Page 220 of The Last Good Man

That’s not all.

He’s also a participant in the underground fighting circuit organized by Marco Costa.

Isn’t that a conflict of interest?

Probably not.

“Maybe a business partnership forged inbloodis the best,” I murmur, studying a few pictures snapped at a boxing match, and a video recording.

My mouth falls open as I look at the man fighting with his knuckles wrapped, his boxers moving smoothly around his muscular thighs, and his skin glistening with sweat.

I don’t see an ounce of the playful, tender, sexy troublemaker I had the pleasure to meet and play with.

Just a man on a mission, whatever that may be. Taking his opponent down, making money, or both.

And no, what he does has nothing to do with me.

What happened between us was me being me while running into him, self-absorbed and consumed with my issues.

Luckily, I’ve grown out of that phase, so there’s a benefit to it.

I swipe my thumb over my phone and call John Levine.

“Melody Hill, here,” I say when he greets me at the other end of the line. "I appreciate the expediency. Is there any chance I could go to one of the boxing matches?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s not a pleasant environment,”hesays in a cautious tone. “I can send someone in to gather more information.”

“Where did you get the pictures?”

“I don’t know the exact location. I can find that out for you, but I still don’t recommend going there.”

“Are these boxing matches exclusively for men?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Levine, and I’lltake that into consideration. However, I’d still want the address.”

“Understood. I’ll send it to you.”

We end the call, and minutes later, my phone beeps with an alert.

I checked the message, and I’m in luck.

There’s a boxing match tonight in the Bronx.

MELODY

My idea of not getting noticed while sneaking into the old boxing gym after bribing the man at the entrance––I’m getting good at this––and lying that I was looking for my long–lost cousin––the man couldn’t care less if I said I was looking for my birth mother––is wearing a tracksuit made of luxuriously soft and lightweight fabric with a wide-leg pant and a hoodie.

My hair is tucked neatly inside a cap, and I would wear sunglasses if it didn’t make me look suspicious and out of place.

I don’t belong, for sure, although I’m not the only woman in the loud, crowded space reeking of sweat and testosterone.

To avoid getting elbowed and pushed to the side, I trail closer to the wall and find a spot next to the boxing ring, nothaving a cluewhat is going on.

The barking men and the noisy women cheering them on make me hyperventilate.

Perhaps this isn’tsucha great idea, but I stay put now that I’m here.

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