In fact, her mother wasn’t Latina at all. She was African American. At nineteen, Clarissa Ross fell in love with Antonio Silva, the smooth-talking Dominican boy who’d moved into the apartment down the hall from hers. Ten months later, she was pregnant. They got married and lived happily-ever-after. All that being said, her mofongo was off the charts and her chicken potpie was legendary.
“You and Franco represent the future of our family,” her mother said. “Can I count on you two to say a few words? Nothing fancy.”
“Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel chimed. “Nothing fancy. You and Franco can handle that.”
What was Miguel’s problem? And what was she going to tell her mother? Their family had no future? She wasn’t that cruel.
* * *
That Sunday, after dinner with her family, Sofia sat in her car for a long time thinking about the future. Had she been too quick to toss out the past and Franco with it? She drove to Aventura, back to the home she’d abandoned, where most of her clothes, her comfy pants and her favorite pillow had been left behind. It was time she and Franco had a talk.
He greeted her at the door, looking rumpled and contrite. They sat at the dining table. Franco rushed to apologize.
“None of those women meant anything to me.”
Women. Plural. Did he have to remind her that it wasn’t just one faceless girl, but legions?
“I never met any of them in real life,” he continued. “It was all for play. Something to do when I was bored.”
“So, I bored you.”
“No,” Franco said. “That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sofia. I wish there was a way for me to make it all up to you.”
Sofia raised a hand to silence him. That silence stretched on forever. They sat at the table, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Sofia had promised herself that the breakup wouldn’t break her. But when finally she tried to speak, her voice buckled and failed. She took a breath and started again.
“We’re family,” she said.
Franco had been there for her the whole time her mother was in the hospital. He’d shown up early with coffee and returned after work. He’d brought her dinner, a change of clothes, whatever she needed. He ran errands for her dad. He’d been like...a brother.
Franco exhaled with relief. “We are family.”
“And if you ever need anything, call me.”
She stood, ready to leave, but not before retrieving her favorite pillow and packing up her comfy pants.
“That’s it?” Franco asked.
Sofia walked over to the hallway closet and pulled out a large suitcase. “That’s it.”
“I don’t want things to end this way,” he said.
She turned to face him. “Things are not going to end this way. We’re staying engaged for three more months, and then it’s officially over. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.”
“I don’t understand,” Franco said.
“My mom is expecting us to make a couple’s toast at her anniversary dinner in April, and we’re not going to let her down.”
Sofia wheeled the suitcase into the bedroom, pausing on her way to look at Franco alone at the table.
“Don’t look so confused,” she said. “You wanted a way to make it up to me. This is the way.”
Because Jon had a smart mouth, growing up he got his ass kicked—a lot. Then one day, a cousin told him to bulk up or shut up. If some kids found camaraderie and guidance at a local Y, Jon found the same in a dank basement gym in New Jersey where he started lifting weights. At fourteen, when he left his mother to live with his father, an airman then stationed in Germany, he was taller than most kids and all lean muscle.
A year later, his father transferred to the UK. There Jon followed some older kids to an off-base boxing club where he practiced sparring, mastered drills and generally kept out of trouble. The first time he entered a ring at sixteen, he was a mere featherweight. By the time he returned stateside to attend college at Syracuse, he’d gained muscle and weighed in as a middleweight. He’d won a few fights and earned a scholarship from an intercollegiate boxing association that put a dent in his tuition.
Boxing had shaped his life in ways others couldn’t appreciate. His parents had mixed reactions to his newfound passion. His mother was repulsed by it. His father admired it. But they misunderstood it. Boxing hadn’t made him a fighter, as his mother feared. It had taught him restraint and self-control. Once word got out that he packed a mean punch, he didn’t get into random fights anymore. Kids stopped provoking him. And he could knock their lights out with one right hook, but why would he? It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing skill.
So it made sense that when Jon left Sofia that night, he headed straight to the boxing club to work it all out. The converted warehouse located blocks from the Design District was light years away from the District’s freshly painted glamour. The street was dark, pothole ridden and lined with small businesses so precarious they could fold at any time. It seemed that every other shop was holding a going-out-of-business sale. With no signs or markings to call attention to it, the club would have blended nicely with the neighborhood if not for the heavily guarded parking lot filled with sport cars and SUVs. Jon let himself in with a key card, changed in the locker room and headed out to the floor.
Grunting. Slapping. Moaning. Shouts. A few regulars were going at it on the mat. A woman was attacking a heavy bag. An instructor was running a class in the back of the room. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, up! Good! Now eight more!” Jon slipped on his headphones and silenced his world. He grabbed a rope and started skipping at a slow pace then at whip speed.
Sofia had to be the most gorgeous liar he’d ever met. He didn’t know what she was hiding, but he’d find out. You couldn’t succeed in his line of work without the ability to smell deceit. That so-called fiancé of hers...he was calling bullshit. She’d hesitated to mention him. Never once said “we” like his engaged friends did. That was slim evidence, but enough to open an investigation.
A tall blond came to stand right in his field of vision—not the kind of blond that he went for. Andrew Fordham looked disheveled, his tie loose around his neck and his suit jacket crumpled in his hand. He pointed to Jon.
“Lose the headphones. Meet you in the ring in five.”
* * *
To a newcomer, Jon and Andrew would not seem evenly matched. Slim and fair, Drew didn’t look like much of a threat, but he was lightning fast and landed his punches with accuracy. But Jon’s bulk didn’t ever slow him down. They danced, circling each other, falling into a rhythm.
“Did you hear?” Drew asked.
Jon ducked, narrowly avoiding his jab. “Hear what?”
“They got Taylor Benson.”
