Lady and the Champ (37 page)

“You stupid bitch. How dare you.” He’s spitting on me as he screams into my face. “How
dare
you?”

I try to take a step back, but he’s got a tight hold on my arm, his fingers digging in so deep I can feel him pressing into the bone. And then he backhands me, and I stagger to the side. I taste blood in my mouth.

“You stupid fucking
cunt
.” He’s right in my face again. I can’t even defend myself, with one arm securely in his grasp and the other clutching the little laptop like my life depends on it. It might. Then again, my life might depend on my letting it go.

The decision’s taken out of my hands—literally—when Sal hits me again, and this time I lose my grip on the computer and it falls to the ground. Thank God, it hits grass. Sal seems unaware it’s even there, he’s so totally focused on me.

My face is burning. I probably have a black eye, a split lip—I can’t tell. The back of my throat tastes like vomit.

“Stop it! Stop it!” It’s all I can manage as I back away from him, trying to get out of range. My arm is aching where he’s got hold of it.

“You’re going to pay for what you did to me, bitch. You think you get to do that to me and get away with it?” He shakes me, and my teeth rattle. “You’re coming home with me, and then I’ll show you how you’re supposed to behave in my fucking house. You understand me?”

“You kill me and I can’t ever pay back my loan.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head as far as things that might deter him.

He just laughs, though. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’ll get my money as soon as I can get in there and light a fucking match.”

For some reason, that’s the thing that finally sends me over the edge. I fly at him one handed, fingers curved, and start tearing at his face. I can feel my nails making purchase, tearing into his cheek before he grabs my other arm and shakes me hard, until my teeth clack together and my head starts to hurt.

There’s a sound behind me. I wonder if we’ve finally attracted enough bystanders that Sal might lay off, but I don’t really see anybody. Then I hear a car door slam. And then Nick’s voice.

“You get your fucking hands off her right now, De Luca!”

Sal wheels, still holding on to me, facing Nick, his mouth a slash of a sneer. “You think you have any right to tell me what to do with my—”

He breaks off when Nick’s fist lands in the middle of his face. Blood splatters from Sal’s lips, and he finally loosens his grip enough that I can jerk away.

“Get in the car,” Nick snaps at me, not taking his eyes off Sal. Sal is half bent over, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. It looks like Nick caught him a good one. My mouth stretches into a feral smile, and I’m almost ashamed at the glee I feel at watching Sal bleed. Almost.

“I said get in the car!” Nick snaps. I shake my head.

“The bakery’s about to blow, Nick. We both have to get out of here.” I scan the ground quickly, spot the laptop, and pick it up again.

“You were going to torch it, weren’t you?” Nick growls at Sal. “What the fuck makes you think you have the right?”

“I have every right!” Sal’s taut, fists clenched. “That bakery belongs to me, and so does she.” He points a shaking finger at me, not even making eye contact with me, as if I’m a dog or a car or a piece of furniture.

Nick explodes. It’s a silent detonation as he leaps at Sal, pummeling with clenched fists. I step back, afraid of getting caught up in the flying fisticuffs. They’re wailing on each other, fists striking flesh again and again. Blood splatters from Sal’s mouth, and he staggers back a step.

Suddenly there’s another man in the fray—two, then three. They’re all wearing suits, and I recognize them as Sal’s crew. Guys I served dinner to more than once at Sal’s house. They go for Nick, one of them grabbing at Nick’s arm to intercept another punch that’s headed for Sal’s face.

Sal, though, doesn’t seem grateful for the help. “Get out of here! Get the fuck away! This is between him and me!” He swings, then, right at one of his own men, catching him in the jaw.

“What the fuck, Sal?” the man protests, clutching his face.

“I didn’t ask for your goddamn help!” Sal sounds like he’s lost his mind, his voice a screech that barely sounds human. “This asshole is
mine
!”

He takes another swing, which Nick ducks. I don’t know what to do. If this goes on much longer, one of them is going to kill the other.

Sirens start to screech in the distance. Somebody’s called the cops.

“Boss, we need to go.” One of Sal’s men tugs at his sleeve and gets backhanded for his trouble. “The cops are coming!” he shouts, pressing one hand against the side of his mouth while he tries to get through to Sal, who’s apparently gone completely out of his head.

Nick moves in again and shoves Sal with both hands. Sal goes to his ass on the grass. “Get the fuck out of here, Sal, before I end you.”

Sal shoves back to his feet, going after Nick again, but two of his crew grab him and drag him back toward the car. Nick turns to me and gives me a once-over. “You okay?”

I nod, wide eyed. Nick’s got a bloody lip, and one eye looks like it’s starting to swell shut.

Sal’s still yelling as his men push him into the backseat of one of their dark sedans. Nick spares them a glance, then his attention shifts to the bakery.

“Shit,” he says, and before I can say anything, he’s running for the front door.

“Nick!” I yell after him. “Nick, no! It’s not safe.”

But he disappears through the door. I can’t stop him, so I run in after him.

He’s heading for the back, and I follow as he heads for the stove. He flips the switches all to
Off
, finds the master shut-off valve behind the stove, and cranks it off as well, then moves to the nearest window.

“Get the fuck back outside, Sarah!” He shoves the window open.

“No. This is my place. I’m not leaving it. And I’m not leaving you.”

“Then open a goddamn window.”

We open window after window, and the gas smell starts to dissipate. I don’t know if it’s safe yet, but it’s definitely safer. When he finally heads for the door again, I can barely smell the gas at all.

It’s only when we’re back outside, on the grass again, that it hits me. He went back inside. Not for money or papers or valuables, but just to save the building. For me. Because he knows it means something to me.

For a long few seconds, all I can do is stand there, staring at him, a strange swell of emotion filling my chest. Then he takes my hand and leads me toward his car.

