5. The Fighter
THE FIGHTER
RILEY
Video: a younger Luca, eyes feral beneath cut brows, stalking a dazed opponent before sinking a choke. The crowd's roar burst from my speaker, too loud for a house that whispered. I jabbed volume down, my throat tightening as if Luca's forearm had locked around it instead.
Swipe. SANTORO CELEbrATES TITLE WIN WITH THREE-DAY SOUTH BEACH BENDER. Luca spilled out of a nightclub at noon, shirt half-buttoned, a laughing brunette tucked beneath each arm.
Swipe. THE WOLF'S LATEST CONQUEST? Grainy photos caught him kissing a model against the hood of a sports car, then climbing behind the wheel while cameras flashed.
Swipe. SANTORO CLIFF-DIVES IN IBIZA HOURS BEFORE WEIGH-IN. In the video, he launched himself from a limestone ledge with no hesitation and surfaced grinning like death had told him a joke.
Player. Partier. Thrill-seeker. A man who hadn't merely courted trouble—he'd sent it a location pin.
Then the next headline wiped the amusement from my face.
POST-FIGHT brAWL SPILLS INTO CROWD; SECURITY DRAGS SANTORO AWAY.
Grainy cell footage showed Luca shoving a heckler who'd spit beer at Zoe, rage transforming his face as security hauled him back. Zoe stood frozen behind him, terrified.
The sight landed like a sucker punch to my gut.
Comment threads below dripped with venom: Thug.Savage dad, poor kid.Violent men don't change.
But I'd seen him change. Yesterday he'd fed Ava mango slivers with monk-like patience. He'd sung an Italian lullaby so soft even the night had leaned in. How did that man fit inside this one?
Trying to fit both versions of him together cramped my chest. I muted the next clip and studied the slow-motion frames: fists like pistons, veins standing out in cords.
Yet the second the ref waved Diaz out, Luca's eyes emptied.
The fight vanished, leaving only a man bent over and heaving for breath.
A man who would later build an entire house around his daughter's need for quiet.
I closed the browser, black screen reflecting my worry lines. "People evolve," I whispered to the dark. But the echo sounded unsure.
A soft knock saved me from spiraling. Luca's voice, muffled: "Coffee in ten."
Professional courtesy. Nothing more. Still, guilt singed my cheeks as I pictured him two doors down, unaware I'd spent the predawn hours dissecting the worst moments of his life.
I slipped from sheets, powered down the phone, and pressed it to my sternum—cool glass over racing heart.
Today I'd have to look the gentle father in the eye while knowing the fighter hadn't disappeared.
I only had to decide whether that scared me—or whether the fear belonged to someone else's fists.
Outside, gulls announced dawn over the bay. I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and moved toward the scent of coffee—and answers.
The kitchen smelled of dark roast and toasted coconut granola when I entered. Luca stood at the island in running gear, forearms braced on the counter as he arranged Ava's color-coded bowls with surgeon's precision. The muscle in his jaw ticked—a tell I recognized from the highlight reels.
"Morning," I offered, reaching for a mug. My greeting fluttered somewhere between casual and guilty.
His answering nod felt clipped. "Coffee's fresh." He didn't meet my eyes. Instead, he turned the dimmer down two clicks. Whether it was for Ava or because he sensed the tension rolling off me, I couldn't tell.
Ava padded in, wearing her dolphin pajamas and yesterday's scallop necklace. She noted the brightness, hummed approval, then climbed her tower. "Yellow first?" she asked.
"Yellow first," Luca echoed, sliding the pineapple toward her. His voice was gentle, but his shoulders were granite. He stole a quick glance at me—searching, wary—and I flinched inward, conscious of the footage still ghosting my brain.
I spooned yogurt into my bowl, mentally reciting grounding cues: stainless-steel chill, oven hum, cinnamon scent. Still, my gaze snagged on the faint scar above Luca's brow. In an instant, I saw it split open on camera, blood slicking his temple. My hand trembled; yogurt spattered the countertop.
His head snapped up. "You okay?" The edge under the concern told me he'd clocked the tremor.
"Fine—just a slippery spoon." I wiped the splatter, forcing a laugh that sounded tinny.
He nodded, but a shutter fell behind his eyes. Polite distance deployed. He rinsed a strawberry under low water, movements precise, and set it in Ava's green bowl without another word to me.
Silence settled over the island, thick enough to feel. Ava tapped her shell once—her quiet version of What's wrong? I gave her my brightest smile and narrated the next food color, even as my chest tightened.
Luca excused himself to check a delivery schedule—the first I'd heard of any delivery. His retreating footsteps were even, disciplined, the same rhythm he'd used circling Diaz before the choke.
