Broken: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance

by Scarlet MMA, Simone

  Even Bruno Buenaventura ducked, sprawling on the cobblestones.

  Lyssa laughed, still clutching the smoking gun as she surveyed the damage.

  “In America, that’s called the Second Amendment, bitch,” she spat, loosely aiming the gun in Bruno’s direction. “Now pick your sorry ass up and get the fuck out of here before I give you another little taste of it.”

  “You’re fucking loco,” Bruno stammered, as he hauled himself to his feet. “Fucking crazy, puta.”

  Lyssa laughed, and pulled back the hammer of the gun.

  “Try me,” she sneered.

  Bruno ran to the driver’s side of his Mercedes, and swung open the door.

  “You crazy bitch,” he spat. “I’m calling my Uncle Hector on you. You’ll have the policía down here before sunrise.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Lyssa growled. “Send ‘em.”

  She waved the gun menacingly. “I’m flying back to America soon, and that means I could put a cap in your ass, and still sip complimentary champagne on the flight home.”

  Bruno’s eyes widened, as Lyssa followed him with the unblinking black eye of the semi-automatic.

  “Besides,” she spat. “You want me telling the jefe of police that you boys nearly pissed your pants?”

  She let the hammer down with a dull click, and lowered the gun a fraction.

  “You run home, you little punks, and don’t let me see you ‘round here again.”

  Bruno stuck up his middle finger at her.

  “This isn’t over, bitch,” he growled. “We’ll still get this shithole Bodegas one way or another.”

  And then he ducked behind the wheel of the car, gunned the engine, and reversed out of the courtyard.

  Limping, with one flat tire, the Toyota pickup followed – Bruno’s thugs clinging to the side of the truck bed as it rattled and rolled away.

  Soon the two cars were peeling into the distance, and Lyssa and Silas watched them go with relief.

  Lyssa waited until the headlights were far into the distance before she staggered over to her towering lover, and collapsed into his arms.

  “You’re fucking insane,” Silas breathed, as he crushed her to his chest.

  “Yeah,” Lyssa buried her face in his chest. “But I’ll tell you what – those chickenshits won’t be back here causing trouble again in a hurry.”

  And as Silas helped the exhausted girl inside, he admitted that Lyssa had a point.

  * * *

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Alberte roared at Lyssa, as she staggered inside. He snatched the smoking gun from her hands, wincing as his fingers touched the hot metal. “You could have killed somebody.”

  “My dad took me to the gun range when I was a kid,” Lyssa scoffed, flopping down at the kitchen table. “If I’d wanted any of those motherfuckers dead, they would be already.”

  “Dios Santo!” Alberte shook his head. “What if they call the policía? Bruno’s uncle is Inspector Jefe. They could arrest you! Confiscate the house!”

  “Relax,” Lyssa snapped again, forcefully enough to shut Alberte up this time. “What did you want me to do differently? Let them take those sticks and bats to you and Silas? Just let ‘em run a train on me and Celestina?”

  Alberte slumped into the chair, and shook his head.

  “I-I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.

  “And you should have seen the looks on their faces,” Lyssa laughed bitterly. “I swear Bruno pissed his pants.”

  For a moment, Alberte was silent. Then, shaking his head, he laughed wryly.

  “That I wished I’d seen,” he admitted.

  Looking up, he stretched a hand across the kitchen table and squeezed Lyssa’s hand. “Thank you. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

  Lyssa squeezed his hand back.

  “Don’t mention it. We look after our own.”

  And from the smile Alberte gave her, it was clear she was one of the family now.

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  Lyssa

  “Here comes trouble.”

  The following morning, the family were gathered in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Lyssa was just cutting her second piece of bread when she heard a car horn ring out, in the courtyard outside.

  For a moment, her heart stopped.

  The sound of a parping horn was scarily reminiscent of the previous night, when Bruno Buenaventura had come looking for trouble.

  And that feeling didn’t ease when Alberte looked out of the window and saw two cars pulling into the courtyard.

