Chapter 18 Dom #2
He looks strong and not the least bit scared as he approaches the ring. I bet he already knows my reputation, 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 fucking strong.
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.
Normally, that would make me laugh, but right now, it’s taking everything in me to pass my phone back instead of chucking it at Riccardo’s head.
If she’s going to play hard to get, she’s going to find I play to win.
I have my secret weapon in case our talk goes south—all wrapped up in that velvet box in my coat.
I turn back to Giovanni for the second round, and frown when I spot that too-perceptive look on his face. This fucker’s going to be a handful for us, I can tell.
The ref blows the whistle, and we break into our slow circling again. This time, each loop we make around the ring, I glance at Riccardo. After a few rotations, Giovanni seems to notice.
“We can end it here, if you want to be somewhere else,” he calls out to me in Italian.
I snap my attention to him. “No fucking—”
Right as Giovanni swings at me, I dive.
Blinding pain sears my left eye and nose as he connects his fist with my face. For a moment, I’m dazed, stumbling back to defend myself, but he doesn’t press his advantage as the ref blows a whistle.
“No headshots!” someone from the crowd calls out.
I raise a hand. “My fault!”
Giovanni approaches me, and despite the headache pounding into my temple and the beginning of a black eye swelling my left eye shut, I meet his gaze.
“You good?” he asks.
You’re a good husband.
I grin and spit out a glob of blood. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He shakes his head. “You have other business to attend to. I can see it in your eyes.” He turns and walks to the refs.
After a moment, the MC calls out that Giovanni forfeited and I won, to the mixed reaction of the crowd.
I’m half-tempted to force him to finish out the fight, but for once, I don’t feel like fighting anymore. I’m hungry. Tired. I miss my wife.
After I gather my coat and phone from Riccardo, I walk up to Giovanni, the crowd parting around me like the Red Sea. He turns to face me, about halfway through the process of buttoning up his eightieth shirt button.
I put out my hand, and he shakes it with a powerful grip.
“You want to spar when you’re in a better state of mind,” he says with a knowing glint to his eye. “Let me know.”
I grin. “Yeah, I will.”
The penthouse is dead silent as I step inside. I’m almost certain Eduardo was dozing off on the couch, but I don’t ride him about it when I send him away.
Feeling like complete shit, I make my way to the kitchen by muscle memory and the dim light of the skyscrapers through the windows. My fucking kidney hurts as I bend down to search the freezer for the old bag of peas I keep to give to the fish as treats sometimes.
I slap the bag on my brand-new black eye, courtesy of Giovanni.
I’m a colossal fucking idiot.
Now that I’ve had the fight driven out of me, I can admit it. She was right. Here I was, thinking I was doing her some great favor by helping her out with her pianist problem, and instead I made it worse for her.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her. Maybe she’ll let me stop by Neil’s place again and fix things, or make a generous donation to her and Valeria’s cause.
I drift out of the kitchen, still restless despite the fatigue settling into my limbs.
Normally, when I get home this late, I like to look out the windows—a whiskey in hand when it’s been an especially rough day—and think about nothing in particular. Tonight, it’s our little gun range that draws my eye.
She practiced more shooting after our argument, and she swept up the stray bullets after—Eduardo sure as hell didn’t do it.
She did well in the gym this morning before our fight, pushing herself hard to run sprints, lift weights, and practice her first basic fighting drill—a simple shoulder roll that I had her repeat until her form started to get sloppy.
She never once complained. She never complains.
I tap my finger against the velvet box in my pocket.
I wish I could take Annetta out on dates, or that she had more need for things.
All I can give her right now is myself, and even if I’m fucking great, I can only coast on her need for protection and sex for so long.
Eventually, we’ll take care of the Chiarellis, and she won’t need protection.
The Barbara twins have never lacked options when it came to sex.
She already has status and money, and doesn’t care for it.
What can I give her?
I shift the bag of peas, grimacing through the pain. I thought getting the shit beat out of me would clear things up like usual, but this time, it’s only left me a headache and a black eye.
“Dom?” Annetta calls out from the top of the stairs.
I blow out an exhale. I was hoping for a good night’s sleep before we jumped back into our argument, but maybe my pathetic appearance will earn me a little sympathy instead.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
When she comes down the stairs, I take it as a good sign that she’s wearing my T-shirt. She sets the gun—the real one from my nightstand—on the kitchen island, and pride tears through me.
“I would have texted you first, but I thought you were asleep,” I say, nodding to the gun.
“What happened?” she asks, looking me up and down. The worry in her voice cuts into my ego. She shouldn’t worry about me, not when she’s got plenty to worry about on her own, and I’m some jackass who chose to do this to himself.
“I went to clear my head. Got myself into a fight.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Because of me?”
At least I’m capable enough to recognize a trap when I see one. “No. Because of me. You were right, reginetta.”
She quickly smothers her look of surprise with one of suspicion. “Right about what?”
“I shouldn’t have threatened your pianist. I made more work for you, and I’m sorry. I have a few ideas on how I can fix it if you’ll hear me out.”
A deep frown creases her mouth and sinks an ominous feeling into my chest. “That’s not what I’m mad about.”
A few hours ago, that would have made me frustrated, but I’m too exhausted to argue. My brain’s barely online. My only goal is to get in the shower and fall asleep wrapped around her angry little body.
“Then tell me what you’re mad about.”
“Are you going to run away again if I do?”
“You’re welcome to shoot me if so.”
That earns me a tiny little smile. She uncrosses her arms and lifts herself to perch on the edge of the kitchen counter.
With no makeup on and her hair pulled up into a messy bun, wearing just my shirt, she’s fucking beautiful—maybe even more so than in the daylight.
This relaxed side of her is the part of her that only I get to see. It’s just for me.
I guess I’ve resigned myself to being a deeply possessive man, at least when it concerns her.
“I don’t want you to solve my problems if I can solve them on my own.”
I scoff. “What do you want me to do instead, sit on my ass?”
She smirks. “Sometimes, the only thing I want from you is support. You know what that is?”
I lean back against the opposite counter so I don’t reach for her and piss her off more. “I want to say it’s when I go out and kill whoever looked at you wrong, but I’m thinking that’s not the kind of support you’re looking for.”
She crooks a finger toward me. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
Heat zips to my groin as I step to stand between her spread legs.
“Now you put your arm around me,” she says, and I splay my hand across the small of her back, “And you ask me questions like, ‘How are you feeling?’”
I grin. “How are you feeling, angel?”