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“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?
