Twisted Hearts (The Camorra Chronicles 5)

“Do you have to work?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Dad hired two new waitresses, so I can watch the fight with you.” She turned to my family. “Hello, Mrs. Bazzoli, Daniele, Diego.” Her eyes halted on my brother and for once, he didn’t look like she was a fly he wanted to swat away. Toni was eye-catching with her long straight brown hair and those huge brown eyes, not to mention her tall, willowy model figure.

We all slipped into the booth.

Remo stepped out of the changing room and silence fell over the bar. “The fight begins in five minutes.” He didn’t say more, didn’t explain, only briefly nodded toward my father then toward Mick’s family who sat on the other side of the Arena.

Mick was the first who came out of the changing room. I’d never seen him in anything but street clothes. Now he wore only fighting shorts and flip-flops. Maybe he was worried about touching the floor with his bare feet. He wasn’t very tanned, his Italian heritage definitely less prominent than with me, and tall and lanky with only the hint of lean muscle. A small scar marred his left arm and the Camorra tattoo flashed on his other. His eyes found me.

I didn’t look away. I owed him that much, but I couldn’t bring myself to give him more than a small smile. Everyone was watching. I could feel the force of their gazes on my skin, making it itch.

Then everything faded into the background because the door to the changing room opened again.

Savio prowled out of it. He oozed confidence and lethal determination. My eyes took him in, every inch of his body. One look at him and everyone knew there could be only one winner tonight: Savio Falcone.

He was tanned, tall, but not in a lanky way. Savio was well-proportioned male-perfection. He was pure muscle. Not in the bulky way of some bodybuilders whose muscles made them immobile. Savio’s muscle were of the agile, functional kind, meant to make him strong and fast, lethal and attractive.

Scars littered his chest and arms, marks of a struggle for power, and the absolute will to defend it. They adorned his body like battle trophies, which he proudly presented to the world. Only two scars were covered up by the inked artwork his brother had created: the cuts on his wrists.

My gaze lingered on the tips of horns peeking out of his waistband, marking the very edge of his delicious V. I felt the unreasonable urge to tug his shorts lower to see more of that infamous bull.

Savio climbed into the cage without deigning me with a single look, but then before he faced Mick, his dark eyes hit me.

He was sure of his victory, sure of his prize: me.

He was willing to fight for me, to bleed for me. For that fact alone, I already belonged to him.

Gemma’s lips were slightly parted as she stared back at me. Her lips were pouty without ever having seen a single hyaluronic needle. For a long time, I’d tried to not look at her too closely. She’d been too young—was still too young—and she was Diego’s sister, but her gorgeousness was impossible to miss now. Not to mention that this girl could kick ass. She didn’t cry when she suffered a hard hit. She only wanted to improve.

She was going to be mine. She already was.

I turned to Mick who stood with his arms crossed and a grim expression, trying to appear unaffected. Tilting my head, I scanned him. Crossing arms was a good way to hide anxiety-induced shaking. Remo closed the door of the cage with a clang and the slightest flinch passed Mick’s body.

He worked out with me and Diego on occasion, but he preferred the boxing bag to sparring. Problem was, the boxing bag never hit you back. You could only improve if you paid for a wrong move or lack of attention with a punch and the resulting pain.

I considered taunting him like I usually did with my opponents before a fight to rile them up, but eventually, I settled on a nod.

“Fight until surrender!” Remo announced, then. “Go!”

I raised my fists and Mick quickly did the same.

He was trying to put up a decent fight. I had to give it to him. I didn’t go as hard on him as I did with my other opponents. He didn’t get through my defenses and every time his punch or kick met my resistance, my own counterstrike landed painfully. Frustration flashed across his face followed by embarrassment when the crowd called for me to finish it. It being him.

“I kissed Gemma before you,” he hissed. For a moment, my blinding fury distracted me, but my forearms moved up in time to block his angry shove. What kind of fucking move was that supposed to be? Kindergarteners shoved each other. My back collided with the cage and I used the momentum to push my body off and do a high kick against his chest, done with playing nice. My foot smashed against his sternum.