Ava munched, oblivious, while I stared at his empty mug across the island. The disconnect hurt more than the videos. I'd wanted to understand him; instead, I'd built a new wall between us—brick for brick, question for question.
I breathed through it, focusing on Ava's steady crunch. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the fighter in those clips had just stepped back into the ring, this time guarding not his chin but his heart.
The tension lingered all the way to the Miami Seaquarium. Luca drove, eyes forward, conversation limited to GPS turns. Ava sat in the back humming the dolphin song, shell clutched in both hands. I occupied the passenger seat, rehearsing today's sensory plan like lines before opening night.
Crowd noise hit the moment we stepped inside—school groups, squealing toddlers, the sharp squeak of wet shoes on concrete. Ava's shoulders rose an inch. I knelt, offering her noise-dampening earmuffs. She accepted, adjusting the headband exactly center.
"We'll start with jellyfish," I suggested, pointing to the dim tunnel glowing cobalt ahead. "Soft lights, slow swimmers. A quiet zone."
Luca hesitated, then nodded. His polite distance held, but his pace matched mine as we guided Ava past the roaring shark tank and the clanging stingray kiosk.
Each sound spike made her flinch; each time I narrated the next landmark in a calm tone, anchoring her in sequence: "Blue tunnel, seven steps, then purple glass. "
Inside the jellyfish gallery, light shifted to twilight. Translucent bells pulsed behind glass, their movements hypnotic. Ava's breathing evened, shoulders settling. She pressed her shell to the tank, whispering, "Floating lanterns."
I mirrored, palm beside hers. "Lanterns rise, lanterns fall," I breathed, establishing a cadence.
She matched it—inhale on rise, exhale on fall.
When a group of teens crowded in, chatter bouncing off walls, Luca stepped forward, broad back forming a human buffer.
The teens veered away, reading the quiet warning in his stance.
Ava glanced up at him, then back to the tank, unperturbed. Progress. I gave Luca a quick thumbs-up. His expression softened, a flicker of pride leaking through the mask.
We continued the breathing game for two full jelly cycles. Color returned to Ava's cheeks; her hum shifted to the calm register. I offered a transition cue: "Three more breaths, then we visit seahorses." She signaled okay, tapping the shell twice.
In the corridor, Luca leaned close enough that cedar brushed my senses. "Thank you," he murmured, voice barely above the filtration hiss. "You caught it before I did."
I shrugged, heat blooming under his rare praise. "Teamwork."
Ava tugged his hand, leading us toward the seahorse exhibit like a commander sure of reinforcements. Luca followed, this time half a step behind me, walls lowering by centimeters.
We spent the next hour drifting through exhibits—seahorses, rescue manatees, a touch pool where Luca guided Ava's hand to skim a velvety skate wing. Each time attention or noise spiked, I slid in with a regulation strategy; each time, Luca watched, cataloged, and relaxed another millimeter.
Now, as we sat on a bench near the outdoor lagoon show, Ava munched veggie straws while pelicans practiced dive-bombs beyond the glass.
Luca stood a few paces away, arms loose, profile cut against turquoise water.
Sun glazed his scar, but for the first time I didn't see violence; I saw vigilance—protector mode humming idle.
He caught me staring and ambled over, sitting at a respectable, heartbreakingly safe distance. "She's doing better than I expected." His tone held surprise edged with hope.
"It's the prep," I said. "She knew what to expect."
He shook his head. "It's you reading her tells before I do. I'm supposed to be the expert."
The vulnerability in that admission tugged something deep. "Expertise isn't ownership, Luca. It's teamwork." I gestured toward Ava, who was demonstrating shell-tap patterns to a plush penguin she'd won. "'She's showing us how to play zone defense.'"
His mouth tipped at one corner. "Pretty sure that wasn't allowed in the cage."
"That's because cage fighters are terrible team players."
"Retired cage fighters," he corrected. "We're moderately coachable."
A silence settled, but not the brittle kind from breakfast. This one throbbed with promise. The crowd cheered as a dolphin cleared a hoop; water spray glittered like confetti.
"I misread you this morning," he said at last, voice low. "Thought you judged what you saw online."
"I judged because I didn't understand," I confessed. "But seeing you with Ava—seeing today—helped."
He inhaled, shoulders rising then easing. "I'm still that man in the ring," he admitted. "But the fight looks different now."
I swallowed, emotion caught in my throat at the stark honesty. Before either of us could say more, Ava darted over, brandishing the penguin. "Name him Splash."
