A Wife For Nico Vescari

　　CAKE

　　I've always been a fighter. From my childhood, when I answered the bullies with my fists. I've always loved violence, craved it, and went out of my way to make sure I punch someone.

　　It's no wonder that I'm currently in the business of beating people up for money. It's no wonder that I'm damn good at it too.

　　"Name?" A fat, bald man sneers through heavy smoke from his cigar.

　　"Belva," I say, adjusting my bag, clinking all my things together.

　　He puts down my name in his books, raises his gaze, and slowly trails them along my form.

　　He scoffs.

　　"Anything the matter?"

　　"Are you sure you wanna fight, little girl?" His Mexican accent is thick and mocking.

　　If it weren't for the fact that I've learnt to let insults about my size slide, this fat bastard would be eating my fists.

　　But as it stands, I like to let my work speak for me.

　　"Do you get paid to talk?"

　　He wheezes a laugh. "You're going up against Iron Fists. I hope you've picked out your casket. It's going to be your funeral."

　　"I'm fucking terrified."

　　I step away from the table just as he picks up a mic and shouts into it.

　　"Tonight's match, we have the ruthless and dearly beloved Iron Fists!"

　　From the other corner of the ring, a hefty woman steps out in black colours and tight braids. She commands the crowd with her fists, and they go wild, their thirst for blood rising high into the ceilings.

　　She doesn't even glance at me as she steps into the ring, her muscles rippling under the spotlights.

　　"And challenging our champion, from the streets of…I don't fucking know. Give it up for Belva!"

　　The crowd falls silent, and someone coughs.

　　"Is this a joke?" I hear a voice behind me in the stands.

　　"She's too fucking tiny," another person says.

　　"Iron Fists will eat her alive."

　　"PLACE YOUR BETS, PEOPLE!"

　　I drop my bag beside the ring. Taking off my hoodie and tucking loose strands of hair into my ponytail, I adjust the mask that always covers my face and slip on my boxing gloves.

　　"I don't have all fucking night, princess." Iron Fists leans on the ropes, her smirk mocking.

　　"Good thing I don't need all fucking night," I retort and roll into the ring.

　　"Little girl with a big mouth, I see. I can't wait to break it."

　　The bell rings.

　　Iron Fists wastes no time going on the offense. She hits and kicks, and her blows miss me as I dodge. From her wild swings, she has terrible accuracy, but with her meaty hands, I don't think she needs it.

　　One hit can flatten my skull.

　　So I keep away from her, light on my feet, all the tight lean muscles of my body humming with adrenaline. As Luca would say, "Study your opponent first, Cake. Don't rush into a fight blind."

　　"Stop dancing and fight!" Iron Fists growls, missing my eye by an inch.

　　The crowd around us has gone feral, calling for my blood, shouting for the champion to break my neck.

　　I dodge several more deadly hits, finally satisfied with what I know of my opponent. I take a breath, plant my feet down, and swing through an opening.

　　She's fast, but her feet drags, she lacks aim but has power, and she leaves her left side too fucking open.

　　My fist connects to the flesh under her jaw with a sickening crack that seems to vibrate through the whole ring.

　　Iron Fists's head snaps back, her eyes roll inward, and she falls like a giant boulder.

　　The silence is immediate and deafening. People leave their seats, and beyond the lights, I see the fat bastard's face, white as a sheet.

　　He underestimated me. Rookie mistake.

　　With a wide triumphant grin, I give a mocking bow to the audience and jump off the top rope onto the ground.

　　Remembering himself, the bastard grabs the mic. "That's the last fight of the night, folks. What an unbelievable twist tonight."

　　The air suddenly breaks with outrage, but that's none of my fucking concern. Now to get my money and get out.

　　I shove my things in my bag while they carry an unconscious Iron Fists out. All it took was one punch. Literally.

　　What a fucking pathetic champion.

　　I saunter to the table where the fat man is busy counting money and sharing it to the winners—a janitor and a fucking drunk.