  “It’s the policía,” he gasped.

  And it was - a Seat station wagon, in the blue and white of the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía, and a gleaming black Jaguar that looked wildly out of place in the run-down courtyard of Bodegas Batras.

  Alberte nodded at Celestina, and she hustled César and Chucho out into the back garden. Then, straightening his collar, Alberte headed to the front door and went to greet his guests.

  Silas and Lyssa nervously followed.

  * * *

  Alberte stood on the steps as the cars pulled to a halt.

  From the Police car stepped a rotund man in a Cuerpo Nacional de Policía uniform, flanked by a junior officer.

  The driver of the Jaguar opened the rear door of the luxurious black car, and a second man clambered out – a heavy, old geezer who Lyssa recognized as Adolphe Buenaventura.

  Side by side, the two older men limped to the steps – leaving their younger drivers by the cars.

  Alberte stood there, implacable, as the two men approached.

  “Buenos días, Alberte,” the police officer pulled off his cap, and nodded at Silas’ brother. “How are you, this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” Alberte looked nervous. “You tell me. What are you going here, Inspector Jefe?”

  Inspector Jefe. Lyssa recognized the term. This police officer must have been Bruno’s Uncle Hector – the reason Alberte and Celestina hadn’t been able to complain to the police about the Buenaventura family.

  “We’re not here to cause trouble,” Adolphe promised, stepping up beside his brother, supported by a walking stick. “We just want to talk.”

  “About last night?” Alberte said warily.

  Hector Buenaventura snorted with a wry smile.

  “Amongst other things. Can we come inside?”

  Alberte paused for a second – and for a moment, Lyssa wondered if he was about to tell them to go to hell. But then he stepped aside, and ushered them up the stairs.

  “I’ll open a bottle of Gran Reserva,” he told them, as the two men passed. “Give you Buenaventuras the opportunity to taste some real wine.”

  Chapter One Hundred and Eight

  Lyssa

  The Inspector and Adolphe were led into the drawing room, and took seats on the old couch. Celestina was already bringing them glasses, and a plate of dried meats and crackers.

  Even unwelcome guests were treated with hospitality, here in La Rioja.

  “So what brings you here?” Alberte demanded, as he wrestled with a cork screw and opened a bottle of the famous Batras Gran Reserva. “You’re not here to arrest me?”

  The Inspector Jefe snorted, as he accepted a wine glass and allowed Alberte to slosh red wine into it.

  “I heard what happened. My nephew called me up, ranting about some crazy American woman with a gun.”

  The police officer looked across the room, to where Lyssa was standing quietly.

  “She doesn’t look so crazy to me.”

  Lyssa couldn’t help but smile.

  Silas wasn’t so amused, though.

  “Did Bruno tell you why he and his boys were here last night?” the MMA fighter growled, protectively putting his arm around Lyssa’s shoulders. “After what they said they were going to do to her, Lyssa’s lucky she let them off with a warning.”

  It was the grizzled old Adolphe who responded to that one:

  “I apologize for my son’s conduct,” he admitted
gruffly. “He didn’t just lose his tooth the last time he was here. He lost his dignity, as well.”

  “He was lucky it was just his tooth.”

  Adolphe frowned.

  “I’ve apologized. Don’t expect me to grovel.”

  Silas opened his mouth to retort, but Alberte silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “So if you’re not here to press charges – why are you here?”

  “To tell you to start packing,” Inspector Buenaventura growled. “Ley Reguladora de la Actividad Urbanística is allowing the city to seize this property for development; and we don’t want any trouble when it’s time for you to vacate it.”

  “Vacate it?” Alberte snapped. “You’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming first.”

  Adolphe snorted bitterly.

  “That’s why the Inspector Jefe is here right now,” he sneered. “To let you know that he’ll do exactly that if you don’t cooperate.”

  “Wait a damned moment,” Silas interrupted. “We’ve hired a lawyer. He says we can file an injunction to stop the seizure.”

