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Before Marco turned his back on us and married a Bianco girl, I used to spend all my time at his place because I couldn’t stand being home. That wasn’t great—it still paled in comparison to my life before—but at least there was another human being nearby that I could talk to when I felt like the isolation was going to snap me in half.
Now Marco’s gone, run off with his precious little wife, and I’m left behind.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself and shove my way through the door.
Bloody Strike’s loud. It’s packed with people crammed into the space around the ring, and they’re shouting and cheering as two shirtless, muscular men pummel the shit out of each other. Money gets passed around as guys holding books take bets and give out odds, while waitresses pass drinks and take orders back to the bar.
The crowd is rowdy. The men push and scream at the fighters, and the women aren’t much better. I watch one girl spill a drink on her neighbor and that devolves into a shoving match, which is quickly broken up by a couple of brawny redheaded bouncers. At the bar, three guys are loudly taking shots and offering to buy drinks for anyone that asks. I sneak into the corner and flag down the bartender, and I manage to order a gin and tonicbefore one of the boxers gets knocked down and the crowd goes absolutely crazy.
More money exchanges hands. I have no clue how much of this is legal, but it doesn’t matter at all.
The atmosphere is addictive. I have to admit, Bloody Strike seemed like the dumbest idea in the world—who would put a bar next to a boxing ring?—but now that I’m here during a fight, it’s incredible.
And it sure as hell beats sitting at home by myself.Again.
“I know you,” a man says moments after the bartender passes my drink and disappears with my cash. “You’re the girl.”
I turn toward a man with dark hair and dark eyebrows. He’s pale, has a square jaw, and has that vaguely Irish look to him. I recognize him from the first time I showed up here. “I’m the girl,” I say over the roar of the crowd as the next fight is introduced. “Is it always like this in here?”
“On fight nights.” He shows me straight, white teeth. “Does Ronan know you’re here? I’m Niall, by the way, his cousin.”
“Valentina.”
“I know.” He gestures over the crowd toward a cluster of booths on the far side of the room. “Come on, let’s get out of the madness. I’m sure the boss will be happy to see you.”
I frown at him and sip my drink. “Happy? You sure about that?”
“Pretty girl like you?” He laughs and turns away. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Ronan, probably, but I don’t argue. I’m not sure why, but I follow Niall through the crowd toward the VIP area. It’s guardedby more bouncers, and while the crowd keeps bumping up against them, it seems like most people know to keep some space between them and the men sitting at the booths.
Cigar smoke wafts in the air. The fight starts as I’m led to a corner table packed by more Irish-looking men, and sitting in their midst is Ronan, deep in conversation with the man on his right, his arm slung across the guy’s shoulders.
Ronan looks good. I hate it, but it’s true. He’s in a sleek, European-style suit, cut slim and clinging to his impressive body. His hair’s pushed back, messy and casual, and his jaw and lips have a healthy glow, like he’s been drinking but not too much. I linger a few feet back, taking him in, and realize this was an extremely bad idea.
These are Irishmen. The Italians and the Irish aren’t technically at war or anything, but we’re on opposite lines of a vast divide. I’m the daughter of a dead Don, and really, I’m nothing but trouble. Half the guys at this table would happily throw me out on my ass, and the other half would probably punch my teeth out first, just because I’m not the right ethnicity.
Then Niall’s leaning across the table and shouting at Ronan, then his eyes slide over to me.
They widen slightly as he takes me in, from my feet to my hips to my chest, and finally ending on my mouth.
Motherfucker smiles.
A warmth fills my chest. Okay, I don’t actually mind the way he’s staring at me like I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever seen in his life. I’m wearing a tight dress, not too short, but short enough to show off my legs. The neckline is high, and the quarter sleeves are modest, but it hugs my hips enough that it firmlyhints at what’s underneath. I wasn’t really trying to look good or anything when I put it on, just figured it was nice enough that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen out of the house in it, and now I’m happy this is what I chose.
Because Ronan likes it.
He shoves his way out of the booth. The guys grumble and I catch a few serious stares, but Ronan seems oblivious. “Valentina, my darling, what in the fuck are you doing here?”
“I heard there was a fight going on,” I say, glancing back at the boxers. Another two big guys repeatedly punch each other in the face. How riveting. “I wanted to check it out.”
“Sit with me.” He gestures at some of his men, and they clear off to another nearby table. Ronan slides in and pats the spot next to him. “Need a drink?”
“Got one already.” I sip it and slide in beside him. “This is what you do with your time on the weekends, huh?”
“Could be worse. I might be trapped in my tiny little apartment with nothing to do and nowhere to go.” His eyes are smiling as he smirks at me.
I squirm slightly. “I’m not so sure I agree now that I’m stuck with you.”
