Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (38 page)

Tomasso's smile disappeared, to be replaced by a concerned frown. "Which brother is he?"

"My eldest," I said. "Before you say anything, it's an improvement. My father wanted to shoot you both as soon as you stepped off the plane, though he was probably just speaking in anger when he said that.”

Tomasso looked off-screen and adjusted the tablet camera so that Carlo could see as well. “What does this defending mean?"

"Basically, a duel," I said, sighing. "Eduardo gets to choose the style of the duel, which will be Vale tudo."

"Vale tudo?" Carlo asked. “What’s that?”

"It's a no rules, no weapons fight," Tomasso said.

I nodded. "It's the only way I could think of that would let both of you walk away relatively uninjured . . . I hope. It’s stupid, but if you refuse, they’ll probably have you tied up and give you a good beating, which would probably be even worse. Tomasso, your leg . . .”

"I know," he said, nodding. "I know. Luisa, you did the right thing. You don’t want your brother seriously hurt, and I'd like to keep living too. All right. Thanks for the heads up. Anything else you can tell me about your brother?"

"He knows about your ankle," I said, thinking. “But that may work in your favor. Eduardo prides himself on being
honorable
, and he probably won’t try to take advantage of it."

"All right. Well, that gives me about three hours to think. One more thing . . . will you be at the airport?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea. Tomasso, be careful."

He smirked, the same casual smirk that had at first infuriated me before working its way into my heart and finally stealing it. "Of course I won't be careful. I love you, Luisa."

"I love you too. I will try to be there."

There was a knock at the door, and my father came in. "Have you told him?"

"Yes. We were just saying our goodbyes," I said. I waved at the screen, where Tomasso mouthed
I love you
once more before hanging up. I stood up and looked at my father. "They have a request."

"Which is?"

"That I go with you to the airport. No offense, but when you get emotional, you become difficult for them to understand. I don’t think I need to explain the consequences a misunderstanding with the Bertolis could cause. I’m not talking about just losing a business partner here . . .”

Sure, it was a stretch on things, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. He considered the idea, then nodded. “Whatever. I would’ve spared you the sight, but maybe you’ll find some kind of satisfaction in watching your brother punish this man. Go get dressed. You’re hardly fit to greet our . . . guests."

He dismissed me with a gesture, and I returned to my room. Looking around, I thought as I started to change my clothes—I
hoped
that Dad was going to be satisfied with a little brawl. I rubbed my temples and saw something on my desk that set me thinking. Hurriedly, I emptied out my backpack and replaced the contents with some necessities. If my plan was to work, I might only have moments to put it into place. If that meant I had to leave Brazil with my passport, a change of underwear, and nothing else, so be it.

My preparations ready, I sat down on my bed and closed my eyes. Prayer had helped a little bit before, giving me at least a chance to talk to Tomasso. Maybe a little bit more couldn't hurt.

I
’d expected
the temperature to be cool when I stepped off the plane in Porto Alegre. After all, it was supposed to be the height of winter in the Southern Hemisphere, and Porto Alegre is capital of the southernmost state in Brazil. Instead, what greeted me was warmer than the weather that I'd left behind in Seattle, and a lot muggier too. Part of me, the part that enjoyed being a college student in Alabama, rejoiced. The weather was a welcome reminder of my time near the Gulf Coast. Another part of me, the part that knew I was about to be in a brawl in just a few minutes with a hurt leg, recoiled. I wasn't in prime condition, even with the rehabilitation I'd been putting in, and the heat and humidity would sap my strength even further.

The first thing that I saw were the half-dozen men spread out in a rough line outside the hangar we pulled up in front of. Four of them were obviously enforcers, with their weapons clearly displayed. They were carrying M-16 carbine derivatives, plenty of gun for shooting up a couple of men and a plane. One of the others I couldn't identify, but he was about my age, and tall, at least six foot two, although he looked to be less bulky than me.

The final man, the one in the middle, I knew was Guillermo Mendosa, who had a grim look on his face and was dressed in a white tropical-style suit. Standing next to him was Luisa, who commanded my attention with her beauty and by the fact that she was the only person in the whole group who was smiling. Her eyes widened when she saw that I wasn't using my cane before she cocked an eyebrow, understanding what I was doing. If I had to fight her brother, then I needed to show as little weakness as possible.

In the relative silence after the two turbofans wound down, Dad raised his hand. "Guillermo Mendosa, I’m Carlo Bertoli, and this is my son, Tomasso. Thank you for such a warm reception."

I had to give it to him. He was smooth and a bit sarcastic. It clearly wasn’t a
warm
reception. He was acting as if we were being greeted by the Brazilian women's volleyball team instead of stepping out onto a runway faced with at least four men armed with automatic rifles. Even the other man with Guillermo, who I took to be Eduardo Mendosa, had to smirk at Dad's comment.

One of the gunmen, however, wasn't as amused and started to bring his rifle up. I reached for my coat when Guillermo held up his hand. "Vincente, put it away. I didn’t tell you to raise your weapon.” He turned to us. “Welcome to Porto Alegre."

