used to loftily declare whenever I railed at him about how he wasn’t pulling his weight. “You wouldn’t understand.” I wasn’t convinced; we never got the surge of members that Simon predicted, but it looks like it paid off in the end.

“Well, I moved to Venice two years ago.” I search for something else to say about myself. It’s harder than I think. I work too much, and I haven’t had time for anything else for a really long time. “I’ve always wanted to live here. Umm?—”

“Are you married?”

I try not to get annoyed. God knows I’ve heard that same question far too many times from well-meaning friends and acquaintances. “No.”

“Seeing someone?”

An image of Tomas swims in front of me. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

This is starting to feel like an inquisition, and I don’t like it. “You already know about the gym,” I say, pretending like I didn’t hear his last question. “I’ve been doing martial arts since I was seven. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu and then moved to judo, and after that, Muay Thai. I’ve wanted to run my own gym since I was a little girl. Some days, it’s a struggle, but most of the time, it feels like a dream come true.”

“You sound very passionate about it.”

Okay, better. He seems to have gotten the message about laying off my personal life. “I am.” I hesitate. “What about you? Are you married?”

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