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 mess 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.

~CAKE~

I've always been a fighter. From my childhood, when I answered the bullies with my fists. I've always loved violence, craved it, and went out of my way to make sure I punch someone.

It's no wonder that I'm currently in the business of beating people up for money. It's no wonder that I'm damn good at it too.

"Name?" A fat, bald man sneers through heavy smoke from his cigar.

"Belva," I say, adjusting my bag, clinking all my things together.

He puts down my name in his books, raises his gaze, and slowly trails them along my form.

He scoffs.

"Anything the matter?"

"Are you sure you wanna fight, little girl?" His Mexican accent is thick and mocking.

If it weren't for the fact that I've learnt to let insults about my size slide, this fat bastard would be eating my fists.

But as it stands, I like to let my work speak for me.

"Do you get paid to talk?"

He wheezes a laugh. "You're going up against Iron Fists. I hope you've picked out your casket. It's going to be your funeral."

"I'm fucking terrified."

I step away from the table just as he picks up a mic and shouts into it.

"Tonight's match, we have the ruthless and dearly beloved Iron Fists!"

From the other corner of the ring, a hefty woman steps out in black colours and tight braids. She commands the crowd with her fists, and they go wild, their thirst for blood rising high into the ceilings.

She doesn't even glance at me as she steps into the ring, her muscles rippling under the spotlights.

"And challenging our champion, from the streets of...I don't fucking know. Give it up for Belva!"

The crowd falls silent, and someone coughs.

"Is this a joke?" I hear a voice behind me in the stands.

"She's too fucking tiny," another person says.

"Iron Fists will eat her alive."

"PLACE YOUR BETS, PEOPLE!"

I drop my bag beside the ring. Taking off my hoodie and tucking loose strands of hair into my ponytail, I adjust the mask that always covers my face and slip on my boxing gloves.

"I don't have all fucking night, princess." Iron Fists leans on the ropes, her smirk mocking.

"Good thing I don't need all fucking night," I retort and roll into the ring.

"Little girl with a big mouth, I see. I can't wait to break it."

The bell rings.

Iron Fists wastes no time going on the offense. She hits and kicks, and her blows miss me as I dodge. From her wild swings, she has terrible accuracy, but with her meaty hands, I don't think she needs it.

One hit can flatten my skull.

So I keep away from her, light on my feet, all the tight lean muscles of my body humming with adrenaline. As Luca would say, "Study your opponent first, Cake. Don't rush into a fight blind."

"Stop dancing and fight!" Iron Fists growls, missing my eye by an inch.

The crowd around us has gone feral, calling for my blood, shouting for the champion to break my neck.

I dodge several more deadly hits, finally satisfied with what I know of my opponent. I take a breath, plant my feet down, and swing through an opening.

She's fast, but her feet drags, she lacks aim but has power, and she leaves her left side too fucking open.

My fist connects to the flesh under her jaw with a sickening crack that seems to vibrate through the whole ring.

Iron Fists's head snaps back, her eyes roll inward, and she falls like a giant boulder.

The silence is immediate and deafening. People leave their seats, and beyond the lights, I see the fat bastard's face, white as a sheet.

He underestimated me. Rookie mistake.

With a wide triumphant grin, I give a mocking bow to the audience and jump off the top rope onto the ground.

Remembering himself, the bastard grabs the mic. "That's the last fight of the night, folks. What an unbelievable twist tonight."

The air suddenly breaks with outrage, but that's none of my fucking concern. Now to get my money and get out.

I shove my things in my bag while they carry an unconscious Iron Fists out. All it took was one punch. Literally.

What a fucking pathetic champion.

I saunter to the table where the fat man is busy counting money and sharing it to the winners-a janitor and a fucking drunk.

I wait till he's done before putting my palm out. And the bastard has the audacity to look at me like he's never seen me before.

"Don't play with me," I warn.

He shrugs. "The fight ended too early. You have no share."

"I beat your champion," I seethe. "I'm entitled to half."

"You didn't tell me you can fight. You won under false pretenses. Get lost, Belinda."

False pretenses?

My anger lights up quickly like a match. The fucking bastard.

"It's Belva." I clench my fists. Before I can lunge for him, two shadows appear beside me. Solid hands lock around my elbows and lift me off my feet.

"Motherfucker!" I yell, my feet dangling helplessly in the air. "You better count your fucking days!"

I'm hurled out like a rag, and the door slammed in my face. I pick myself up without fuss. Growing up fighting in the streets has taught me a thing or two. So I know how best to handle thieves.

I wait.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Long enough for them to think I've gone, then I pick the lock and walk back inside, making sure my mask is still in place over my face.

I spotted the back office on my way in and headed to it quickly.

The locks give way easily, and in a minute, I've taken my share from their locker and nothing more. They don't deserve my decency, but I'm no thief.

Stepping out, I'm about to close the door when another guy hurries past me and goes inside. He pays me no mind, and I can't be bothered.

