A Wife For Nico Vescari

It started with a punch.

Literally.

First time in the ring, and everyone thought I’d get flattened. Nobody bet on me except one random drunk guy and maybe a bored janitor.

But when I landed that last blow and my opponent hit the mat, the whole place went quiet—then loud, then louder. Turns out, nobody expected the underdog to win.

I won big. Or at least, I was supposed to.

But when I went to collect my money, the fat bastard in the office told me they’d “lost track” of my share. I told him to find it. He told me to get lost. Then he and his crew shoved me out, locked the damn door, and left like they hadn’t just robbed me.

So I waited. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Long enough for them to think I was gone. Then I picked the lock and walked right back in.

I only took what was mine—no more, no less. Fair trade. The heavy wad of bills was snug and bulky inside my worn messenger bag that was a gift a long time ago.

I was just stepping out, zipping my bag, when another guy walked past me and straight into the same room. I shrugged, figured maybe he was there for what they owed him too.

Then the shooting started.

I had only one thought in my mind—to get out as soon and quietly as possible. I’d barely taken a few steps when I hit a wall of rock-hard abs that belonged to a tanned, masculine body. The bags we were both carrying dropped with a thud.

In a rush, we clawed at our possessions. My eyes snapped up to his face as I held my bag to my chest instinctively. His eyes were as shifty as mine, dark and sharp, assessing me in a heartbeat. The only thing keeping our lips apart was the stupid mask on our faces.

I could trust him. Maybe.

But there was no time to be sure.

We heard hushed voices coming down the narrow corridor, and he took the lead, gripping his bag too. Sincerely, I was quite content to follow; at least he seemed to know his way around this deadly den and didn’t mind. After about twenty long and frustrating minutes of weaving in and out of shadows and utility tunnels, we finally emerged into an open space lit by a single bare bulb.

He moved fast to the opposite hard wire fence and began to climb. I joined too without hesitation, but stopped short when all I could see on the other side was a ten-meter drop onto asphalt. I swallowed hard—and then the bitches started shooting.

Yeah, at us.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that my only options were to get carved by gunpowder or become roadkill, he was already at the top of the fence, looking down at me with eyes as flat and dark as the night sky behind him. And for a split second, I thought he would push me, leave me to fend for myself. It’s not like he knows me.

I braced myself when he said the first words I ever heard from him “Trust me.”

Words like that could fuck you up in this line of work. Then he did something I didn’t expect, he stretched out a hand. Even I knew when not to doubt a helping hand.

I sighed. Well, roadkill it is then.

I clasped his hand and his firm grip pulled me up out of the line of fire.

I hurriedly climbed, jumped off when he did, and landed on a dusty but soft gymnast bed someone had conveniently forgotten below. We could hear them on the other side—swearing, shooting, their dogs barking angrily.

But we’d made it out, smiling like a couple of teenagers and gave them the finger.

I glanced at him, entertaining the idea of a formal introduction but realizing it was better we remained strangers. But weirdly, it felt like the start of a pretty, ugly friendship. His gaze stayed on my face and I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

I gave him a two finger salute, adjusted my bag and broke into a run. He didn’t leave until I turned down the damp street, only then did I hear the stomping of boots in the opposite direction. I didn’t look back. I just ran until the sound of the hounds and the gunshots faded into the general noise of the city night, taking my stolen winnings, and half of a friendship with me.