Page 76 of The Butcher's Wife
Turi’s going to be stoked. He and I have been wanting to get Giovanni alone for a little one-on-one for a while now, and what better way to measure a man’s character than when you’re breaking his nose?
When I go to find the MC for the match, he nearly pisses himself with delight at my impromptu matchup and dives into the crowd to hunt down his bookie.
I search through the mix of faces who are stealing glances at me, and land on the gaunt, skeleton-face of my new best friend Riccardo. He doesn’t seem to have noticed me come in yet, and I take great joy in sneaking up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder.
He startles, nearly slapping my hand away until he realizes who I am at the last moment.
“Riccardo!”
“Dom,” he says in his mopey little voice.
“I got a job for you. Hold my coat and my phone for the next fight.” My fingers linger around my phone. “And ifSerafinacalls, I want you to get the MC to stop the fight and let me know.”
Riccardo gives me a solemn nod. “Yes, sir.”
I slap his shoulder again. “I knew I could count on you.”
The energy in the crowd tips into buzzy anticipation as the news of the next fight spreads. When the fight ends—with a knockout no less—only a few people cry out in disappointment. The rest are busy stealing covert glances at Giovanni and me.
The frustration I felt with my fight with Annetta tonightfades into the background. I go to the meditative place inside myself that exists when I’m looking down the scope of a rifle or my bow, or when I’ve spotted something unusual across the street. Or when I’m eating Annetta out on the kitchen counter and she’s giving me a look like I’m the answer to all her prayers. The MC’s excited voice, the noise of the crowd, it all melts away as my gaze zeroes in on Giovanni. He slings off his coat and his suit jacket and carefully undoes his waistcoat and button-down until he’s shirtless.
He looks strong and not the least bit scared as he approaches the ring. I bet he already knowsmyreputation, too, so he’s either stupid or arrogant for agreeing to do this so casually.
The MC finishes ticking off the rules and looks between Giovanni and me. “We’re gonna keep this nice and clean, right, gentlemen?”
“One more,” Giovanni adds in heavily accented English. “Nothing above the neck.”
A few people in the crowd boo, but I grin and smack a kiss in his direction. “You got it, princess.”
Some men get pretty worked up about that kind of talk, but Giovanni doesn’t react as he extends his knuckles toward the center of the ring for me to tap.
Time to dance.
When the ref whistles to start the match, we stalk each other in a circle with our fists raised. The sound of the crowd pumps through me, invigorating me even as it calms me.
I test Giovanni’s reaction by throwing out a punch. He dodges it, but just barely. As we circle each other, Riccardo’s somber face jumps out in the crowd. Is he trying to get my attention?
BAM!
Pain explodes in my kidney from Giovanni’s brutal shot. I suck in a breath and brace myself, stepping back just in time as he swings for another.
There’s no way he should have landed that slow-ass hit on me. Fuck. He’s fuckingstrong.
I break out into a grin, and Giovanni smirks. He goes for another punch, but this time I’m ready. I dive under his defense to hook his arm, drag myself across his back, kick his leg out from under him, and slam his body to the ground. I’m on top of him in an instant—he’s got some experience, that much is clear, but I can tell he’s a better boxer than wrestler as I drag his limbs into position for an arm bar.
The ref blows the whistle for the end of the round, and I get up. The sound of the crowd chattering swells, as if someone has turned up the volume.
I stick out my hand to help him up, and instead of being a stuck-up pissant like his three-piece suit would suggest, he takes my hand and stands.
“That was a nice move,” he says in Italian.
I grin, answering in the same language. “We’ll see if you think so next time.”
“I think you won’t find it so easy the second time. Not when you’re so distracted.”
I don’t get a chance to ask what he means when his buddy rushes up with water. Surprisingly, Riccardo found some water too, which I gratefully accept. I stick my hand out for my phone, and he passes it over.
No missed calls. Only a few texts, none of them from Annetta.
