8. Valentina

Chapter 8

Valentina

B loody Strike is very different on a Friday night.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I lurk on the sidewalk outside, debating whether I’ll go in or not. The rest of the champagne Ronan left at my place yesterday morning bubbles in my stomach, and I’m pretty sure this is a terrible idea.

But I don’t want to go home.

The apartment is too sad. It’s better now that I have some money—I spent all day yesterday paying off bills and stocking up on much-needed house supplies—but today the quiet settled in again. I can put on music, I can put on the TV, but the quiet’s still there.

I hate that quiet. When I was younger, back when my father was still alive, my life was never quiet. There were always people around: friends from school, young members of the Famiglia, Dad and his associates, people coming and going, some sticking around the house and others stopping by with gifts and food and jokes. There was laughter, constant laughter, and important conversation.

There was my father smoking a cigar in the back yard and asking me to make him and the boys a drink and their jokes as I came back with all the wrong orders.

There were the hours spent sitting alongside him and learning the business and his constant stream of conversation.

There was never any silence, and I was rarely alone.

Before Marco turned his back on us and married a Bianco girl, I used to spend all my time at his place because I couldn’t stand being home. That wasn’t great—it still paled in comparison to my life before—but at least there was another human being nearby that I could talk to when I felt like the isolation was going to snap me in half.

Now Marco’s gone, run off with his precious little wife, and I’m left behind.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself and shove my way through the door.

Bloody Strike’s loud. It’s packed with people crammed into the space around the ring, and they’re shouting and cheering as two shirtless, muscular men pummel the shit out of each other. Money gets passed around as guys holding books take bets and give out odds, while waitresses pass drinks and take orders back to the bar.

The crowd is rowdy. The men push and scream at the fighters, and the women aren’t much better. I watch one girl spill a drink on her neighbor and that devolves into a shoving match, which is quickly broken up by a couple of brawny redheaded bouncers. At the bar, three guys are loudly taking shots and offering to buy drinks for anyone that asks. I sneak into the corner and flag down the bartender, and I manage to order a gin and tonic before one of the boxers gets knocked down and the crowd goes absolutely crazy.

More money exchanges hands. I have no clue how much of this is legal, but it doesn’t matter at all.

The atmosphere is addictive. I have to admit, Bloody Strike seemed like the dumbest idea in the world—who would put a bar next to a boxing ring?—but now that I’m here during a fight, it’s incredible.

And it sure as hell beats sitting at home by myself. Again .

“I know you,” a man says moments after the bartender passes my drink and disappears with my cash. “You’re the girl.”

I turn toward a man with dark hair and dark eyebrows. He’s pale, has a square jaw, and has that vaguely Irish look to him. I recognize him from the first time I showed up here. “I’m the girl,” I say over the roar of the crowd as the next fight is introduced. “Is it always like this in here?”

“On fight nights.” He shows me straight, white teeth. “Does Ronan know you’re here? I’m Niall, by the way, his cousin.”

“Valentina.”

“I know.” He gestures over the crowd toward a cluster of booths on the far side of the room. “Come on, let’s get out of the madness. I’m sure the boss will be happy to see you.”

I frown at him and sip my drink. “Happy? You sure about that?”

“Pretty girl like you?” He laughs and turns away. “Who wouldn’t be?”

Ronan, probably, but I don’t argue. I’m not sure why, but I follow Niall through the crowd toward the VIP area. It’s guarded by more bouncers, and while the crowd keeps bumping up against them, it seems like most people know to keep some space between them and the men sitting at the booths.

Cigar smoke wafts in the air. The fight starts as I’m led to a corner table packed by more Irish-looking men, and sitting in their midst is Ronan, deep in conversation with the man on his right, his arm slung across the guy’s shoulders.

Ronan looks good. I hate it, but it’s true. He’s in a sleek, European-style suit, cut slim and clinging to his impressive body. His hair’s pushed back, messy and casual, and his jaw and lips have a healthy glow, like he’s been drinking but not too much. I linger a few feet back, taking him in, and realize this was an extremely bad idea.

These are Irishmen. The Italians and the Irish aren’t technically at war or anything, but we’re on opposite lines of a vast divide. I’m the daughter of a dead Don, and really, I’m nothing but trouble. Half the guys at this table would happily throw me out on my ass, and the other half would probably punch my teeth out first, just because I’m not the right ethnicity.

Then Niall’s leaning across the table and shouting at Ronan, then his eyes slide over to me.

They widen slightly as he takes me in, from my feet to my hips to my chest, and finally ending on my mouth.

Motherfucker smiles.

A warmth fills my chest. Okay, I don’t actually mind the way he’s staring at me like I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever seen in his life. I’m wearing a tight dress, not too short, but short enough to show off my legs. The neckline is high, and the quarter sleeves are modest, but it hugs my hips enough that it firmly hints at what’s underneath. I wasn’t really trying to look good or anything when I put it on, just figured it was nice enough that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen out of the house in it, and now I’m happy this is what I chose.

Because Ronan likes it.

He shoves his way out of the booth. The guys grumble and I catch a few serious stares, but Ronan seems oblivious. “Valentina, my darling, what in the fuck are you doing here?”

“I heard there was a fight going on,” I say, glancing back at the boxers. Another two big guys repeatedly punch each other in the face. How riveting. “I wanted to check it out.”

“Sit with me.” He gestures at some of his men, and they clear off to another nearby table. Ronan slides in and pats the spot next to him. “Need a drink?”

