7. Alina
7
ALINA
I half-expect my contractor to ghost me, but when I get to the gym five minutes before ten, hot and sweaty from my quick run, Marcelo’s already there, standing outside the front door with a cup of coffee in his hand. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to you,” he apologizes again. “Like I said, my office girl didn’t realize how urgent the problem was.”
“That’s okay.” It’s not, not even a little, but I’m still shocked that Marcelo’s actually here, and I’m half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Let me show you what’s wrong.”
I pull up the list I made on my phone about the things that need addressing and walk the contractor through them, one at a time. We finish in the women’s changing room. “All the bathroom taps are leaking,” I tell him. “And there’s a musty smell in the showers. I don’t think the water barrier was properly installed. If there’s mold, then the tiles will need to be ripped out.”
“Mmm.” He removes a chisel from his tool belt and pries one of the tiles loose. What he sees there makes him look acutely unhappy. “Yes, this will need to be redone.”
Crap. It took six weeks for Marcelo’s guy to install the tiles the first time. It was a disaster. They ordered the wrong tile, and then the man doing the tiling looked like he’d never done it before. The second day he was here, he installed six tiles. Yes, six. A blindfolded toddler could have worked faster.
“How long will that take?” I ask warily. “I can’t afford to shut down the gym while this is being fixed.”
He scratches his chin. “You’re closed Tuesdays, yes? I can get a team in here as soon as you close tonight. They’ll work around the clock to fix the tiles and will be done by Wednesday morning when you’re ready to open.”
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, what? Are you telling me you can redo the work in thirty-six hours? Because it took six weeks to do it the first time around.”
He has the grace to look discomfited. “I didn’t understand the situation,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “But given the circumstances…”
“What circumstances?”
He scratches his chin. “Well, you know,” he mumbles. “When Signor Aguilar called…”
I stiffen. “What does Tomas Aguilar have to do with this?”
Marcelo looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “I’m not going to get on his bad side, am I? I’m not a fool.”
I’m missing something here. “I’ve tried to get you to fix your mess for months, and you’ve been ignoring every single one of my calls. But when Tomas Aguilar, a guy who looks like a paper cut would ruin his entire day, makes a phone call, you come running. Why? Do you owe him money?”
My contractor crosses himself. “Dios no,” he says fervently. “And I’m going to do my best to keep it that way. Only the desperate borrow from the mafia.”
“The mafia?” I repeat in disbelief. Oh shit. Simon, the gift that keeps on giving, has gotten me involved with the mafia. “Are you telling me that Tomas Aguilar works for the mafia?”
“I’m their bookkeeper,” a man’s voice replies. Tomas. Damn it, I didn’t hear him walk in. He’s wearing another expensive suit today, and he’s carrying a brown cardboard box that he sets down on the counter before nodding to Marcelo. “You have a plan to fix this mess?”
Marcelo bobs his head like a puppet on a string. “I’ll put my best people on it, Signor,” he promises.
Tomas straightens his shoulders. “That’s not good enough,” he replies. He towers over Marcelo, and though his voice stays mild, the threat is clear. “You’re responsible for this job. You’re the person I’ll be calling if Signorina Zuccaro isn’t satisfied. Is that understood?”
The contractor swallows nervously. “I’ll be here myself,” he blurts out. “We won’t leave until you’re happy.”
“Not me,” Tomas corrects. “Signorina Zuccaro.” He gives Marcelo a nod of dismissal, and the contractor falls over his feet as he rushes out. Tomas waits until he’s gone and turns to me. “How was your weekend?”
No, we’re not going to pretend as if that bombshell revelation didn’t happen. “You’re part of the mafia?” I demand through clenched teeth, taking care to keep my voice as low as possible. It’s almost eleven, a slow hour at the gym, but there are still a dozen people here, lifting weights and sparring in the ring. A couple of my regulars, Sara and River, who don’t normally waste their time ogling the guys in the gym, keep shooting Tomas interested glances. So does Sergio Diaz, who’s been a member since the day I opened the doors. “What about the teaching gig at the university?”
The corners of Tomas’s lips tilt up. “You looked me up? I’m flattered, Alina.”
It’s the first time he’s called me by my name, and I hate that I like the way it sounds, all slow and stretched out and growly. “Of course I looked you up,” I snap. “It’s called doing your homework. Is it all fake? The university job and the glowing reviews from your groupies, all talking about how hot you are and how delighted they’d be to get some private coaching from you?”
