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It’s still on the coffee table where I dropped it when I walked in, doing its best to look harmless. But I know better. Tomas Aguilar might roll his smoky gray eyes and state that there’s no hidden catch, but bitter experience has taught me otherwise. Even if the contract is airtight, what’s going to make my new partner adhere to its terms? Simon certainly didn’t, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I didn’t have enough money to sue him into compliance.
And things will be even worse with Tomas. The guy drips money from every pore, from his expensive watch to his handmade shoes. If I try to take him to court, his shark lawyer would crush me to smithereens. Probably while Tomas watches, a smirk playing about his lips.
I’m going to buy him out, I promise myself. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I’m going to reclaim my dreams. I’m going to tear my gym away from the hands of careless men, and I’m going to finally make it my own.
First thing Monday morning, I’m going to take this contract to Jonathan Burke, my contact at the legal aid office. Jon’s a retired corporate lawyer who volunteers there three days a week. “Penance for my sins,” he likes to say. I’m going to make him go over this document with a fine-toothed comb. If there’s a catch, Jon will spot it. If there’s a loophole, he’ll find it.
Tomas Aguilar had better watch his back.
I’m flipping between shows, trying to decide what I’m in the mood for, when my phone rings, Marcelo Laguna’s name popping up on the display.
That’s a shock. The contractor has been avoiding my calls for months, ever since he ‘renovated’ the gym. He’s left the changing rooms in worse shape than when they started—leaky taps, uneven tiles on the floor, and so much more.
“Signorina Zuccaro,” he says when I answer the call. “I’m sorry for calling you this late, but I was very anxious to reach you. You left a message about your changing rooms.”
“I’ve left multiple messages,” I retort, too tired to be diplomatic.
“Yes, yes.” He sounds nervous. “My sincerest apologies. My office girl didn’t understand the urgency. You’re not happy with our work, and we want you to be. When is a good time for me to come over so we can discuss what needs to be done?”
I stare at my phone in disbelief. Did I fall asleep on the couch, and is this all a dream? “You’re offering to fix the mess you made?” I ask dubiously. “How much is this going to cost me?”
“Nothing,” he replies instantly. “We’ll work until you’re satisfied.”
Huh. I don’t know what inspired Marcelo’s about-face, but I’m not about to waste this miracle. “I’m teaching all day tomorrow, so how about Monday? Ten?” Ten in the morning will give me enough time to talk to Jon first and maybe even get a run in. I don’t know what time Tomas was planning to grace the gym with his presence, but I refuse to move things around to accommodate him. “But if that’s too early?—”
“Ten is fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”
So weird. I rub my eyes once I hang up, but I don’t wake up, so it can’t be a dream. Marcelo really did call, and even better, he said he’d fix his mess for free. It’s not the most astonishing thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s definitely in the top three.
Tomas says he’s putting two hundred thousand euros into the business. What can I use it for? Remote classes? Other instructors? Advertising to bring in new customers? The possibilities are endless.
I find a notebook and start jotting down ideas. For about five minutes, I’m hopeful in a way I haven’t been in two years. It’s only when I’m halfway down the page that reality rears its head, and my enthusiasm dims.
First, there’s no guarantee that the two hundred grand will even show up. After all, Simon made promise after promise, only to break them almost immediately. He was going to put money into the business, he said, but then his father wouldn’t release his trust, so could he work for his share instead? We should name the gym Groff because of his large following on Insta, but then the bots shut down his account. And so on and so forth.
I wouldn’t put it past Tomas to come up with some excuse on Monday about why he can’t actually contribute two hundred thousand euros, and oh, by the way, can we look at the contract again, because giving me eighty percent of the profits is just too much?
When I first saw Tomas, I thought he was hot. I flirted. Had he asked me out, I would have accepted.
Thank heavens I found out why he was at my gym before that happened. Even if the money were to somehow materialize, I still have a new partner, one who doesn’t know anything about MMA but still expects me to run all my decisions by him.
This partnership is going to be a joy.
5
TOMAS
On Monday, we have our weekly meeting with Antonio Moretti. The padrino arrives exactly at nine and listens attentively as Dante, Valentina, Leo, Joao, and I give updates about our respective areas.
I go last. “Our finances have recovered from the hit we took last year.” I give them a quick update about the various investments we’re holding and how they’ve been performing for us.
My presentations used to be longer and more detailed. My last boss, Alonzo d’Este, got a real kick when I didn’t know something, so to counter, I would spend hours preparing for one of his meetings. But unlike the senior d’Este, Antonio Moretti isn’t interested in playing stupid games. Still, it’s taken me almost four years to let the habit go. It’s only in the last year or so that I’ve finally let myself believe that Antonio trusts me to handle his finances.
“If things remain stable, we’re on track to have our most profitable year,” I finish.
Antonio nods. “Excellent work, Tomas,” he says. “Thank you. I’m hoping for a stable year as well. The Bergamo integration is going well. Gafur OPS, the Russian bratva that wanted to smuggle guns through Venice, has also given up on that venture.”
“How did you manage that?” Joao asks curiously. “I thought they had a ton of money already committed to the project. I could have sworn we weren’t done with them.”