　　I wait till he's done before putting my palm out. And the bastard has the audacity to look at me like he's never seen me before.

　　"Don't play with me," I warn.

　　He shrugs. "The fight ended too early. You have no share."

　　"I beat your champion," I seethe. "I'm entitled to half."

　　"You didn't tell me you can fight. You won under false pretenses. Get lost, Belinda."

　　False pretenses?

　　My anger lights up quickly like a match. The fucking bastard.

　　"It's Belva." I clench my fists. Before I can lunge for him, two shadows appear beside me. Solid hands lock around my elbows and lift me off my feet.

　　"Motherfucker!" I yell, my feet dangling helplessly in the air. "You better count your fucking days!"

　　I'm hurled out like a rag, and the door slammed in my face. I pick myself up without fuss. Growing up fighting in the streets has taught me a thing or two. So I know how best to handle thieves.

　　I wait.

　　Ten minutes. Twenty. Long enough for them to think I've gone, then I pick the lock and walk back inside, making sure my mask is still in place over my face.

　　I spotted the back office on my way in and headed to it quickly.

　　The locks give way easily, and in a minute, I've taken my share from their locker and nothing more. They don't deserve my decency, but I'm no thief.

　　Stepping out, I'm about to close the door when another guy hurries past me and goes inside. He pays me no mind, and I can't be bothered.

　　With their track record, I figure they probably owe him, too.

　　I shrug, continuing on my way. I'm almost to the exit, when the air explodes with gunshots.

　　I turn sharply and run headfirst into a hard wall of heat and muscle. Our bags fall with a thud and we both dive for them. Coming up again to stare warily at each other.

　　He's wearing a black mask, his eyes are just as shifty as mine, dark and sharp, assessing me in a heartbeat.

　　I stand my ground, ready to strike if he breathes on me wrong.

　　But he doesn't, as if not registering me as a threat, he looks away, turning toward the hushed voices and gunshots coming down the narrow corridor.

　　His eyes narrow, and without a word, he hurries the other way, and as much as I hate strangers, I follow. He stole from them. I can bet all my winnings he's not about to let himself get caught. After a few minutes of weaving in and out of shadows, we emerge through a service door.

　　The man wastes no time in dashing to the barbed wire fence and starts climbing. I join him as the door behind us opens.

　　"There they are!" Someone shouts, and these fucking bitches start shooting at us.

　　Bullets whizz past my head as I follow the thief to the top of the fence. But when I see the long drop into darkness, I halt my fucking horses.

　　The thought of getting splattered on asphalt roots me in place.

　　As if it isn't bad enough that my only options are to get carved by bullets or become roadkill, the stranger is already preparing to let go on the other side.

　　When he notices I've stopped, he looks at me with eyes as flat and dark as the night sky behind him. And for a split second, I think he'll push me to the wolves.

　　Instead, his voice rumbles out surprisingly deep.

　　"Trust me."

　　Words like that have fucked over so many people. I'll be stupid to even try it.

　　But then he stretches out a hand, like we're friends.

　　Another bullet whizzes past my head, and I sigh.

　　It's not a nice night to be roadkill. But I'm willing to take my chances.

　　I clasp his gloved hand, letting his firm grip pull me over to the other side.

　　"Let go," he says.

　　In utter disbelief at myself for putting my life into a stranger's hands, I let go of the fence.

　　And I don't fucking die.

　　I sink into an inflatable bed and bounce to my feet.

　　"Holy shit."

　　On the other side, the men are swearing and cursing, their dogs barking angrily. But they don't come after us.

　　I glance at the stranger who just saved my life, my heart still pounding in my ears, and give him a nod of thanks.

　　He responds by raising his palm, and I slap it in a weird high-five. His gaze lingers for a long second before he steps back.

　　I give him a two-finger salute, adjust my bag, and break into a run. Over the sound of my footsteps, I hear his boots pounding in the other direction.