Luisa stepped forward as Dad and I approached but shook her head when our eyes met again. “I’m supposed to translate so there’s no miscommunication," she said, giving me a measured look that said
play along a little bit
.

Dad nodded, getting her meaning, and smiled broadly. "Of course,
Señorita
Mendosa. My son has something he’d like to say. Tomasso?"

I stepped forward, squaring myself up and looking Guillermo Mendosa in the eye. "Sir, it was never my intention to offend you or your daughter. I apologize. I’m here so that we can put this to rest and not have to resort to violence. I don’t think either of us wants that.”

He looked at me with a pissed off expression that seemed to run in the Mendosa family and shook his head. "This isn’t a simple matter of a broken piece of furniture or maybe a bit of hellraising. This is my daughter, and an apology isn’t going to make it go away.”

I nodded and turned my attention to the man next to him. “You're Eduardo, then? You're the one who is challenging me to a
duel
?”

"I am," the taller man said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Inside the hangar, and the rules . . . well, we’ll stop when one of us can’t go any longer. Agreed?"

I nodded. "When?"

"Now," Guillermo Mendosa said, interrupting. He looked at my father, then at me. "Then your welcome to Porto Alegre is officially revoked."

Dad's lip lifted, and he had
that
look on his face, a look that everyone who knew him was terrified of. I held up my hand, speaking up before things got more out of hand. "Okay. But give me ten minutes to change clothes?"

I looked to Eduardo, who simply nodded. A serious man of few words.

I turned and walked away, Dad following me until we were next to our jet. With it being just the two of us, he was able to let his true feelings show through some, and he was pissed. “I’d love to slit that man's throat and feel his blood run over my fingers," Dad seethed, angry.

"He's pissed, prejudiced, and scared," I said lowly. “He’s probably even more mad with how Luisa looked at us—he knows she'd rather be with us than stay with him. That's got to hurt a man's pride."

He gave me a look and seemed to calm down a little, knowing that I had a point. He walked over to me and patted me on the shoulder, and his next words took me by surprise. “When the time comes, our family is in good hands."

I stood there, shocked for a moment before I resumed pulling my jacket off and handing it to the pilot. "First, I have to survive this. I doubt the ref is going to respect if I tap out."

"Agreed. Fight dirty if you have to," Dad said.

I sat down on the steps of the plane and looked back at the pilot. "This isn't going to take long, so get on the radio with the tower. You're going to want fuel, and quickly. How much do you guys have left?"

"Only a couple of hundred miles, Mr. Bertoli," the crew member said. "A thousand, if we're lucky.”

I nodded and undid the first strap on my brace. "Get what you can. I'd prefer to not have to set down for fuel in South America if we can help it."

The man nodded and headed for the cabin while I finished unstrapping my brace, setting it aside. I'd tested the ankle after talking with Luisa, and while there wasn’t much pain, it was stiff.

"Time to strap up," I muttered to myself, reaching into the bag that had contained my shorts. We managed to scrape together enough tape on the plane from the emergency and medical kits that I could do something with my leg. Slowly, I wound layer after layer of tape around my ankle, starting with, of all things, electrical tape before moving on to duct tape and finally some white bandage tape. "Should have brought my other shoes."

“Maybe remember that the next time you fly down to Brazil to fight someone.” Dad chuckled as he looked me over, his anger appearing to fade. "How's the circulation in your toes?"

"Not great, but it won’t be for long. You can cut the tape off afterward," I replied, wiggling the already numbing digits. "You ready to pull me out if they go a bit overboard on extracting their pound of vengeance?"

"You'll get out of here," Dad said, "no matter what. Now go kick this guy's ass."

I grinned and slid my pants off, thankful I'd decided to wear briefs that day instead of going commando. I pulled the shorts on and tied the drawstring, standing up. I looked over where the Mendosa group except for Eduardo stood watching me. I saw the one named Vincente tapping his rifle, murder in his eyes. I looked at him closely and figured him for another of Luisa's brothers, most likely the middle one. He looked like a punk more than anything else, and I wish I could have been fighting him instead.

Eduardo, in the two minutes or so I had to size him up, was different. He was cold, calculating, and was committed. I knew as a BJJ brown belt he knew how to take damage, and this was not going to be easy. In fact, most likely, I was going to take an ass whipping.

I took my first step toward the hangar, curious if I'd even be able to walk. It wasn't easy, but I was able to make my way slowly to the doors of the hangar, waiting while they were opened. Inside, I saw that a circle of vehicles had been formed, with a tiny space left in the middle for me to squeeze through. Eduardo Mendosa was standing in the middle, stripped to the waist and wearing drawstring pants and a t-shirt. He was in good shape, not carrying too much muscle, and looked rangy and lanky. With my ankle the way it was, I hoped he had a glass jaw or I just got lucky.

I gave Dad a nod and stepped through the hole in the circle, looking around at the rest of the circle. Guillermo Mendosa sat on the hood of an SUV that looked like a Jeep, while Luisa stood next to her father in the gap between the SUV and the car next to it, her arms crossed over her chest and chewing on a finger. She was scared, and I understood. I was too.