His smile widens to a smirk. “You’ve been very thorough,” he says. “Interesting how you focused on that one review from four years ago. There’s due diligence, Alina, but this seems a little excessive. And no, it’s not all fake; I really do teach. It’s part of my cover. Drop by anytime you want to see me in action.”
Oh God. Mafia bookkeeper. I can’t believe this is actually happening. Somebody wake me up from this nightmare. “My new partner works for the mob. Fantastic. That’s all I need.”
Tomas tilts his head to the side. “This bothers you. Why?”
He’s got to be joking. “Let me count the ways,” I hiss. I head behind the counter to put some distance between us. Tomas is gorgeous, and you’d think that him being part of the mafia would dim his appeal. Unfortunately, it does not. I’m very aware of him. I want to ogle him just as much as Sara and River. I want to touch him again, shake his hand and see if that spark is still there, and I want to do sweaty, carnal things with his body.
He’s watching me as if he can read my thoughts, and damn it, I feel my cheeks heat. Stop this, Ali. You’re not going to blush and simper at the asshole who now owns half your business. The asshole who is a member of the mafia. Cut it out now.
“I’m waiting,” Tomas prompts, glancing down at his expensive watch, an exaggerated look of patience on his face. “You were saying…?”
I imagine wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing. That image restores my inner calm. “How many people do you think will join a gym that’s owned by the mafia? Zero. And what are you going to do if the profits are down? Break bones in my body until I give you what you need?”
“Antonio Moretti owns half the businesses in this city, and they all seem to be doing just fine.” He has the nerve to roll his eyes at me. “It’s not like we put a sign on the door advertising our involvement. As for your non-existent profits…”
I hate him.
For as long as I’ve fought, I have one rule. You don’t step into the ring with anger; those turbulent emotions only get in the way. You step in with a cool head. You watch your opponent carefully, and you wait for them to reveal their weakness. And then you strike.
I’m willing to make an exception for Tomas Aguilar.
“What is this box on my counter?” I snarl. I start to move it, but it’s heavier than its size would indicate. Huh. Tomas held it like it weighed nothing. There must be some muscle under that finely tailored summer-weight woolen suit. “What’s in it, the heart of the last person you did business with?”
“Regrettably, Simon Groff is still alive,” he replies. “Your smoothie machine isn’t working, so I brought you a new one.”
My mouth is open, ready to hurl another insult. Then his words sink in. “A smoothie machine?” A drink counter is one of the most profitable parts of a gym. Smoothies, protein drinks, and supplements have an insanely high markup, even after you factor in the cost of hiring someone to make them.
I’ve been telling Simon for months that our machine needed to be fixed, but like with everything else, he kept procrastinating on the task.
“Yes,” he says. “I would have bought the same model as yours, but according to hundreds of reviews, the motor tends to burn out. This one is a heavy-duty industrial model.”
That’s… pretty thoughtful, actually. “Thank you,” I say, impressed but still determined to hate him. “How much is this machine going to cost me? I’m assuming you’ll deduct it out of the two hundred grand?”
“It’s a gift.” He looks puzzled as he lifts the box off my counter and moves it to the smoothie nook. “Have you checked your bank account this morning? Maybe you should pay better attention to your finances. The money should already be there.”
Oh. I grab my phone and navigate to my banking app, and sure enough, my checking account’s balance is two hundred thousand, seven hundred and thirty-five euros and forty-three cents.
I can’t decide if I want to scream for joy or just yell in pure aggravation. I haven’t even signed the new contract yet. I’m going to; it’s not like I have another choice, but still. “Thank you,” I say grudgingly. “I didn’t expect you to follow through this quickly.”
He grins, clearly enjoying my mortification. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s do the walk-through and talk about your plans for improvement, and then I’m going to need to look at your books.”
I’m still annoyed at Tomas’s presence in my gym and at the way he unilaterally bought Simon’s share of Groff’s.
But so far, I have nothing to complain about. There are clearly some advantages to being in the mafia. Tomas has only been involved with my gym for two days, and already, my contractor has promised to fix his mess, my checking account is two hundred thousand euros richer, and I have a new smoothie maker.
Sketchy employer aside, Tomas Aguilar is competence personified. And unfortunately for my libido, there’s nothing I find more attractive in a man than competence.
Gah. I’m still determined to hate him, but he’s making it really, really hard.
No. Hell no. Not again. The only reason I’m in my current predicament is because I mixed business with pleasure. No matter how good-looking or how capable Tomas is, I refuse to have the hots for him. I don’t even like the man.