  “Sure,” Inspector Buenaventura grinned venomously, “if you can come up with ten thousand Euros. But we’ve all seen the state of this place. You can barely afford to pay your bills as it is.”

  “But it doesn’t need to be this way,” Adolphe added. The old man sneered menacingly, gripping his walking stick. “I’m still willing to offer you a deal – despite how you treated my son last night.”

  The couch creaked as the old man leaned forward on his walking stick.

  “I’ll pay you for this place – a quarter of its market value, but that’s still more than the nothing you’ll get according to the rules of Ley Reguladora de la Actividad Urbanística.”

  Adolphe grabbed a chunk of sliced Chorizo and chewed as he spoke:

  “If you’re smart, you’ll take it. That way you and your family can still afford a place to live when they kick your culo out of here.”

  Alberte’s eyes narrowed.

  “Get out,” he growled.

  Adolphe and the Inspector didn’t move.

  “I mean it,” Alberte growled. “Get out. I’d rather Celestina and the kids lived on the streets than accept any money from you, you filthy old cabron.”

  Adolphe laughed at the insult.

  He stiffly rose from his seat, stabilizing himself on his walking stick. The Inspector followed his lead.

  “So be it,” Adolphe sneered, stealing one last piece of Chorizo. “Spain has a good public assistance program. I’m sure you and your little brats won’t starve.”

  And then, with a nod, the old man limped stiffly towards the door, his walking stick clip-clopping on the floorboards.

  The Inspector Jefe followed – but he paused as he passed Alberte, and turned menacingly to Silas’ brother.

  “There won’t be any charges for last night,” he hissed. “And I’ll make sure Bruno and his boys don’t cause you any trouble. But don’t get any ideas. Cross me or my brother, and I can have you in hospital, or in jail – or one after the other, if I so choose.”

  He headed towards the door.

  “This shitty old Bodegas will belong to the Buenaventura family soon enough,” the Inspector called, as he followed his brother out into the courtyard. “You’d be wise to just make the best of it – while you still can.”

  And then the car doors clumped, and the police car and Adolphe’s Jaguar backed out of the courtyard, and roared off down the road.

  Alberte stood on the steps of the house, and shook his fist at them as they left.

  “Bastardos,” he growled. “They’ll have to kill me before I give up this place to them.”

  Silas stepped up behind his brother, and lay a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, hermano,” he promised. “You won’t have to. I’m going to go to America, and I’m going to win that fight – and then we’ll have enough money to make sure Bodegas Batras stays in the family for generations to come.”

  Alberte reached up and squeezed his brother’s hand.

  “I hope so, hermano,” his sighed, voice cracking. “I truly, truly hope so.”

  Chapter One Hundred and Nine

  Lyssa

  “We should drive you to the airport,” Alberte insisted, as Silas and Lyssa dragged their bags downstairs. “Say goodbye to you properly.”

  “Your van’s still busted up,” Lyssa shook her head. “And besides, I need to return the rental car.”

  She dragged her suitcase outside, to where Celestina and the kids were waiting.

  “I can’t believe you’re going,” she sniffed, embracing Lyssa and squeezing her tight. “Promise me you’ll look after Silas, okay?” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Don’t let him come home like he did last time.”

  Lyssa remembered the sight of Silas in that wheelchair, and shuddered.

  “I promise,” she insisted, kissing Celestina on the cheek. “I’ll look after him like he was my own.”

  Celestina’s lips curled.

  “He is, you know,” she whispered. “I can tell by the way he looks at you.”

  Lyssa’s cheeks burned, and she turned her head to look at Silas as he followed her down the stairs.

  Alberte was hefting Silas’ suitcase after his brother, and it was clear he was struggling to hold back tears as well.

  “You be careful, hermano,” the big man growled, embracing his brother in a bear-hug. “We need you back here, safe and sound.” With a defiant snort, Alberte growled: “There’ll be work to do, once we make sure they can’t take Bodegas Batras away from us.”

