14. Tomas
14
TOMAS
L ater that morning, I’m still thinking of Alina when Dante swings by my office. “I haven’t seen you much all week. Where have you been?”
“I bought a gym.”
He chuckles. “Yes, Daniel mentioned your impulse purchase. How’s it going?”
The people who think women gossip too much have never met my co-workers. “It’s a mess. I’ve been fixing the books all week.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You, personally? That’s rather like buying a Ferrari and only using it to run errands. Couldn’t you find someone else to do the grunt work?”
Joao walks by just then and catches Dante’s comment. “He likes the girl,” he says with a grin. “Isn’t it obvious? That’s why he’s been there every single day this week.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I’ve been there every single day this week,” I bite out, “because there are two sets of books, one real and one fake, and it takes a certain amount of skill to reconcile them.”
“Luigi couldn’t do it?” Dante asks, referring to the bookkeeper we sometimes use. “He’s good at that kind of work, isn’t he?”
“He was busy,” I lie shamelessly.
Joao’s grin widens. “If you say so,” he says. “Looks like the work agrees with you. You’ve been in a good mood all week.”
I give him an exasperated look. “I’m always in a good mood.”
“No,” he says. “You’re always even-tempered. But this week, you’ve been smiling throughout the day.” He shudders exaggeratedly. “It’s freaking me out. Tell us about her, Tomas. What color are her eyes?”
Dante laughs out loud at my expression. “Alina Zuccaro is my business partner,” I bite out. She has big brown eyes that mirror everything she’s thinking. When she’s angry, the color of her eyes reminds me of an aged cognac—fiery, lush, and irresistible. When she’s laughing, they deepen to a dark chocolate, addictive and sinfully tempting.
And I’ve just missed what Dante said because I was daydreaming about her eyes.
“Yeah, she’s totally hot,” Joao answers. “Even better, she can handle herself. I went into her gym when she first opened, and she was sparring with a partner, her face all flushed and pretty. Huh. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember why I never went back. I really should work out more often. What do you think, Tomas? Is there a friends and family discount?”
“Yes,” I reply pointedly. “For friends. Don’t you have anything to do? According to the calendar, you’re supposed to meet the padrino at…” I glance pointedly at my watch. “Five minutes ago.”
“Fuck,” he swears. “How did I miss that?”
He takes off running. Dante pulls out his phone and navigates to the shared calendar. “That wasn’t nice, Tomas,” he chides, though he’s laughing as he says it. “Joao looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He’s going to run all the way to Antonio’s house before he realizes there’s no meeting.”
“How do you know there isn’t one?”
“Because you’re giving the padrino your analysis of Spina Sacra’s holdings in five minutes. Antonio asked me to sit in on it. Ah, speaking of the devil, here he is.”
Antonio Moretti walks up to us. “The devil?” he asks. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.” He enters my office and sits down. “What do you have for us, Tomas?”
Dante shuts the door behind him and takes a seat. I flip my screen toward them. “Spina Sacra’s investment strategy has changed in the last six months,” I begin, forcing myself to drag my thoughts away from my maddening partner.
My maddeningly attractive partner. Who makes me smile with her sassy mouth and smart-ass remarks. Who sleeps in a T-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s translucent, with a vibrator within arm’s reach. Who I can’t stop fantasizing about.
She won’t be smiling when you sell your share of Groff’s to the highest bidder. No. There’s only one way she’ll take that—as a betrayal.
I have to keep my distance from Alina. I can’t start letting myself care. The last time I did that, it almost wrecked me, and I will never put myself in that position again.
By the time I’m done with teaching Thursday evening, I’m cranky and restless. Of course, Joao notices and gives me grief about it. “Didn’t get your daily fix?” he says. “You could still drop by, Tomas. Doesn’t she teach a beginner class tonight?” He has a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe you could take it. She’ll show you some moves, and then the two of you could wrestle.”
“Very funny,” I retort. “Don’t you have someone else to harass? Leo, for example?”
“Why would I harass Leo?” Joao asks. “He’s obviously head-over-heels in love with Rosa. They’ve even set a wedding date. You’re much more interesting, Tomas. Are you planning on asking her out?”
“Asking who out?” I say, pretending ignorance.
“Ah, that’s the way we’re playing it. If I wandered down to Dorsoduro and took Signorina Zuccaro’s class, you’d be okay with that, would you?”
I imagine Joao and Alina on a mat and see red. I slam the lid of my laptop shut and get to my feet. “Do whatever you want,” I say coolly. “As for me, I’m getting out of here.”
