The Beauty and the Brawler

by Winter, Nikki

  New staff would be brought in since the old couldn’t seem to give a shit about their charges, and the boys would be moved from Trenton to Levittown. Those who couldn’t seem to follow the rules would be put in another recently built program Luciano had established months ago; someplace where they’d learn how to deal with whatever made them rebellious. Later he’d find out who the little bastards were who thought it’d be funny to kick Marco around.

  “Hey, hey, hey, the kid started with me. I’m simply defending my weak form,” Luciano argued.

  From his height of five feet seven inches, Brian stared up at Luciano’s six-foot-six-inch physique and simply blinked. “Sir, I don’t think the word weak means what you think it means.”

  “Am I paying you for candid wit? I don’t think I’m paying you for candid wit.”

  “No, you’re paying me to ensure you don’t marry a hooker who believes death by asphyxiation is a good way for you to meet Saint Peter at the Lord’s gates before taking everything from your lifeless corpse that hasn’t been nailed down,” Brian answered.

  Luciano winked, grinning. “What a way to go, eh?”

  His assistant rolled his eyes. “How about you just explain this to me?” He waved a hand to a still-swinging Marco.

  Looking down, Luciano said, “This is me teaching a kid a lesson.” He set Marco down and stopped him from charging by cupping a hand over his face. “Yo, kid! Cut it out!”

  His tiny assailant stilled for a second time. “What’s your problem, Luc?”

  “What’s yours?” Luciano asked right back. “What did I tell you about letting people goad you?” He poked Marco in the shoulder. “Anger is stupid. It makes you reckless, senseless. It makes you take the risk of getting almost killed by someone who doesn’t give a shit who’ll cry over your body when it’s found.”

  Marco looked away so Luciano gripped his chin, turning his head back. “It fucking sucks to be small. It fucking sucks to feel like you’re weak. And it fucking sucks to know there’s nobody there to come charging in for you. I get that.”

  “So why won’t you help me?”

  “Because I won’t always be around, and you can’t become dependent on me.”

  Mexican standoff. There was a lot of glaring and lip curling. Looking down at Marco did something strange to Luciano. Mainly because every time the angry, thick-haired, mini boxer took a swing at him, he realized he was this kid. He had the same chip, same attitude and same temper.

  “I can’t fight for you, Marco,” Luciano said softly. “That’ll make it worse. The first time I’m not around, they’ll come for you.”

  “So why are we even having this conversation?” The kid waved his arms around. “Why don’t you just walk away like everyone else always does?”

  “Because I actually give a shit.”

  “You got a funny way of showing it.”

  Christ. Two years he’d been visiting this loud-mouthed street urchin, and it was like talking to a brick wall. “You’re right. I do have a funny way of showing it. Like now.” Luciano reached down and gripped Marco by the ankles, hanging him upside down. “I’m gonna do something for you that no one ever did for me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He smirked. Even hanging upside down, the mini scrapper still had attitude for days. “I’m gonna show you how to defend yourself.”

  Marco’s brows winged. “You’re gonna show me how to whoop ass?”

  “No. I’m gonna show you how to keep from getting your ass whooped. That kid didn’t take you because you’re small, he took you because you didn’t know how to stop him.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Marco stared at him. “What’s the catch?”

  Luciano let go of one of those ankles. “The catch is that I don’t hear or see you in any more fights. The moment your grades drop, I’m on your ass like wolves on a deer carcass.“Capisce?”

  Marco chewed his lip, nodded. “Capisce.”

  Luciano turned him upright and set him on his feet. “Do me a favor, Brian, and take him inside, make sure Miss Mona patches him up.”

  Brian, who’d silently watched the scene, smiled at Luciano. “You got it.”

  “And don’t go around telling anybody I’m soft!” he called after the pair.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir!”

  “I would!” Marco pointed out.

