The Beauty and the Brawler

by Winter, Nikki

  There was no point. No one had ever thought he was good enough. Not his parents, not potential adopters, not foster care...no one. At least not until Sansone. He’d been the only one to ever look at him and see past all the scars and bruises and hard exterior. At sixteen, Luciano didn’t know what it was like to have friends. Sansone had shown him. It started with bringing him lunches at school when he realized Luciano didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Of course, he couldn’t grasp why one of the richest little bastards in school was being nice to him; he thought Sansone was out to embarrass him at some point. But then it graduated to inviting him over for dinner.

  That went on for months, then a year, until the Sultanas had made themselves his unofficial family. Eventually they offered to adopt him, but he had to question why any family would want to take in a shit-starting kid with a chip on his shoulder and no interest in getting it removed. They pushed and pushed, and even after his eighteenth birthday still wanted him, until finally he agreed.

  To this day, while he might refer to Aida and Carmine Sultana as Ma and Pop, he still called Sansone his friend before calling him his brother. Most asked why, and his answer was always the same, “Because that’s what he was first. My friend and then my brother. I’ll never forget that.”

  The moment he became a part of their family his life changed. There were rough patches, with his still getting into fights in school up until Pop gave him something constructive to do—boxing. The second he hit the heavy bag, something inside him unleashed. The fights came few and far between before stopping altogether. School became a priority and before he knew it, Luciano was in his eighth semester in college, graduating with a bachelor’s in finance. Then he was discovered by a trainer who had an in with the boxing world. A year later, he won his first championship.

  After that, Luciano was on every TV network, cereal box, and sports drink billboard from Philly to L.A. with Sansone managing his career, never letting his head get too big or his pockets too empty.

  Eight years later, and he had six championships under his belt, a sporting goods line, and a protein shake to call his own. Sansone, the asshole, had a knack for running things on a tight ship. He was also analytical as shit, so Luciano wasn’t surprised when said asshole suddenly asked, “Exactly what do you want with Sammie, anyway?”

  He stopped flipping pancakes. "You asking because you care, or because you want me to punch you in the face today?"

  Sansone snorted. "Both."

  "I can skip to the punching in the face..."

  “Someone’s a little touchy...” Sansone sang.

  Goddamn caffeine.

  “You know,” the other man started quietly, “I’m highly entertained by the fact Sammie has made you her bitch.”

  And boom goes the dynamite. It didn’t matter that it was true, or that he was worried as hell that she hadn’t been answering his calls in the last week or so.

  Luciano stacked a plate high and turned smoothly to set it down in front of Sansone. “You know what entertains me even more?”

  His sibling lifted his head from the paper. “No, and I can’t say I give a shit.”

  Luciano leaned across the kitchen island and grinned. “It’s the look of pure joy on Nyssa’s face after she’s gotten laid. She just glows, doesn’t she?”

  He totally saw that right cross coming. In hindsight, he should’ve left it alone but he regretted nothing. Nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Calm. She’d remain calm. She’d remain calm, and she’d breathe, and she wouldn’t twitch. She wouldn’t let on that a goddamn thing was wrong. Yup, that was Samara’s plan. It was a good plan; a good, solid plan. It was a plan that—

  “You’re pregnant.”

  Those words stopped her dead in her tracks as she gave up any pretense of ninja-stealthing her way through the halls of WKZ at the ass-crack of dawn; something she hadn’t seen in weeks. Of course, common sense told her she’d get caught but...

  Samara very slowly turned towards where Ava’s voice had come from—in between the goddamn vending machines. Fucking cashew addiction.

  She blinked innocently at her pseudo boss. “’Course not. Why would you even—” The look on Ava’s face seemed to reach out, snatch the lie, and then Harlem Shake all over it. Shit. Samara’s eyes closed. “How could you tell?”