I don’t have any plans for the evening. Nowhere I want to be and no one I want to be with. In any case, I’d be terrible company. Right now, all I want to do is punch someone.
Then I remember that Ciro Del Barba always runs a fight at midnight.
I can be in Milan in time.
Two hours of beating the shit out of my opponents is exactly what I need to get my head on straight.
The fights take place in a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Milan. Del Barba isn’t usually there on a Thursday night. But when I’m done with my fight, Renzo Gallinari, Ciro’s second-in-command, shows up and tells me his boss would like a word.
I wipe the blood off my face—split upper lip, a lucky hit—and follow him up a flight of stairs to a balcony that overlooks the ring and provides a great view of the action. Ciro Del Barba is there, ensconced in a black leather chair, contemplating a cigar with expressionless eyes, looking for all practical purposes like a king surveying his kingdom. He’s not alone. A dozen other people crowd around him. Eight women dressed in skimpy gowns and four men in tuxedos. They all burst into applause when they see me.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ciro says with a flourish. “I give you tonight’s champion. Tomas Aguilar, or, to use his ring name, The Asset.” He waits until the applause dies down and waves me to a seat. “Cigar?”
“No, thank you.” I look around. “Quite a party. I’m glad to be the entertainment.”
“They’re a bunch of idiots titillated at the sight of blood,” he says sourly. “I hope you’re in the mood for groupies. Maria was drooling during your last bout. I’m surprised she didn’t toss her panties into the ring.”
“Is that why you invited me up?” I ask dryly. “I didn’t realize you were in the pimping business.”
He chuckles. “I’m in the business of doing favors, Aguilar, you know that. You’re an adult. If you don’t want Maria’s attention, turn her down. She’s the one in the red dress.” He holds up a bottle. “Wine? It’s a Barolo from one of my vineyards. You’ll find it’s much more complex than any of Moretti’s offerings.”
I don’t know if he thinks he’s doing me a favor or if it’s Maria who’s going to incur the debt. Knowing del Barba, the answer is both. “It’s wasted on me,” I say bluntly. It’s hard to believe, given that they’re constantly sniping at each other, but Antonio Moretti and Ciro Del Barba are good friends. Well, as good friends as you can be in our world. “I don’t know anything about wine.”
He pours me a glass anyway and watches me expectantly as I take a sip. “Pretty good,” I say truthfully. “Do you want me to tell you it tastes like rose and chocolate or some such pretentious nonsense?”
“Your palate is better than you think,” he responds. “It does have a chocolate undertone.” He leans back in his chair. “So, what brings the Asset to Milan? You don’t need to fight your way through the ranks.”
The Asset. Gabriel d’Este coined the nickname back when I worked for Alonzo, and he meant it as a compliment. He’s cut from a very different cloth than his father. When I started fighting competitively, I decided to co-opt it as my ring name. “I could use the exercise.”
“Hmm.”
He wants something. I could hang around here for another hour and watch Ciro smoke his cigar and drink his pretentious wine, or I could cut to the chase. “Why did you really invite me up here, del Barba?”
He’s about to answer, but before he can, Maria walks over. “Hello there,” she purrs. “Ciro, aren’t you going to introduce me to the champion?”
His eyes fill with frustration for a brief second before his expression turns neutral. “Of course,” he says, waving a languid hand. “Maria Isgro, meet Tomas Aguilar.”
“The Asset,” she purrs. There’s an empty chair next to us, but Maria ignores it and plants herself on my lap. Not a fan of subtlety, I see. Then again, I’ve spent the last two hours pounding my fists into my opponents’ faces, so who am I to talk? Maybe Maria figures that she’s better off getting directly to the point. “Your fight was sooo hot,” she says breathlessly. “I love a man who can take care of himself.”
She’s a beautiful woman, Maria. She reminds me of a young Sophia Loren, big breasts, tiny waist, round ass, and curves in all the right places. But when she bends forward, giving me an extended look at her bountiful cleavage, it’s not the obviously willing woman on my lap I’m thinking about.
It’s Alina.
I exhale in frustration and ease Maria off my lap. “Thank you,” I say, trying to turn her down as gently as possible. Any other night, I’d have taken her up on her offer. Fighting leads to fucking—the adrenaline and the testosterone needs some place to go, and there’s never been a shortage of women who are happy to oblige. It’s not Maria’s fault I can’t get Alina off my mind. “As much as I’d like to get to know you better,”— lie —“I’m seeing someone.” Another lie.