“Let’s go home,” he says, and I nod.

* * *

N
ick refuses
to let me drive home, which is probably for the best, because my hands are shaking so badly I’m not sure I’d be safe to drive anyway. He doesn’t say anything about the car—just leaves it in the street where I parked it. I assume he’ll come back and get it, or send someone for it. It doesn’t matter. I just get into the car as told and fold my hands in my lap, hoping Nick doesn’t see them shivering.

He barely looks at me. His focus is laser sharp out the car window, as if we’re driving some kind of complex obstacle course. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw, though, so I’m pretty sure he’s not so much paying extra attention to the road as ignoring me to keep from blowing up at me.

I’m surprised he hasn’t done that already. I disobeyed him, after all. If it’d been Sal, he would have berated me, hit me, and probably locked me in the house until he felt like I deserved my freedom again.

Nick’s just wrapped in a steely quiet. Wondering how long it’ll be before he explodes and what will happen when he does is almost as stressful as knowing exactly what he’ll do but not exactly when. I clench my fists tight.

It’ll be when we get back home—I just know it. By the time he pulls up into the garage, my eyes are burning, and my mouth tastes bitter, my stomach trying to crawl up my throat. He parks the car and gets out then walks to my side and opens the door just before I pop the latch. He offers me his hand.

I take it hesitantly, thinking this might be the beginning. He’ll drag me into the house, push me against a door, and then start yelling.

He doesn’t. He closes his fingers around mine and walks with me into the house. His face seems quieter, less tense. Less angry. I’m not quite ready to let myself take a deep breath, but I’m getting close.

Opening the door into the house, he still says nothing. As I move past him, he lays a hand on the middle of my back. I flinch. But it’s not a guiding hand, or a reprimanding hand. He’s just touching me. His fingers move in a slight caress.

“Are you okay?” he asks as we head into the living room.

“Yes, I’m…” I pause, still not sure I’m in the clear. Then I notice the stiffness in his body as he moves. I’d thought he’d gotten away mostly unscathed from the fisticuffs with Sal, but apparently I was wrong. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine,” he protests, but I take his arm and steer him toward the couch.

“Sit down. Let me look.”

I expect him to protest, but he doesn’t. That makes me that much more concerned. How badly is he hurt? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him react like he’s in pain, so my automatic thought is that it’s bad. He sits down, and I start unbuttoning his shirt.

“It’s not that bad,” he protests, just as I peel back his shirt and catch sight of a red-black bruise spreading along his ribs, partially onto his chest. When did that happen? Of course I wasn’t cataloging the fight blow by blow, but this seems worse than what I saw happening. I’d lay money he’s got at least one broken rib.

“Not that bad? You should probably go to the doctor.”

“I’m not going to the doctor.” His tone is stubborn, and he damn near pouts. I want to smack him.

“Don’t you have some kind of mob doctor? I thought all the mob people had mob doctors. You know, like in that one movie?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “What one movie?”

“I don’t know.” I take a closer look at the bruising and finish divesting him of his shirt. He’s got a few more marks, but nothing as bad as the big one over his ribs. He’s got a split lip, too—I’m surprised I didn’t see it earlier. It’s not bleeding at the moment, though, so it can wait. His knuckles are bloody, too—no real surprise there. “That one movie with the mob doctor.”

“That narrows it down.”

I poke at the bruises on his ribs, and he flinches. “Easy.”

“I’m trying to figure out if you have a broken rib.”

“Making use of your extensive medical training?”

“Yes.” He’s making fun, but I figure if I can poke him on the darkest spot of the bruise and he’s not screaming, he probably doesn’t have a broken rib. I poke him again and he just curses inventively. “I don’t think it’s broken.” I push to my feet. “Let me go get some stuff so I can clean some of this up.”

To my surprise, by the time I get back from the bathroom, he’s stripped down to his underwear and lying on his back on the couch. There are more bruises on his shins, and one shin’s missing some skin. I make a tutting sound and kneel beside him.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, letting me see to him. I don’t think there’s much I can do besides clean and bandage, but on the other hand nothing looks like it needs stitches or a cast or any other sort of advanced treatment. He’s just banged up.

Finally, as I’m finishing up a makeshift bandage over his torn shin, he says quietly, “You shouldn’t have gone there. Definitely not without my permission.”

I freeze. This is it, then. This is where he gets up and, injuries be damned, starts the hitting and yelling.

“I know.” I keep my voice as careful and nonconfrontational as possible. “I left my computer there. I needed to get it. I couldn’t stand the thought of Sal with it.”

He studies my face. I’m just sitting there, matching his gaze, fingers picking at the wrapping on another big adhesive bandage. I wonder what he sees in my eyes.

It must satisfy him a little, because he nods. “You should have called me. I would have sent one of my guys.”

I nod. It’s hard for me to explain why I didn’t do exactly that. But if I’d gone to him for help, it would have been admitting I couldn’t take care of things on my own. That the bakery might as well not be mine at all. That’s what Sal wanted, and I wouldn’t give it to him. I don’t want to give it to Nick, either. My whole life is tied up in that bakery. It’s the only real meaning there is to me.

“I understand.” I dip my head, afraid to look at him. I’m having too much trouble reading him. He’s not Sal—Sal had every emotion right there on his face, and most of them were ugly. Nick’s different. It’s like he holds everything close until he’s ready to let it go.

It’s the “letting it go” part that has me spooked. I don’t know how explosive it’ll be.

“Good.” He reaches over and touches my chin, tipping my head up so I have to look at him. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Sarah. You have to understand that.”

I nod, though I understand all too well that he’s not just protecting me. He’s protecting himself, his business, his reputation, and the heir he hopes I’m in the process of providing for him. None of this is really about me.