  Silas patted his brother on the back.

  “I’ll be back. With the money.” Squeezing his brother’s arm, he promised: “The Buenaventuras will have to try harder if they want to steal our birthright.”

  And then he turned, and lifted his suitcase into the back of Lyssa’s car.

  There were more hugs, and tears, and kisses. César and Chucho gave Lyssa tight embraces, and the older boy’s lip quivered as he watched the pretty American climb behind the wheel of the rental car.

  And then they were off – driving through the archway and away from Bodegas Batras.

  Silas looked over his shoulder, through the back window, as his family home disappeared into the distance.

  “Will they be okay?” He asked, his face a mask. “What if Bruno and his boys come back again?”

  “They won’t,” Lyssa promised, as she guided the car through the winding roads. “Adolphe promised. And, besides – what else can we do? This is the only chance we’ve got to save your home.”

  Grimly, Silas turned in his seat, and looked out at the road ahead of them.

  “I just don’t feel right leaving,” he murmured.

  “And you shouldn’t,” Lyssa replied. “But we’ve got a job to do – and you’ve got a destiny to fulfil.”

  And, with that, the two of them fell into silence; and didn’t utter another word all the way to Logroño-Agoncillo Airport.

  Part Five

  Jersey City, New Jersey

  Chapter One Hundred and Ten

  Silas

  Thump!

  A gloved fist impacted solidly with Silas’ jaw, and sent him reeling back across the vinyl mats.

  “Faster, dude,” snapped Rob Staavig, circling the bigger fighter menacingly. “You’ve got to be faster – because if Rashaan Jackson clocks you with a right hook like that, it’s going to be lights out, baby.”

  Silas was rounding out the second hour of training that morning, in the run-down Jersey karate school known as BB Martial Arts Center.

  The drab exterior of the old school didn’t look that impressive – but in the three weeks since Silas had returned to America, he’d come to appreciate the schooling he was exposed to there a lot.

  Like the guy he was sparring with right now – a towering, blonde-haired fighter who’d be instantly recognizable to most fans of the MMA league.

  Rob Staavig ha
d been a championship contender a decade ago – fighting under the nickname ‘Thor’, as a nod to his Norwegian heritage. Now he was manager and head instructor at BB Martial Arts Center – and he was teaching Silas a thing or two.

  “Keep moving,” Rob was snapping, as he circled Silas – taking a few experimental swings to judge the distance between them. “Rashaan’s a striker – you’ve got to be looking out for his hits.”

  To prove his point, Rob took a jab at Silas right then – and the big man shrugged it off.

  With a snarl, the Spanish fighter bulldozed his way across the space between them, and hooked his huge arms between Rob’s thighs. With a tug, he practically flipped the smaller fighter over – and Silas landed on top of him as Rob sprawled on the mats.

  From there, the two of them broke into desperate wrestling moves – Rob squirming and twisting, and Silas keeping him pinned to the floor with his larger weight.

  As he slid his forearm across Rob’s neck, the Norwegian tapped out frantically – and he was gasping as he rolled aside.

  “Okay, okay, that was slick,” Rob rasped, clutching his throat. “But don’t get too full of yourself.” Turning to look at the super-heavyweight, Rob snapped: “You’ve got fifty pounds on me, and I don’t hit as hard as Rashaan does. So quit trying to beat me up, and listen to what I have to say instead.”

  A bell rang overhead, signaling the end of the practice session. One of the staff at BB Martial Arts Center – a skinny kid called Johnny – was already beckoning Rob and Silas off the floor, to make way for a class of ‘little ninjas’ anxious to begin.

  “C’mon,” Rob patted the towering Silas on the back, “let’s go grab some water and chat.”

  Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

  Silas

  The ‘karate café’ was a euphemistically-named space in the lobby of the karate center, where a vending machine and coffee pot served as ‘refreshments’ for the parents who brought their kids to the school.