Ciro comes to life like a shark sensing blood in the water. “You are? I didn’t know. Who is she?”
“No one you know,” I say flatly. “And that’s just the way I’d like to keep it.”
Maria folds her hands over her chest with a pout. This has the effect of lifting her breasts up so they’re practically tumbling out of her dress, an effect she fully intends. “But she’s not here, is she?” she asks, biting her lower lip suggestively. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“No, thank you,” I say again, this time with considerably less patience. I abhor cheating. I glance around and spot Rufo Crivello, my opponent in the last bout, coming up the stairs. Perfect. I drain the rest of my wine and beckon him over. “Rufo, meet Maria Isgro.” I lift my empty glass. “I’ll be right back. I need a refill.”
It’s not easy to escape. Del Barba corners me again, this time to introduce me to a Mexican couple. “Stick around, Aguilar,” he insists. “Or do you have plans with your girlfriend tonight? Who is she, by the way?”
It’s driving him insane that he doesn’t know the identity of my imaginary girlfriend. “No, I don’t have plans,” I respond tersely and turn to his guests. The woman is an archaeologist, and her husband is a deep-sea explorer, and they’re currently living in Valencia. We fall into conversation, and I reluctantly admit that it’s my hometown. “I love it there,” Felipa gushes. “Everyone is so friendly. And the paella is so good…”
A sharp pang of homesickness goes through me. I haven’t been back since I moved to Venice. At first, it was heartache keeping me away. Every time I called home, the conversation invariably returned to the Villegas wedding. Estela was marrying Lucián Navarro, a scion of the Buitres cartel. The wedding was taking place in the Iglesia San Juan del Hospital, Valencia’s oldest church, and the lavish details were the foremost topic of conversation in the city. Between that and a desire never to run into Alonzo d’Este again, it was not a difficult decision to stay away.
But it’s been five years. Time passes in the blink of an eye, and standing there in a warehouse in Milan, I’ve never felt its passage more.
Below us, the ring is being dismantled, and the floors are swabbed. A makeshift bar appears in one corner of the warehouse, and a DJ sets up her equipment against the back wall. “Astri Kilen,” one of the partygoers tells me, her voice awed. “Her sets are epic.”
Epically loud, too. Norse metal isn’t my thing in general, but especially not tonight. I retreat to a corner and pull out my phone. The gym bank account still shows a balance of two hundred thousand euros. Stubborn woman.
Spend the money, damn it.
It’s only after I text her that I realize it’s well past midnight, and Alina’s probably asleep. But her reply comes almost immediately.
Why are you texting me in the middle of the night?
Why are you still awake?
She starts to respond. I watch the dots appear on the screen, but her next text doesn’t materialize.
Why?
Okay, fine. I’m mopping up the gym. The cleaners didn’t show up tonight. Evidently Simon hasn’t paid them for the last three months. I took care of it, but they can’t put us back on their schedule until next week.
Did you not hear what I said this morning about overwork? Why didn’t you ask for help?
You want to mop the floor in your Armani suit and handmade loafers? No? Didn’t think so. Don’t worry, I can handle it.
I bite back a curse and call Paulina, our cleaner. “Sorry to bother you so late, but I need you to clean a gym.”
“How many bodies?” she asks crisply.
“Not that kind of job.” I explain the situation. “Triple your usual rate,” I add to sweeten the pot. “Please, Paulina. It’s an emergency.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “And Tomas, it’s on the house. I took your investment advice and bought shares in that biotech company. I’ve already tripled my money. I owe you one. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank you. Alina will be expecting you. Do not let her help you, no matter what she says. She needs to sleep.”
Paulina laughs into the phone. “Ah, I see, it all makes sense. Don’t worry, Tomas, I’ll take good care of your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I respond, but our cleaner’s already hung up. Great. Joao is going to have a field day with this. With a shrug, I switch back to my texts.
You are teaching a class tomorrow morning at seven. It’s one right now, and you need rest. I’ve arranged for cleaners. Paulina and her crew will be there in ten minutes. Let them in and go to bed.
That sounds suspiciously like an order. You’re not my boss, Tomas.
Go to bed, or I’ll have to come back and put you there myself.
And then, neither of us will get any sleep. I push that image out of my mind and down another glass of Del Barba’s precious Barolo. There are dozens of women here, beautiful, available, and willing, and instead, I’m hiding and texting my business partner, the one I can’t stop fantasizing about. What a fucking mess this is.