With their track record, I figure they probably owe him, too.

I shrug, continuing on my way. I'm almost to the exit, when the air explodes with gunshots.

I turn sharply and run headfirst into a hard wall of heat and muscle. Our bags fall with a thud and we both dive for them. Coming up again to stare warily at each other.

He's wearing a black mask, his eyes are just as shifty as mine, dark and sharp, assessing me in a heartbeat.

I stand my ground, ready to strike if he breathes on me wrong.

But he doesn't, as if not registering me as a threat, he looks away, turning toward the hushed voices and gunshots coming down the narrow corridor.

His eyes narrow, and without a word, he hurries the other way, and as much as I hate strangers, I follow. He stole from them. I can bet all my winnings he's not about to let himself get caught. After a few minutes of weaving in and out of shadows, we emerge through a service door.

The man wastes no time in dashing to the barbed wire fence and starts climbing. I join him as the door behind us opens.

"There they are!" Someone shouts, and these fucking bitches start shooting at us.

Bullets whizz past my head as I follow the thief to the top of the fence. But when I see the long drop into darkness, I halt my fucking horses.

The thought of getting splattered on asphalt roots me in place.

As if it isn't bad enough that my only options are to get carved by bullets or become roadkill, the stranger is already preparing to let go on the other side.

When he notices I've stopped, he looks at me with eyes as flat and dark as the night sky behind him. And for a split second, I think he'll push me to the wolves.

Instead, his voice rumbles out surprisingly deep.

"Trust me."

Words like that have fucked over so many people. I'll be stupid to even try it.

But then he stretches out a hand, like we're friends.

Another bullet whizzes past my head, and I sigh.

It's not a nice night to be roadkill. But I'm willing to take my chances.

I clasp his gloved hand, letting his firm grip pull me over to the other side.

"Let go," he says.

In utter disbelief at myself for putting my life into a stranger's hands, I let go of the fence.

And I don't fucking die.

I sink into an inflatable bed and bounce to my feet.

"Holy shit."

On the other side, the men are swearing and cursing, their dogs barking angrily. But they don't come after us.

I glance at the stranger who just saved my life, my heart still pounding in my ears, and give him a nod of thanks.

He responds by raising his palm, and I slap it in a weird high-five. His gaze lingers for a long second before he steps back.

I give him a two-finger salute, adjust my bag, and break into a run. Over the sound of my footsteps, I hear his boots pounding in the other direction.

~CAKE~

It's four in the morning when I unlock the door to the apartment and find two men standing inside like soldiers.

My senses dulled after the long walk through the quiet streets of Rome, immediately coming alert.

My mother is seated at the kitchen table, looking frail in the weak light, her hands laced on her lap.

"Hey, Mom." I keep my eyes on the men who are staring with just as much interest. Two cups of coffee sit in front of them, still steaming but untouched.

"Hey, Bel. Some of your father's friends came for a visit." My mother smiles, waving a hand at me to come over.

"Friends, huh." I approach the table, watching them warily, already thinking of ways to knock them unconscious.

I've never seen these men, and they're making house calls at four in the fucking morning. Their rugged-looking faces don't seem like the type of company my Dad used to keep.

"We just dropped by to see how everything is going," one of them speaks up in heavy Italian, his eyes moving from my mother to me.

"I told them we're okay," my mother says, continuing to smile. "They wanted to see you before they left."

I shrug my shoulders. "Well, they've seen me."

I don't hide my expression that says get lost.

They nod, with the man speaking again.

"Buona giornata." {Have a pleasant day}

I watch them leave, a strange feeling in my gut. Once the door closes and I lock it, I turn to my mother and arch a brow, demanding an explanation.

She sighs, waving a dismissive hand. "Your father had a lot of friends. You can't know all of them... Where are you coming from?"

I stifle a sigh at her change in topic but say nothing. Moving to the table, I drop my bag. She glances at it and frowns.

"I told you not to go fighting."

"If I listen to you, then we're going to starve." I keep my voice light, but it does nothing to stop her from taking offense.

She takes a shuddering breath, and her eyes fill with tears.

For fuck's sake.

"I'm trying my best, Cake! I'm sorry if that's not enough for you. Though your father's death left us with nothing, have I ever let you starve?"

"I'm sorry." I rub her back in comforting circles. "That was stupid of me to say."

"I hate that you have to get hurt for money. This isn't the plan your father and I had for you. Why don't you get a real job? Stop this fighting."

"Mom-"

"Eliana came by last night. That firm, they called you both back for an interview tomorrow."

"An interview doesn't mean I'll get the job."

"But promise me you'll go and give it your best."

There's no arguing with my mother when she gets like this, so I nod. Her face brightens immediately, the tears vanishing.

"Good."

I point to the bag. "Take what you need."

Despite the fact that she doesn't like the fighting, she takes the money to settle our bills. Whatever she leaves behind, I throw into my savings for a nicer apartment.

