“I’m going to make sure you have everything you need so we can make you one of the best fighters on Team Marcos Silva. You and Diego are my boys, and I take care of my boys.”
Was I supposed to feel comforted or safe with all of this? Could I trust him? Did I want to trust him?
I didn’t know any of those answers, but I wanted to be a TCF fighter. I was tired of living how I had been with my dad.
* * *
After one ofthe most filling dinners I’d ever had, I took the cue from Diego and helped clear the table. Marcos left the table and went outside to the spa. I wanted to ask Diego so much, but I was almost afraid to talk.
I turned in the direction of the living room when I heard the doorbell and then I spun on the balls of my feet—in my new socks—to look back at Diego.
“Dad’s—I mean, Marcos’ chick,” Diego said and then jogged to the door. I stayed in the kitchen but listened to Diego and the woman.
“Hey, Diego,” the woman said.
“Hello. He’s outside in the spa,” Diego informed her.
From the kitchen, I could see the pool and saw the woman exit the house and walk to the spa. Marcos pushed himself out of the spa and sat on the decking with his feet dangling in the spa. I was surprised to see that Marcos had shed his swim trunks and was naked. The woman quickly took off her dress, revealing a cheetah print bikini, and then got into the spa. She moved between Marcos’ legs and lowered her head on his lap.
“Weird day, huh?” Diego’s voice startled me. I quickly moved away from the window, looked down at the counter I had been cleaning, then looked at Diego.
“You have no idea,” I said. I laughed when he started to laugh. Maybe Diego would understand.
“I think I have a good idea.”
“I have so many questions,” I said.
“Hit me with them.”
“Okay. Um, how long have you been here?”
“Almost three years. I was seventeen when Marcos selected me.”
“Did he, um… Did he pick you like he picked me?” I asked. Diego tilted his head to the side. He didn’t understand what I meant. “Um, did he take you from your home?” I hoped that didn’t sound weird, but that was exactly what Marcos did with me.
“Yes, but it was a little different than your situation. I had grown up in an orphanage in Rio de Janeiro. There were about twenty or twenty-five of us, and they trained us every day in martial arts. They said if we were good enough, we’d fight in martial art competitions. When I was fourteen, Marcos Silva came to visit and said he liked my skills. He came back when I turned seventeen and asked if I wanted to come to the U.S. and train to be a TCF fighter. Of course I wanted to. Understand, I had nothing. No family. No home. He offered me an opportunity.”
“How old are you now?” I asked.
“Twenty.”
“I’m eighteen.” I paused while I thought of what else I wanted to ask. There was so much. “Did you call him ‘dad’ earlier?”
“I did. You’ll find out that he likes to be called Dad or sir.”
I nodded and examined the counter where I had been cleaning. My mind raced.
“So you train all day?”
“Pretty much, except for today. He said he was going to go get my brother and for me to take the day off.”
Me? Was I the brother?
“I’m sorry about the shower thing, man. I didn’t want you to feel weird or anything, and I wasn’t looking except when he made me.”
“It’s okay. I just focused on myself. I’m sorry he got kind of grabby with you. And try not to feel bad about the clothes. He threw my clothes out when I moved in too.”
“Yeah, about the grabby hands… Does he do that a lot?”