  Chuckling, Luciano took a seat on the curb. He didn’t even jump when another body about his size and height took the space next to him. “Like looking in a mirror, eh?” Sansone asked quietly. He’d tagged along for the visit as he did every time. For some reason he always let himself get roped into playing kickball with some of the younger boys.

  Luciano ran a hand through his hair. “Fucks with my head every time, man. One minute I wanna strangle him...the next I wanna hug him so he knows someone actually cares.”

  Sansone snorted. “Same way Pops was with you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hey...you’re not about to cry, are you? Because I’ll make fun of you if you cry...then possibly post a video online.”

  He shoved his brother.

  “You know...Marco seems to respond to you better than anyone else,” Sansone said.

  “Some would say.”

  “A little...the kid could use someone who gets it.”

  “No, Sunny.”

  “I didn’t even say—”

  “What do I look like trying to raise anybody?” Luciano stood. “I’m still raising myself.”

  “Every parent goes through that.” Sansone rose. “Ma and Pops went through it with me and then double time with you.”

  Luciano flipped him the bird.

  “Think about it, man. You adopt mini scrapper, and maybe Sammie will actually consider that you don’t put your dick in every warm crevice around and are actually responsible.”

  “Only an asshole or an idiot thinks adopting a kid is a good way to get a woman,” Luciano retorted.

  “And you’re both...so what’s the problem?”

  For his comedic efforts he got put into a nice long headlock while Luciano laughed...loudly. When Sansone’s goddamn bellowing about his hair got to be tiring, Luciano let him go.

  “Bastard,” his brother grumbled, smoothing back his locks.

  “Fix your panties so you can tell Nyssa how you feel then talk to me about how to run my life.”

  “If you want Sammie so bad, you need to stop obsessing and go. Get. Her.”

  Luciano waved a hand. “I don’t obsess over her, and she’s the one who left me at the early stages of dawn, naked and confused...feeling like someone’s whore.” Not to mention she still wouldn’t answer when he called.

  “And on that note, I believe this discussion should come to an end,” Sansone murmured. “But,” he continued. “I really do think you should consider taking the kid. He needs you.”

  With a sigh, Luciano said, “I’ll consider it.” Then he clapped his hands. “Now bring around my car, Benjamin!”

  Sansone punched him in the stomach, leaving him breathless on the ground as he walked off, humming. “You should really talk to someone about your addiction to my fists, Luc. Can’t be healthy.”

  ***

  “Brian, you download that app I asked you for?” Luciano questioned, scrolling through the screens of his android.

  “The one with access to WKZ broadcasts?” his personal assistant said, not looking up from the tablet in his hands as he went over Luciano’s schedule from the passenger’s side of Sansone’s truck. “Put it up there last night.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re getting B involved in your skeevey stalkerish activities?” Sansone barked, laughing.

  “Shaddup, Sunny.”

  “No. This needs to be said.” Luciano’s brother turned to Brian. “In all the time you’ve worked for him, has he ever been this goddamn creepy?”

  “Can’t say that he has, sir.” Brian answered.

  “You’re fired, Brian,” Luciano stated from the bac
k seat.

  “Is that a promise?”

  Luciano gasped in outrage. “Brian, I thought you loved me!”

  “No. My husband loves you. I do this so Antonio gets to be a stan from the sidelines of your matches.”

  “Is it wrong that I find it strange I’m being stalked by one of the most infamous linebackers in the NFL?”

  “No stranger than when we find you at our table for dinner every Wednesday night, sir,” Brian candidly replied.

  “Ah, you know I can’t stay away from the veal Parmesan, Brian.” Luciano momentarily stopped searching for his headphones. “You making veal parm this week?”

  “I thought I was fired.”

  “I’ll change my mind for the veal parm.”

  “And back to the skeevey behavior at hand,” a previously silent Sansone cut in. “You should be eating at Samara’s table and not invading B’s home every week.”

  “Impossible,” Brian retorted. “Samara can’t cook.”

  The brothers stared at him.