"You won this much?" She asks in disbelief after a few seconds. "It's over five thousand dollars in here."

What?

I halt mid-step on my way to my room.

My pay was two thousand, and that was what I took.

"That can't be right."

She spreads the bag and dumps everything on the table with all the crisp dollar bills falling out in fat bundles.

My jaw drops.

Among the clean notes and my mask, I quickly realize my other belongings are missing. My boxing gloves, extra clothes, my vibrator and more importantly, my journal.

"What the..."

That's when it hits me like a bolt of fucking lightning. A flash of shifty dark eyes, that cold, deep voice saying, trust me.

We had collided in that dark hallway and I must've picked up his bag by mistake.

Shit.

I stare at my mother, her thin hands already counting the wads, smiling like her birthday came early.

"This is good. It's more than enough for the month after I pay the loan office. Maybe even more if we really pinch, so you don't have to fight again." She looks so relieved that I can't bring myself to tell her the money isn't mine.

She would insist I return it and the glow I haven't seen in her eyes for a while would fade.

I shake my head, wondering why the stranger stole so much.

Unfortunately, I can't do anything about it. I'm never going back there and with his masked face, I won't even find him.

Probably for the best. After all, I got shot at because of him.

Once my Mother has finished dividing the money, which is ten grand in total, I shove the rest in the bag and toss it under my bed.

Whoever the man is, I hope he threw away my journal. I hate the thought of a stranger reading it.

***

The stranger is in my room when I wake up. And for whatever reason, I'm not afraid.

I sit up slowly, the haze of sleep lifting, my eyes growing alert as I find him on my bed like he belongs there.

A black mask covers his face, so I see just his dark eyes.

"Your money is under the bed," I say but it gets no reaction from him. Only his eyes burn into me with an intensity that makes my skin come alive.

The heat rushes downward and starts an unwelcome pulsing in between my thighs.

A pulsing that attacks me in the mornings and always ends with me pulling out my vibrator. And has no fucking business coming when I'm staring at an intruder.

The proper thing is to tell him to take his money and get the fuck out but the words don't make it past my lips. My attention rapidly shifts as he starts moving.

Slowly, he climbs into my bed, gloved hands reaching for my legs and my heart starts racing.

Slap his hand away, Cake. Kick him in the fucking throat.

My instincts scream but the pulsing has taken over, filling me with hungry heat. So I stay put, wanting to know how this plays out, and what he intends to do to me.

It's fucking crazy but it's been too long since a man touched me.

And the best thing is, he can always leave and I'm okay with never knowing him or seeing him again.

Maybe that's what has given me the confidence to allow a stranger to touch me in my own bed. To have my breath hitch as his gloved hands trail up the smooth skin of my thighs and dig into the waistband of my shorts.

He pulls my shorts down and flings them away, the air hitting my pussy as he spreads my thighs wide.

I swallow dryly as he kneels between them, placing both legs on his broad, hard shoulders.

I can barely hear the sound of my breathing as his head begins to lower.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I'm playing with fire.

As if he could hear my thoughts, his eyes lift briefly and lock onto mine, dark and unyielding.

"Trust me."

That deep rumble sends a shiver racing up my spine and my hips betray me, arching slightly off the bed.

He doesn't say another word; he doesn't need to. His urgent hands alone are commanding enough, and fuck me, I'm obeying.

Where's the fighter, Cake?

His face dips lower, one finger moving aside his mask to expose his mouth. His hands dig into my hips, holding me in place and when the first touch off his tongue hits me it feels like electricity shooting through my body.

I gasp, my hands fisting the sheets, as he drags his tongue upward with just enough pressure to make my toes curl.

"Fuck," I say. "You're good."

Then I remember my mother sleeping in the next room and slap a hand over my mouth.

The wet smacks of his mouth on me, and my own desperate whimpers fill the room.

Heat builds in my belly, coiling tighter every swirl of his tongue and soon I lose my damn head.

My body trembles, thighs clamping around his head as I grind against his face, chasing my release. "Don't stop," I beg.

He doesn't.

He licks me harder, faster, until the orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, ripping a cry from my throat.

As I ride out the aftershocks, gasping for air, he rises up, his eyes gleaming with something feral through the mask. His hands move to his pants and unbuckles it.

As he positions himself between my legs, his gloved hands pins my wrists above my head.

Then he drives into me in one brutal thrust.

I arch off the bed with a sharp cry and hit the ground. My eyes blink open in the darkness, my heart hammering like I've just run a marathon.

"Holy fuck."

I'm drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs, my thighs slick with arousal.

It was just a dream. Just a goddamn dream.

I blow out a breath, a flush creeping up my neck as I sit up.

A sex dream of a complete stranger?

Rubbing my face as the dream fades, I try to shake off the sensations still tingling between my legs and move to stand.

My eyes fall to the space beneath my bed and it's empty. The bag of money is gone.