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A shiver rolls through me as he kisses the side of my neck. “You’re distracting me,” I accuse. “How am I expected to be able to fire if you keep doing that?”
“Real life doesn’t come with perfect conditions, dolcezza.” He slides his hands up my sides and squeezes my breasts. “Focus.”
Things take a detour after that, but eventually, we return our attention to shooting. I raise the gun, aim for the target, flip the safety off, and squeeze the trigger. The recoil takes me by surprise, but I get used to it. By the time we’re done, I’m hitting the target every single time.
We’re supposed to leave for Valencia on Thursday morning—Tomas found someone to cover his accounting class—and we’re meeting with my father on Friday night. If all goes according to plan, we’ll return to Venice on Sunday. Tomas and I discuss the details over dinner at a Thai restaurant after the gun range.
“I know a couple of reliable people who can staff the front desk,” he says when I fret about being away from the gym. “I’ll send you their resumes.”
“I’m too stressed to review resumes,” I reply, massaging my temples with my hands. “Let’s just hire them. Your recommendation is good enough for me.”
He pretends to be shocked. “You’re agreeing to do something I suggest instead of arguing about it,” he marvels. “This is a first.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’m still plotting?—”
“To buy me out.” He surveys the menu, sounding remarkably unfazed. “Yes, I know.”
Hmm. Come to think of it, something’s not right. Tomas agreed to take a smaller share of the profit because I was teaching all the classes. But now Luke’s an instructor, and I’m going to hire Luke’s friend Naima as well, so technically, I’m not holding up my end of the deal.
And Tomas has never once mentioned renegotiating the contract.
“Why haven’t you insisted that we change the profit distribution?” I demand.
“What are you talking about?”
“In the gym. If I’m hiring instructors, I shouldn’t be taking eighty percent of the profits. Why haven’t you renegotiated?” I start to put bits and pieces of information together: his quietly luxurious house, the bespoke suits, the expensive car he drives. Tomas is rich, rich enough that the profits from my gym don’t matter. “You don’t care about the money at all, do you?”
“Most people that tell you they don’t care about money are lying,” he responds, avoiding my question adeptly and pouring me some tea. “Do you know what you’d like to eat?”
I do. We order our food. The red curry is truly excellent, but I’m too distracted to enjoy it. Tomas is avoiding answering my question, and I’m left even more confused than before. If he isn’t worrying about me because of the money he’s invested in Groff’s, then why is he protecting me?
Because he cares about me?
I wish I were brave enough to ask.
44
TOMAS
Time has an uncooperative way of speeding up when you want it to slow down. Before I know it, it’s time to fly to Valencia.
Antonio loans us his private plane. “How are you doing?” he asks me when I see him Thursday morning, his eyes searching my face. “You haven’t been back to Spain in a while.”
“I’ll be okay.” But even as I say it, a whirlwind of emotions churns inside me. I’ve been homesick for five years, but faced with heading back to Valencia, I realize something’s changed. Home is the tiny office where Alina and I work together; it’s the gym she spends all her waking hours in. It’s the octagon we fought in.
Home is wherever Alina is.
“You like this girl, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I have no idea how she feels about me, and I’m too afraid to tell her how I feel about her, but I’ve fallen in love with Ali. I was closed off from the world, drifting through existence like a zombie, and she brought me back to life. She makes me laugh every single day. Sparring with her, betting on her fights, drinking the café bombon she made—it’s a vision of a future that I want so badly it hurts.
I love her drive. Her passion. I love that even though her father is a piece of shit, she still searches for the good in him. I can be vulnerable with Ali and know that she’s there for me. I’ve always known, on a subconscious level, that she’s a kind, empathetic, loyal person. After all, I never hesitated to tell her about Estela, and I’ve kept that betrayal a secret from almost everyone I know. But with Ali? There was never any doubt that she’d have my back.
Antonio nods, unsurprised. “Be careful, Tomas. Laurenti is desperate, and Malinov is a wild card.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing concrete, just whispers. Gregori murdered his way to the top. His son Damir drinks hard, races Formula 1 cars, and pretends to be a rich, spoiled playboy. But underneath, he’s cut from the same cloth as his father. Valencia is neutral ground, and I trust Gabriel to enforce the rules. Even so, don’t get complacent.”
