Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Carlotta flushed as she glanced at her brother Diego, who’d listened to everything with utmost interest. “No stake-claiming whatsoever, understood?” he growled at the guys, then briefly smiled at me before giving the guys another stern look. “I’m going to talk to a few people. I assume you’ll be around until your fights.”
“Sure thing,” Nevio said, drawing me closer to his side. I knew it was meant as a friendly gesture, but under everyone’s attention, I still blushed as if he’d kissed me. Diego didn’t comment, only left with a shake of his head. It felt good to be pressed up to Nevio’s muscled body like that. The back of my head touched his pec, and his fingers were hot against the bare skin of my shoulder.
We all slipped into the booth and ordered drinks, but I was distracted by the whistle of the referee that announced the start of the first fight. I watched with parted lips as both opponents stormed each other like crazy rhinos and began to pummel each other with fists. Blood spurted out of the mouth of the man on the left, but it didn’t stop him, even when he spit something on the ground.
“That was his front tooth,” Nevio said with a nod. My lips curled in disgust.
“Not bad,” Alessio added.
Carlotta sent me a slightly nauseated look. I gave her a shaky smile. Worse than the sight of the blood and brutality were the sounds of a fist or foot hitting another person. The first fight was over within fifteen minutes. The winner grinned his missing-tooth smile at the masses, covered in blood and sweat. His opponent needed support from a friend to get out of the cage. He shook his head at the nurse who offered to check on him. The Camorra employed several doctors and nurses for the fights and the Made Men who got injured on duty.
“A fight shouldn’t be over before one of the fighters can’t stand,” Nevio muttered with a disgusted twist of his mouth.
“If every fight ended fatally or with serious injuries, Antonia wouldn’t find fighters for the fights anymore,” I said. Dad had mentioned how difficult it was to find people who agreed to fight Nevio.
“You underestimate the number of desperate souls out there,” Alessio said.
Maybe. I remembered how Grandma had been on her bad days, when she needed more drugs than Dad had rationed for her, when her despair streamed out of her every pore. She probably would have entered a cage too if it promised relief.
Two hours later, it was Nevio’s turn. He didn’t bother going into the changing room. He simply got up and pulled his T-shirt over his head right beside me. My eyes did their usual routine of scanning his abs, pecs, biceps, and of course my insides warmed at the sight.
I’d never really paid close attention to the tattoo on his back. It was impossible not to look at it of course. the grotesque smile of the Joker (just the mouth, not the rest of his face), the “Why so serious?” in blurred red letters, followed by a long string of crossed out HAHAHAHA. I was fairly sure there had been less crossed out hahaha’s the last time I’d seen Nevio without a shirt. Alessio leaned over to me. “It’s his tally list.”
I pursed my lips. “Of won fights?” I asked, but I didn’t remember any fights since I’d last seen his back. Maybe he counted test fights as well? The number of H and A seemed too low for that, considering how often Nevio had fight training with Massimo, Alessio, and the other men of his family. On the other hand, he always had strong opponents, so even as someone with his talent, he couldn’t always win.
Nevio walked toward the cage at a relaxed pace, every muscle in his back flexing in the most tantalizing way, and even though his fight shorts were loose, you could see his firm ass in them. Some people pointed at the tattoo on his back, and their expressions varied from impressed to concerned.
“Not quite,” Alessio said. “It’s the number of people he killed. He only got the tattoo this year, but he remembered every fucking kill of his life. Not bad for someone who doesn’t remember the last party.”
I blinked, swallowed, my gaze darting between Nevio’s back and Alessio’s amused face. Was he pulling my leg?
“I’m not joking,” he said. His expression suggested I needed a reality check.
“He’s not,” Massimo said matter-of-factly. My gaze found Nevio again, but from a distance, and at my current angle, I had no way of counting just how many crossed-out letters there were.
“How many letters are there?” I asked quietly.
“Every vertical line of each letter stands for a kill. So one H equals two kills.”
“What about the horizontal cross-out line?” I asked a bit tonelessly. As if it mattered. There had been many letters on Nevio’s back, even more vertical lines. Way too many.