  Ava snorted. “Sammie, you’ve hiked here from three blocks over in a blizzard with a year’s supply of cocoa, a cooler full of pre-cooked dinners, and a hot plate just so you could continue to entertain the hordes of rude sons of bitches that listen to ‘Choice Words.’ After seven years of watching you run your slot on WKZ like a Stalin, Fidel, honey badger hybrid on bath salts and malt liquor steroids, I know the only thing capable of knocking you off your game, if only for a few days, is the spawn growing inside you.” The station manager popped a couple cashews, casually chewing. Then she asked, “When are you due, and when should I start buying fluffy shit from FAO Schwarz?”

  Damn. Bitches be intuitive...

  Samara sucked in a deep breath. “My doctor says October fourth at the latest, and you can start buying fluffy shit as soon as I’m sure my kid will make it here without introducing me to the gates of hell.”

  Ava’s brows arched. “Oh, pumpkin...just from looking at you I’m surmising that not only are the gates of hell open, but your child is orchestrating how to stop the second coming of Christ.”

  Eyes narrowing, Samara placed a hand on her belly and grabbed a balled-up piece of paper before chucking it at Ava. “Shut it.” She looked around. “Trip or Paz in yet?”

  Trip Latimore and Paz Ojeda, were two of her best friends and worse co-stars——mainly because they were assholes. They owned it and accepted it, but that didn’t make them any easier to deal with. Most days, Samara barely refrained from pushing Trip through the eighth-floor window and watching him plummet to his death with glee. Paz, however, was a little easier to tolerate. It might’ve had something to do with the fact he’d learned his lesson about fucking with her a long time ago.

  “Both,” Ava answered.

  Samara glanced down at her watch. They had about twenty minutes before show time. She’d be cutting her part short today, knowing she wouldn’t last long. Dr. Balcomb had given her a strict schedule to follow becuase she didn’t like the fact Samara was so sick so early on. Apparently because she was only a few weeks along, courtesy of her romp session with Luciano, she had another two months to look forward to feeling like shit on a platter. She was overjoyed at the news.

  Samara started towards the studio. “Good. I can go announce—”

  “Oh, they already guessed,” Ava supplied.

  Freezing again, Samara stared over her shoulder at the other woman. “Whaaa...”

  “They had a pool going.”

  Sighing, Samara turned back towards Ava, rubbing her temples. “Trip is going around telling people he’s the father, isn’t he?”

  Ava smirked. “There were Cubans handed out.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Seven years, Sammie. Seven long years...”

  She was well aware of how long she’d been forced to see Trip five days out of the week. Which was why she didn’t feel an ounce of remorse when she found him in the studio and tried to claw his eyes out. What’d the fast-talking bastard do? He laughed. Laughed!

  “Hey, hey, hey! I thought we agreed to finally come out in the open with our forbidden love!”

  Paz, apparently sensing the imminent danger his asshole of a co-worker was in, strolled through the door, put down his mug of coffee, gently picked Samara up, and carried her across the small space and sat her down. “Do you want to be a prison mom?” he calmly asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t kill him.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “Paz, he—”

  “I know.”

  “And—”

  “I understand, but the answer is still no.”

  “I ju
st want to—”

  “No.”

  Samara stomped her foot and growled as Trip’s chuckles grew louder and louder. “Asshole.”

  Trip grinned. “But I’m a pretty asshole.” He blew her a kiss. “Because of me, our baby will be beautiful. You should be grateful.”

  Paz caught her before she made it over the table, fingers curled into claws once again, and threatened the other man. “I will unleash her on you.”

  Spreading his arms wide, Trip replied, “She’s a little moody because I gave all the details of our torrid affair without her here.”

  Samara stilled and softly spoke. “I’m going to kill you, Obadiah Jacob Latimore the Third.” His grin melted at the use of his given name. “I’m going to kill you then tell everyone about your life as Real Steel.”

  Paz looked between the two of them. “Real Steel?”

  “Oh, Sammie, c’mon!”

  Her head cocked as she began to hum a tune Trip was all too familiar with. They didn’t call her Sammie the Voice for nothing.

  Trip pointed at her. “You swore you wouldn’t!”

