9. Mari #3
"You aren't a man who only breaks things, Knox."
His arm tightens around me.
"And you aren't something I have to protect by keeping at a distance," he says.
"Good. Because the distance is permanently canceled."
"Best business decision you've made."
"I'm not changing my mind."
EPILOGUE
Six weeks later, Mari closes the book on another sold-out main event and announces that the Pit has cleared its best night on record.
She stands behind a new table positioned where she can see the cage, both exits, and every screen without turning her head. A small brass plaque sits beside her laptop.
NEVER SIT IN A GAME WHERE SOMEBODY ELSE CONTROLS THE DECK.
Mémère's rule.
Mari owns twenty percent of the operation now. She negotiated the second five percent early after proving Forge's revenue projections were too conservative. Forge complained for twelve minutes and signed.
Leveaux has kept his distance. Whelan pulled most of his funding after losing the escrow dispute, and the New Orleans cards have shrunk back to one a month. We kept copies of every file. He kept whatever sense told him not to test us again.
Santos is gone from the circuit. Cortez has signed to fight again next month, and word from New Orleans says he's finally learning defense instead of relying on damage. Losing might have taught him something. Pain occasionally manages what advice can't.
My shoulder is strong enough for pads again, but I haven't decided whether I'll fight another official bout. For the first time, the decision doesn't feel like a verdict on who I am.
I can train because I love it. Stop because I choose to. Use my hands without giving them control.
Mari is arguing with Razor over a payout discrepancy when I set a fresh coffee beside her.
She glances at it. "Comfort coffee?"
"Partner coffee. Different tax category."
Razor leaves before she can recruit him into the argument.
The warehouse is clearing. Wreck is still near the cage, restless despite the win, staring at his phone as though something outside the Pit has managed to get under his skin. That's his problem for tonight. Every brother earns one eventually.
Mari closes her laptop. "The figures balance."
"I never doubted you."
"You questioned the equipment upgrade."
"I questioned the price of the lights."
"The lights increased average ticket value by eighteen percent."
"You've mentioned that."
"Facts remain facts no matter how often they inconvenience you."
I lean across the table and kiss her.
She stills for half a second, surprised that I'll do it in front of the brothers, then catches the front of my cut and keeps me there longer.
When she lets me go, Forge is applauding slowly from the bar.
I show him one finger.
Mari smiles, open and bright, and the whole brutal warehouse changes around it.
"Home?" I ask.
We spend most nights at my place now. Her coffee has replaced mine in the cabinet.
Mémère's recipe tin sits on top of the refrigerator with the real backup drive hidden beneath a stack of gumbo cards.
The television stays on when storms roll through, and I sleep better with her feet cold against my legs than I ever did in an empty bed.
The house no longer looks built for leaving quickly.
Mari has added a long table beneath the front window because she claims every profitable operation needs room for paperwork.
Elena and her girls visited last month and covered my refrigerator with drawings, three of which depict me with arms wider than my body.
My mother calls Mari directly now when she thinks I'm working too much, an alliance I should have predicted and failed to prevent.
Mari still keeps her apartment. That mattered to her, so it mattered to me. But there are more of her clothes in my closet than mine, and the office foldout has returned to being a piece of furniture nobody should sleep on.
Some nights I wake before dawn and listen to her breathing beside me. The old instinct says to get up, check the locks, prepare for the next call. Most mornings, I stay.
Empty was easier.
This is better.
"In a minute," she says. "I need to tell you something."
My attention sharpens. "Problem?"
"Opportunity. There's a warehouse next door coming up for lease. If we knock through the west wall, we can add permanent seating and a proper locker room."
"How much?"
She names a figure that makes me swear.
"I built the projections," she says.
"Of course you did."
"The projections work."
"They always seem to when you want something."
"That's because I know what I want."
"You wanted me."
She tilts her head. "My judgment isn't flawless."
I walk around the table and pull her against me.
"You love me," I say.
"Unfortunately."
"You going to stop?"
"No."
"Good."
I kiss her again beneath the new lights she was right about, in the operation she saved and now helps own.
Mémère's rule wasn't wrong. Mari never gave up control of her seat.
She just made room beside it for me.
The End