Luca smiled, warmth radiating. "Splash it is." He lifted her onto his lap, and the sight of them framed against sunlit water hit me like the hush before a bell—protective instincts, attraction, something deeper threading together.
I looked away, fearing my eyes would give too much away, and felt the first tug of longing anchored not in fantasy but in the startling possibility of belonging.
Ava crashed hard after the Seaquarium, cheek pressed to her favorite blue pillow while Luca tucked the weighted pad across her legs like something sacred.
"Two hours, maybe three," he whispered, easing the door nearly shut. "That much excitement? She'll sleep like a stone."
I nodded, still carrying the day in my bones—the crowd noise, the jellyfish glow, Luca's broad back turning into a shield without being asked.
My heart hadn't settled since the lagoon show.
Since his quiet laugh. Since the way he'd looked at me like I'd done something extraordinary by simply paying attention.
Dangerous, Maddie would say.
Which was probably why I slipped out to the shaded corner of the pool deck, phone already in hand.
She answered on the second ring, face lit by the glow of her laptop, hair piled messily on top of her head. "If this is not a life-or-death emergency, I'm billing you for interrupting my very serious academic procrastination."
"No one's dying."
"Wow. Rude. You couldn't even fake a little urgency?"
Despite myself, I smiled. "Just checking in."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you glowing?"
"I am not glowing."
"You are. Like a vitamin commercial." She squinted. "Where are you?"
I angled the camera—just enough of the infinity pool, the bay, the glass railing.
Maddie's mouth dropped open. "That is not a nanny job. That is a rom-com set."
"It's just the house."
"Does the house come with a hot single-dad employer, or is that extra?"
Heat climbed my neck. "Professional boundaries."
"Oh, no." She sat up. "That was too fast."
"I'm here for his daughter."
"Uh-huh." She leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing again—then widening. "Wait. Who is that?"
I blinked, glancing over my shoulder just as Luca crossed the far end of the deck behind me before going into the house, his shirt clinging slightly from the humidity, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
He moved with that same quiet, grounded confidence, like the space adjusted around him instead of the other way around.
I turned back too quickly.
Maddie's grin spread slow and wicked. "And Mr. Tall, Dark, and ridiculously hot just happens to look like a boxing poster?"
"He was MMA, not boxing."
Maddie froze.
I froze.
Her eyebrows lifted slowly. "Interesting correction."
I pressed my fingers to my temple. "Don't start."
"I haven't even begun." She leaned closer. "How long have you been there? Two days?"
"Almost."
"And you already know his fight history?"
"It's complicated."
"That's code for doomed but hot."
"Maddie."
"What?"
I hesitated, then exhaled. "You remember that guy I told you about? The one from the bar. The almost?—"
Her eyes went wide. "No."
"Yes."
"No way."
"Yes way."
"The almost-hookup guy is your boss?"
"Technically, he was not my boss at the time."
"Riley."
"I didn't sleep with him."
"You almost did."
"Almost doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts," she shot back. "Especially when he reappears as your employer in a luxury villa."
I groaned. "I know."
"And now you're glowing."
"I am not?—"
"You are."
I looked out at the water, sunlight flashing sharp and bright. "It's temporary."
"Okay," she said, softer now.
That softness hit harder than the teasing. Temporary had sounded practical yesterday. Today, after watching Luca kneel beside Ava at the jellyfish tank, after hearing him admit he didn't always know what he was doing, it felt... thinner.
Maddie's voice dropped. "Temporary can still bruise, Ry. Guard the soft parts."
I swallowed. "You're supposed to be the baby sister."
"Trauma made me elegant."
I laughed, tension cracking.
"I'm not saying don't feel things," she added. "Just don't confuse being needed with being chosen."
The words hit somewhere I wasn't ready for.
I thought of Ava reaching for my hand. Luca murmuring thank you like it mattered. The way he looked at me like I'd stepped into something empty.
"I'll be fine," I said, not entirely convinced.
"Mm-hmm. Text me a safe word if things get messy."
"A safe word?"
"Mango zombie."
I snorted. "Mango zombie?"
"If you text that, I'll know the hot widower scrambled your brain."
"He's not—" I stopped.
Maddie grinned. "Not what?"
"Goodbye."
"Guard the soft parts," she sang.
"I mean it. Go study."
"Love you too, emotionally compromised nanny."
I ended the call, her laughter lingering in the quiet.
For a moment, I just sat there, phone cooling in my hand, the bay glittering like it knew too much. Then I looked back toward the villa—toward the rooms where Ava slept and Luca moved through his careful, disciplined life.
Temporary can still bruise.
I stood, brushing my hair back, telling myself Maddie was being dramatic.
The trouble was, my soft parts didn't believe me.