“You mean happiness,” Maeve says. “Look, all I’m saying is you’ve dedicated your life to fighting. Twenty-four-seven, nothing but blood and violence and putting everyone else’s needs before your own. Maybe seeking joy elsewhere isn’t such a bad idea. She could be good for you.”
If there’s one thing my baby sister’s gifted at, it’s managing to get the last word in a debate. This time’s no different as she renders me momentarily speechless, analyzing me and dropping some astute assessments I can’t even argue with.
“I should probably go. My lunch hour is ending. Good luck with your fight,” she says softly. “Think about what I said. Love you, big brother.”
“Love you too, stinky butt.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left standing in front of the warehouse loading dock, phone in hand, listening to distant screams of torture and wondering if my baby sister might actually be right.
Maybe it is time I seek happiness from places outside the ring.
I decide to take Jhene out for pizza.
It’s not a date. I keep telling myself that as we walk the few blocks to Tony’s, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the Brooklyn sidewalks.
It’s only dinner. Two people who need to eat, grabbing a slice at the local spot. Nothing more.
The fact that we haven’t really talked since the kiss has nothing to do with it.
I’ve spent the day training and then torturing thelast two Russian fucks. By the time we were done with them, they were delirious from pain, basically shells of themselves.
Jhene seems skeptical of my motives, which is fair. She’s been eyeing me sideways since I suggested we get food, her expression consisting of knitted brows and a slightly downturned mouth.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks as we approach the pizzeria.
“Doing what?”
“Taking me out for dinner. We could’ve just eaten whatever was in the pantry. I don’t have a problem with ramen noodles.”
“We both liked the pizza last time. Figured it made sense since we’re both free.” I shrug, holding the door open for her. “You always this suspicious when someone offers to feed you?”
“Actually… yes.”
At least she’s honest.
We grab a booth near the window and order our usual—pepperoni for me, plain cheese with jalapeños and black olives for her.
The pizza arrives hot and slathered in melted cheese, with the grease practically dripping from the paper plate. Exactly the way it should be.
If Dez or Malone knew this was part of my diet leading up to my fight against The Tank, they’d revolt. But what they don’t know doesn’t hurt them.
We don’t get a chance to dig in.
The pizzeria door chimes as it opens and in walks Sal Montagna of the Ferrera family. The air in the small, humid pizza shop changes as the underboss comes in, backed by three soldiers.
He naturally carries that sort of menacing vibe. The same as Seamus Callahan.
In his fifties, withleathery skin and slicked-back hair, he’s got a cigarette between his lips despite the “No Smoking” sign posted clear as day in the pizzeria window.
He surveys the scene, eyes finding mine.
I snatch a napkin from the dispenser, wipe my hands off, and grunt, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Jhene tenses up but otherwise doesn’t have a chance to respond.
I cross the restaurant to where Sal’s stopped near the entrance, his soldiers fanning out behind him like a human wall.
“Rourke,” he rasps. “That fight’s around the corner. I’ll be placing my bets.”
