Dima whirled on him, trying to land a punch in his face but Adamo must have anticipated the move. He sidestepped the attack and sent a punch into Dima’s left side. After that, all hell broke loose. I stumbled back a few steps to avoid becoming a casualty of their testosterone battle. The videos of Adamo’s fights I’d watched hadn’t nearly done him justice. Seeing him in action right before my eyes, seeing the sweat glittering on his forehead and abs, witnessing the lethal focus in his eyes and the determined precision of his kicks and punches was a completely different matter. It was the difference between seeing a beautiful Fabergé egg on a photo or holding it in your hand, seeing the intricate work put into it up close. Adamo wasn’t as breakable as my favorite art piece but he was a masterpiece all the same, and his art of fighting had taken just as much effort, dedication and talent. I’d always thought Adamo was a reluctant fighter, in videos it had sometimes appeared that way, but now as he exchanged punches and kicks with Dima, he looked like he’d been born to fight, as if the demand for blood and violence rang in his veins, called to him like my dark craving often did.
A crowd gathered around us, shouting encouragement and soon exchanging bets. Dust whirled up around the battle, burning in my eyes.
“Stop it!” I screamed, but I wasn’t insane enough to step between them. They were like fight dogs. If you tried to get between them, you’d be the one they’d bite.
Crank stumbled toward us, looking taken aback by the violent scene before us. Blood splattered the dusty ground.
He waved at two tall, dark-haired men, probably Camorra members. My suspicion was confirmed when they came closer and I caught sight of the tattoo on their arm.
Even they had trouble separating the two fighters but eventually they dragged them apart. Dima’s left eye began to swell shut again when it had only just started to look better after my father had him beaten. His nose was busted too, and dripped blood on his white T-shirt.
Adamo had a cut in his right cheek. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, nor shoes, but his skin was covered with blood splatters, and his eyes were wild and hungry. He reminded me of a predator who’d tasted blood for the very first time and had become addicted instantly.
I shook my head. “Was this really necessary?”
The pit girls whispered among themselves, some even gave me taunting smiles. I bared my teeth at them in a dangerous smile that I’d inherited from my father. They averted their eyes and I met Adamo’s gaze. He calmed and stopped struggling against the man who held him. “You didn’t have to defend me against Dima. He’s always on my side.”
Adamo scoffed. “It didn’t look like that to me.”
I glared and turned to Dima who had become very still. I wondered if he was really still on my side but I couldn’t imagine it being any other way. His jealousy would have to stop eventually. Maybe I should point out to him that he’d been with a few girls since I’d broken up with him, and I never made a scene because of it.
Dima turned to the guy who held him. “Let me go.”
The guy looked at Adamo, which was ridiculous in itself, but of course, Adamo was the highest ranking Camorra member present. He was number fourth after his three older brothers after all.
“Let us go,” Adamo ordered in a hard voice, and both men loosened their hold.
Dima stepped back. “Don’t worry about my interference again. I’ll attend to business in Chicago from now on.”
I doubted he’d really leave me out of sight. He’d stay close so he could intervene if anything happened but I’d call my father just in case to tell him I’d sent Dima away. Dad would be pissed off and try to convince me to return home, no doubt.
“Dima, let us talk once you’ve calmed down, all right?”
He didn’t say anything, only stalked off toward his car.
“If you miss a race, you risk disqualification!” Crank called but Dima didn’t react. He got in his car and drove away.
I sighed.
Adamo wiped the back of his hand over his cut, not taking his eyes off me. Slowly the crowd scattered. I wondered if last night had been worth the fight with Dima. What had it really accomplished except pissing off my best friend, and probably Adamo, too? I hadn’t thought it through. I’d reacted out of fear, which was a stupid thing to do. Because I’d felt like losing control, I’d tried to exert control over Adamo in the easiest way I could think of.
Now I’d created a mess, and my body still hummed with desire when I looked at the man before me, especially covered in blood because he’d fought for me.