“Got one already.” I sip it and slide in beside him. “This is what you do with your time on the weekends, huh?”

“Could be worse. I might be trapped in my tiny little apartment with nothing to do and nowhere to go.” His eyes are smiling as he smirks at me.

I squirm slightly. “I’m not so sure I agree now that I’m stuck with you.”

He laughs and sits very close. “Come on, love, lighten up. Want to put some money on one of the fighters? Brendan’s one of mine, he’s in the blue shorts.”

“You mean, the guy getting pummeled?”

Ronan scowls. “Currently, yes.”

“I think I’ll take his opponent.”

He barks a laugh. “You love being confrontational, don’t you?”

I lean on an elbow and study him, trying not to smile. He’s probably right, I’m being a little aggressive for no reason, but I can’t help myself. Something about this guy always pisses me off.

“When it comes to you? There’s nothing better.”

“You’re right. There’s nothing better.” He leans in close, and the way he emphasizes the second part sends a shiver down my spine. Then he’s gesturing at one of the bookies, who rushes over to take a few hundred dollars on Brendan’s opponent. “For the lady,” he explains, winking at me.

I roll my eyes, but hey, if the bet wins and I get some more money in my pocket, I’m not complaining.

As we drink and watch the fight, Ronan introduces me to more of his entourage. There’s Declan and Eamon, Finn and Cormac, Kieran and Aidan, and I’m not sure how they’re all related or if they’re related at all, but Ronan keeps calling them cousins, so I figure they’re in his organization at the very least. The way they jostle and tease each other reminds me of the old days, and a strange ache builds in my chest watching them.

I miss this. I really miss it. I don’t like to think of myself as a spoiled mafia princess, but I was definitely in love with being a member of the Famiglia, and I especially liked being my father’s daughter.

Dad went out of his way to make sure I was included, and the rest of the Famiglia members followed his lead. I wasn’t exactly doted on, but I was treated like their own daughter, with respect and friendliness.

I had a place. I belonged somewhere.

Just like Ronan belongs here. He jokes and laughs, and his boys seem to genuinely like him, or at least most of them. I catch others lingering nearby, not smiling, not acting like Ronan’s the center of the world. From years of mafia life, I can almost smell the divisions in his little Hayes Group, but that’s none of my business.

In the ring, Brendan ducks a few punches, weaves around a few more, takes a right hook to the jaw before coming back with a vicious left jab. He forces his opponent back, staggers him, then slams a right hook directly into his chin. The man goes down and doesn’t get back up, and Brendan’s announced as the winner.

Ronan pats my hands. “Shame for you, love, real shame for you.” The bookie returns and hands over a stack of money which Ronan passes around to some of his men.

“I thought you bet on Brendan’s opponent?” I say with mock outrage.

“After I put even more on Brendan himself. Told you, love, he’s one of mine, and mine don’t lose.”

“Your arrogance never fails to impress me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I suppose I’ll have to find other ways to impress you as well then.”

“Good luck with that.”

“You’re a challenge, love, and I like it.” He beams at me before turning back to Niall. The two of them engage in a debate over the next fight, and I sink back into my seat to watch for a little while.

That feeling slips through me again. Memories of my father and my old life play through my head. I’ve been trying to outrun them for a while now, and when I had a plan with Marco, I could distract myself with revenge.

But now all that grief and loneliness is catching up.

I excuse myself and get out of the booth. I hurry to the exit, not looking back. I’m not sure if Ronan notices when I leave, but it doesn’t matter. I should say goodbye, thank him for his hospitality like a normal person, but I feel tears welling up and I don’t want him to see me cry.

God, I miss this so much. I miss my father, my friends, my family .

But it’s all gone.

Once outside, I take deep breaths to get myself together. No tears tonight. Dad hated when I cried. He was patient with me when I was little, but as I got older, he had to sit me down one night and explain that emotions were fine, crying was fine, but never, ever where someone could see. A Santoro was strong. Always strong.

I don’t feel strong.

“Wait up, love.” Ronan appears in the doorway and follows after me. “You ran off.”

I wipe my face and force myself to smile at him. “Sorry. Just done for the night.”

He’s not smirking now. “You all right?” he asks, voice soft.

“I’m fine, seriously, go back inside. Your men probably miss you already.”

He snorts and looks back at the building. Ronan looks so handsome when he’s not grinning at me. “I doubt that. Not all of them love me the way you do, darling.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

He glances back, eyebrows raised. “You would see it, wouldn’t you?” he says softly. “Grew up in this world.”

“Trained by the best Don the city’s ever seen, remember?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice, but it’s not easy.

“You’re clever, Val. You’re good at this.”

“Too bad that doesn’t matter.” I touch his arm, thinking I’ll be polite and end this conversation before I get upset, but I like the muscle under his tight suit. A little pulse of excitement rushes down into my stomach, and I have to quickly pull away. “I should head back home.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“I’m fine, really?—”

“Until you’re in the damn car, at least.” He dares me to argue, and I just give in. We walk together the whole half block to where I parked my crappy sedan, and he stands by while I get myself situated. He doesn’t move until I’m buckled, the engine’s on, and I’m half pulled out.

Ronan raises a hand as I drive off.

I glance in the mirror. What is with him all of a sudden? I’ve known Ronan for a while through Marco, and he never gave a crap about me before. Now he’s coming after me and making sure I’m okay? He’s walking me to my car? I don’t get it, and I’m not sure I want to.

I grew up in this world, but so did he, and he knows how to play the game as well as I do.