  “What am I missing here?” Paz queried.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Samara retorted casually. “Just Trip’s old career choice as a—”

  “I’ll take it back I swear!” He waved his arms. “I’ll make sure everyone in the building knows I’m full of shit!”

  Behind her, Paz snorted. “My friend, it’s far too late for that. Everyone already knows.” He raised his brows towards Samara. “Lucy, you have some ’splaining to do.”

  She pouted a little. “Can’t we just continue with our regular daily routine?”

  His lips twitched. “Cute...but no.”

  Flopping back into her chair, she placed a hand to her forehead. “I can’t handle this kind of stress. I’m with child.”

  It was Trip who pulled her hand away from her face. “Sweetheart, it’s six a.m., I had to drink shitty lounge coffee, and your breasts are not on display for my enjoyment.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You should be thankful we aren’t passing you from knee to knee by now and tanning your ass.”

  Samara’s shoulders slumped. It was going to be a long day.

  ***

  Manfred, the smell of food, and a home that didn’t look like a tornado and hurricane had a fuckfest in her living room gwere the things Samara noticed upon opening her front door. This meant one of two things; she had a really domestic, possibly homicidal stalker in her condo or...Nyssa was here.

  Her sister was the only logical explanation to the change in her home because her mother didn’t have a key to her place—thank God—and her father wasn’t a big fan of New York as a whole. Plus, she smelled mustard-fried chicken breast. And the only person who fed Samara’s addiction to mustard-fried chicken breast was Nyssa. Out of the two of them, she was the one who managed to be efficient in the kitchen. Everything Samara made had a slight Cajun feel to it. It was arguable that she should be grateful her sister cooked. Arguable didn’t mean she would be grateful.

  “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, let it be a domestic, possibly homicidal stalker,” she murmured, praying.

  “Sammie, that you?” her sister called out from the kitchen.

  Samara rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  Nyssa stuck her head around the corner. “Good, you’re here.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “It’s my condo. The question is—why are you here?”

  Shrugging, her sibling replied, “Was in the neighborhood.”

  Samara stared.

  “No, seriously,” Nyssa continued. “I was literally up the block in a five-hour meeting with one of my clients who plays for the Giants. I flew in this morning. Something you’d know if you answered the phone every once in a while.” She wiped her hands with the small towel hanging over her shoulder. “I figured you’d still be on-air. It’s only noon.”

  Tossing her bag down, Samara slipped out of her jacket and sneakers before heading for the bathroom so she could wash her hands and face. “Yeah, called it an early day. Still kinda sick, yah know?”

  “My future minion is working you over, eh?”

  Samara had frozen in her tracks so many times today she might as well call a sculptor from the wax museum to come and fulfill her lifelong dream of being immortalized, candle style. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “I shit you not, ma’am.”

  “Did all of the east coast figure it out before me?” she cried.

  Nyssa laughed. “After your come-to-Jesus moment the other day, it really wasn’t that hard to put two and two together, Sammie. Even if I was fuzzy around the edges.”

  With a small, defeated sigh, Samara marched towards the bathroom. “I might as well announce it on air tomorrow morning.”

  “Not unless you want Mommy here until the kid turns eighteen.”

  She leaned over the sink, suddenly feeling all kinds of nauseous again. “Damn. I have to tell Mom and Dad.”

  “Speaking of dads,” Nyssa drawled, leaning against the doorway. “You planning to tell Luc any time soon?”

  Samara’s head snapped up. “Who said it was... Shit, I might as well not even finish that goddamn sentence. Of course it was Luc.”

  Something between the sound of a squeal and a scream left her sister’s mouth before Nyssa began to bounce around, clapping her hands. Samara caught her by the shoulders, stopping her. “You ccannot say anything.”

  Nyssa’s eyes widened. “You do plan on telling him, don’t you?”

  She chewed her lip. “’Course I do.”

  “Good.” The other woman turned back toward the hallway.

  “Just not right now,” Samara finished.

  Nyssa halted. “Now what now?”