  “How would you know that?” Luciano queried slowly.

  “Paz Ojeda, her co-star, is Antonio’s cousin. They grew up together—even got drafted together when they first entered the NFL,” Brian murmured, eyes still on that tablet screen. “We’ve been up to Manhattan a few times for dinner with them, and Samara occasionally tags along. Fun girl, great taste in shoes.”

  Sansone started to sing “It’s A Small World.” At least until Luciano popped him from behind the headrest. To ignore his brother and assistant, Luciano adjusted his headphones and tuned into his daily morning joy. Just in time too—Samara was ranting.

  “...all I’m pointing out is that these kids who make it big don’t always have the right guidance to help them along. A lot of the time they get screwed over, not realizing how short the lifespan of a pro-ball career truly is. I’m not saying every noob fails but there’s a huge percentage that falls to the wayside because of bad management. My sister—”

  “Shameless plug,” the voice of Trip—Samara’s co-host--interrupted.

  Something that distinctly sounded like a slap sounded in the background.

  “The violence!”

  “Quiet, obnoxious ass-hat!” Samara snapped.

  Luciano chuckled as he listened. She was feisty as ever.

  “As I was saying,” Samara continued. “My sister, Nyssa Blackwell, whom we’ve had here a few times, has contractual stipulations for clients under twenty-five. A degree is a necessity in her eyes. You either have one, are working for one, or are looking for new management, because she likes to prep her people for the real world. Nothing lasts forever aside from knowledge, folks.” She yawned. “Remember that.”

  “A little tired there, Sammie?” Paz teased.

  “Must be the pregnancy,” Trip murmured in a distinctly absent-minded tone. The problem was, while it was absent-minded for him and definitely unintentionally spoken from what Luciano could tell, it. Was. Still. Heard. And it still caused Luciano to stop breathing.

  The silence on the line after the comment was enough to leave his hands trembling as he stared down at the blinking screen of his android, one million different thoughts battling in his head. Pregnant. Samara was pregnant. Samara was pregnant with his baby. He didn’t even stop to question whether or not the kid was his, because he knew it in his gut that he or she was. Samara was a lot of things, but someone who hopped from bed to bed without protection wasn’t one of them.

  The morning Luciano had woken up in his bedroom alone with condom wrappers scattered all over the floor and dresser had been more than enough evidence that he hadn’t been dreaming she’d been with him. For the first time in his adult life, the absence of a woman the morning after had left him feeling cold and wondering how he could get her back. That led to his ever-sparking interest in Samara deepening but he never drifted down that road, preferring to continue his routine of wanting her from a distance. Now not only would he have her again...it seemed like he might be tied to her for the rest of their lives, all because of one tiny person growing inside of her.

  “Oh. My. God. Sammie, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Okay!” Paz interrupted the other man’s apology. “Time for a master mix!”

  That was all Luciano heard before the sound of the Harlem Shake came crashing through his headphones. He slowly pulled them out, palms sweaty. “Uh, Sunny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You mind calling Nyssa for me?”

  “She’s still not speaking to me and I dunno if she’s back in town yet, but I can try.” Sansone took his eyes off the freeway to glance at Luciano in the rearview. “Need something in particular?”

  “Yes.” Luciano almost crushed his phone, he held it so tightly. “Samara. I need to talk to Samara.”

  Chapter Five

  “Put your head between your knees and breathe, Sammie.”

  “Oh, my God... Oh, my God...” Samara chanted while following Ava’s directive as she sat on the couch inside her station manager’s office,

  “You’re having a panic attack, which is completely understandable, but I need you to take slow, deep breaths, okay?”

  She nodded, following the exhale pattern Ava gave her; desperately trying to inhale normally.

  Samara’s boss went out of view, and she briefly wondered where the hell she’d disappeared to and why she was abandoning her until she heard, “You two! In here now!”