I made my way to the center of the circle and extended my hand to Eduardo, who shook. He was devoted to hurting me, but he had honor, I could tell that much. I hobbled back a step and looked around. "Who's the ref?"

"I am," Guillermo said, sliding off the hood of the car. "Any objections?"

I looked back at Dad, who shook his head slowly. I looked at Guillermo and repeated the gesture. "Nope. It's going to be tough to have to declare your son the loser, though," I said in casual, Southern-laced English, which only Luisa and my father understood. I stepped back and held up my hands, switching back to Spanish. "
Vamanos
."

Eduardo danced around, light on his feet for a man as big as he was. To keep pressure off my ankle, I decided to switch my normal stance, going southpaw. I'd learned that stance a lot during my days in high school wrestling, where my coach taught us to keep our strong hand forward and ready. I also kept my head low between my hunched shoulders, hoping that Eduardo wasn't as good with his kicks as he was with his BJJ.

He struck first, throwing a quick little jab that I swatted away easily. His plan seemed basic and effective. Using darting, slashing attacks, he moved in and out, throwing slapping, jarring shots that I had to duck and bob, absorbing what I could with my forearms and biceps before he pivoted and went back out before I could return damage. He was trying to get me upset, frustrated, and tired.

Ironically, I was able to get the first good blow in, a tight palm strike shot to his ribs as he threw a long-range slapping shot that I ducked. He grunted and backed away, and I stayed where I was. My ankle was going numb, the constricting tape slowly cutting the blood flow off, so the pain was nearly gone, but that didn't mean I wanted to try to pivot off it or use it for anything more than a balance assist.

"Come on, I know you've got more than that," I taunted, trying my own way to try and get him to make a mistake. "This is getting boring,
Chico
."

I saw a tightening of Eduardo's mouth, and knew I had at least gotten through. Unfortunately for me, that meant he came in with a good combination, a flicking jab followed by an overhand blow that I stepped into. The hard heel of his hand blasted into my face, the area around my eye going numb and my nose starting to bleed. What was worse though was that he was using the strikes as a setup to another movement, dropping his hips and attempting to throw me over and onto the concrete. I'd faced this throw hundreds of times in my life, and normally, defending it would have been no problem.

I should have been able to block it, but my injured left ankle meant that I was a half-step slow on the squaring of my hips, and instead of a full block, we sort of half-tumbled, half-threw each other to the concrete. I landed with a jarring thud on my back, with him on top of me. Not where I wanted to be.

The first shots he got in were nothing too hard, mostly to my head area, but then he threw a tight elbow to my stomach that hurt. I grabbed for his head, deciding to say fuck chivalry and yanking a handful of his hair to get him down into my embrace, where I hoped that my stronger upper body and muscle could get me some sort of advantage. There, I wrapped my left arm around his head as tightly as I could while I tried to hammer away at his neck and shoulders with my right elbow. I didn't even try to roll him yet. I could tell he was still too stable and on-balance, and I didn't even have a way to plant my left ankle either.

The fight devolved further, the two of us trading short little shots and grinding away at each other, trying to wear the other person down. Eduardo, for his part, kept his face protected, buried in my chest as he continued to throw elbows and strikes to my ribs while I elbowed and ground on his neck and shoulders.

Suddenly, he sat back, planting his foot and jamming his left knee into my tailbone, which jarred my legs and numbed my hips, giving him a bit of a gap. Taking it, he was quick as a snake, jamming my right knee painfully into the concrete. I was at least able to half-stop him, catching his right leg with mine before he was totally on my side, where I would have been in serious trouble.

"You're mine now,
Norte
," he grunted as he wrapped my head up with his left arm while hammering at my ribs with his right elbow. I groaned in pain as the shots thudded against me, trying to do something to turn the tide on him.

A thought flashed through my mind, and I took it as a desperation movement. It required me to use my left ankle, which I wasn't sure was going to hold, but I knew if I didn't, I'd get worn down and beaten unconscious or worse—he knew exactly what he was doing, and it was working.

I planted my left foot on the floor, then slid it underneath his right ankle, locking it up with my right leg and keeping him in place. He tried to extend his leg, and my ankle groaned deeply, but everything held in place. I pivoted on my hips and reached under his free leg, praying that he hadn't anticipated what I was doing.

The move is called the 'electric chair,' and it works by pitching your opponent over your body, as well as stretching out the groin of your opponent. If the guy isn't flexible, it can hurt like hell.

He was catapulted over me harder than I'd expected, his face smacking hard into the pavement, and I couldn't help but grin as he grunted in surprise and pain.

He was also scrambling, but I was able to get him into a choke hold, cinching in tightly, hoping to use his own shoulder to choke him unconscious. Eduardo struggled, reaching with his free hand and trying to claw at my face, his fingernail catching on my cheek and ripping a furrow underneath my right eye. Still, his strength started to weaken, and soon, he slapped at my back, giving up. I squeezed tighter, not stopping until the slaps stopped and Eduardo sagged, unconscious, to the concrete.