  “This isn’t the kind of thing you tell someone over the phone.” Shifting from one foot to the other, she ran a hand down her face. “Needs to be done in person.”

  “So take the drive out tomorrow,” her sister suggested.

  Samara shook her head. “Can’t. I have to wait until this weekend, after my guest host slot on KD104 with Trip and Paz in Jersey. I’ll make the commute from there to Philly.”

  “And then you’ll tell him?”

  “Then I’ll tell him.”

  Nyssa nodded and started walking again.

  “You can’t tell Sunny, either!” Samara called after her.

  “I’m not even speaking to that prick!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a prick! That’s why not! Stop questioning why I’m not speaking to the prick!”

  “You don’t have to bellow! It’s not my fault he’s a prick!”

  “It’s nobody’s fault he’s a prick! Well...except for Satan’s because I’m convinced that’s who he serves!”

  Jesus. Those two. Nyssa needed to take her own advice for once. After six years, one would think her sister would’ve caught on by now. Then again, if she had caught on, would she be accompanying Samara on this week’s episode of Thirty-Something and Pregnant?

  Snorting, she followed after her sister.

  Chapter Four

  Nothing like watching a kid get his ass handed to him to put your life in perspective, Luciano thought as he stood just outside the Trenton Home for Boys—the same godforsaken place where he’d grown up until he ran away and never looked back...at least not until years later. Every time he stepped on the property he remembered. He remembered the fights, the anger...the gaping loneliness. Now as he stood watching a modern-day David and Goliath tale, every memory became more acute, sharper.

  No matter how many times Mr. Mini Fists of Fury got knocked down, he bounced back up. Luciano was impressed...but unwilling to make his presence known just yet. At least not until...

  “Ah! The little shit bit me!” The older kid pulled back, his wrist bleeding.

  Luciano grinned. A dirty fighter—he could appreciate that. He hadn’t hit the six-foot mark until he was s
eventeen, and then he just kept on growing. But he understood the plight of being small, feeling weak.

  The smaller scrapper hopped up again, a sound close to a battle cry leaving his mouth as he lunged for his bully. Luciano finally stepped from his hiding place, reached out, and plucked the pint-sized warrior out of the air by his shirt. Three pairs of eyes widened at the sight of him.

  “Yo! I don’t believe this shit! It’s the Philly Brawler!” one yelled. Patting his pockets, the same kid asked, “Can I have your autograph?”

  Luciano gave all three a hard stare until they got the message and scrambled over one another to get away, yelling about the Philly Brawler and his crazy eyes. He ignored the crazy part...even though it stung a little. He didn’t have crazy eyes...at least he didn’t think he did.

  “Lemme down!”

  Looking to the still-swinging kid he had trapped with one hand, Luciano sighed and said, “I thought we talked about this, Marco.”

  Ten-year-old Marco De Rossi stilled, panting. “They started it, Luc.”

  He sat him down, stooping to get a good look at his face then whistled low. “Some shiner you got there, kid.” He poked it.

  “Ow!” Marco hit him in the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t touch it!” He cupped a hand over his bruised eye.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Luciano said in a flat tone. “That make you mad?”

  “Yes!”

  “And this?” He poked Marco’s busted lip.

  “Son of a...”

  “What about this?” He poked Marco’s swollen cheek.

  “Ah! Luc stop doing that!”

  “If I don’t?” Luciano pushed him just a bit...but it was enough. “Whatcha gonna do, little man?”

  Marco launched himself at Luciano with that same loud, angry yell and once again, Luciano plucked him out of the air.

  There was a sigh behind him and then, “Mr. Antonelli, have we not discussed tormenting the children?”

  Luciano calmly looked over his shoulder. “I’m not tormenting the children. I’m tormenting a child. See the difference?”

  “Yes, because that’s what a charity founder should do.” His personal assistant, Brian, replied dryly. He wasn’t too far off with the charity part. Luciano had just donated a sizeable check to the rebuilding of the original boys’ home. In about six months or so, Marco and the rest of the kids here would have a completely new, three-story place to call their own.