  There were footsteps, and then Trip was kneeling in front of her, cupping her face. “I do a lot of shit, Sammie, the majority of it stupid, but you have to know that was an accident. Swear to God.” Of course it was an accident. Trip was insane and exasperating, but he wasn’t spiteful.

  She nodded again, still taking slow, deep breaths. “I know.” Samara poked him in the face. “Doesn’t make you any less of an asshole, but I know.”

  He grinned, kissed her on the forehead. “You’re gonna be just fine, kid.”

  Samara frowned. “’Course I am. I’m pregnant, not dying.” Those words sunk in, and she held Trip’s shoulders in a white-knuckled grip, her previous calm disappearing. “Holy baby shit, dude! I’m pregnant! Now all my listeners know! I have over twenty thousand listeners!”

  Paz pushed Trip to the side, took his place, and held her hands. “Yes, you’re pregnant. And yes, people are now well aware of the fact.” He glanced over one shoulder to Trip, who simply raised his hands then turned back to her. “But Sammie, people were going to know whether you said something now or later.” Paz tucked a braid behind her ear. “You’re happy, aren’t you? About the pregnancy?”

  Three pairs of eyes watched her closely, and her belly flipped. Automatically, her hand moved there, and she realize in her panic, her questions, her consideration of how the news would be told that she never stopped to ask herself that, too afraid of the answer. What if she wasn’t happy? What if she’d been dragging her feet on telling Luciano because she was terrified he wouldn’t be happy? What if all the calls, the comments, the flirting were just that? What if all he wanted was a repeat of seeing her naked and nothing more? What if he’d moved on already because she’d been screening his calls over the last week?

  Samara looked to Trip. “Can you get my bag, please?”

  He was gone and back in the blink of an eye. She took the shoulder tote from him and rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for—her first ultrasound. Samara stared down at the small, three-dimensional image of the person who’d unceremoniously taken up residence in her womb and waited to feel regret or nausea or a combination of both. But...she didn’t.

  For the past week since her little discovery, she’d been going through the motions, making preparations, looking for new apartments and even hiring a maid to help keep her place clean, but she’d never allowed herself a moment of peace, of stillness, to sit and really think about the fact she was going to be a mother. Why? Because the gnawing feeling she might not be able to handle it, that she might fail, had haunted her. So instea
d of taking everything one day at a time, she’d been robotic, almost mechanical with every decision.

  But at the moment, all she could hear in her head was the voice of Dr. Balcomb explaining to her that while most physicians stated pregnancy lasted forty weeks it was really only thirty-eight for the majority of women. The first two weeks were actually the days the body spent preparing itself for conception. She also explained that this meant Samara was only technically nearing her sixth week, and that at her next appointment she’d be able to hear the baby’s heartbeat. In twelve more weeks, they’d know the sex.

  At the moment, all she could think about was the way her own heart skipped a beat in excitement when she wondered if she’d have a boy or a girl. If they’d have her eyes or Luciano’s. If they’d...love her the way she already loved them.

  Samara had never thought herself the maternal type. She babied Manfred, but that didn’t really count since he was a cat. She’d always been too busy with her journalism to have a truly stable relationship let alone a marriage; her secret dream was to own a magazine someday. Yet, at the moment, all those thoughts seemed so small compared to her child. Her child.

  In a few short months she’d have one small, needy, whiny, grumpy, moody, silly human being completely dependent on her, expecting her to be at their beck and call. And she’d love every. Fucking. Minute. Of. It. Because they were hers. Trip’s slip of the tongue was the exact bitch slap she’d needed to revisit the land of reality and realize she had everything she could ever need or want zapping every ounce of energy out of her. Samara was pregnant. And fucking well proud of it.

  She raised her eyes to Paz’s. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my goddamn life. The first person to turn my kid’s conception into a media circus will be the first person back home in the basement of their geriatric parents; the only joy in their life lusting after old high school crushes and potluck night down at the bingo hall in between masturbating to Playboy issues from the fifties.”