Twisted Hearts (The Camorra Chronicles #5)(38)

Toni looked doubtful. “I’m sure once you’re married, he’ll behave… but I don’t think he’ll give up his man-whoring ways before he gets it from you.”

“He won’t get anything before we’re married,” I muttered.

Toni gave me a look. She’d never understood our traditions.




I tugged at my curls. Why was I so nervous? It wasn’t me who had to fight, and I wasn’t worried about the outcome of the fight either. Savio would win. Mick stood absolutely no chance against him, even if Savio had fought in the cage against a strong opponent only yesterday.

A knock sounded and Mom poked her head in, taking in my outfit. I had insisted to choose what I wore today. I knew I’d be the center of attention, even if it wasn’t a public fight in the Arena. Only other Camorrista and the involved families were allowed to attend.

I’d chosen a dress because even on a day like this, jeans wouldn’t fly with Mom or Dad, but it was the least modest I owned, hugging my waist and chest, but ending in a flowing skirt that reached my knees. I’d even straightened my natural curls, only to turn them into more controlled, shiny curls with my curling iron.

“You look beautiful, love,” Mom said as she walked in and hugged me. “Two men fighting over you, it’s something else…”

I laughed dryly. “Yeah.”

If word got out, and word would get out at some point, the stares in school would increase tenfold.

“Just promise me to keep an open mind for either outcome.”

Mom didn’t know anything about fighting, or Savio. There was only one realistic outcome. I nodded anyway.

“We need to go,” Dad called.

Mom kissed my cheek. “Have fun.”

“You’re not coming?”

She touched her belly with an apologetic smile. “You know how queasy I get with blood, and the hormones only make it worse.”

“Gemma! We’re going to be late!” Diego shouted.

I kissed Mom’s cheek, grabbed my purse and rushed downstairs where Dad, Diego, and Nonna were waiting for me. Surprise shot through me.

“Don’t look so shocked, bambina,” Nonna said with a rough laugh. She’d been smoking in secret ever since Grandpa’s death and it was unmistakable.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” I asked.

“Your nonna is made of steel,” Dad said, touching her shoulder.

Diego and Dad sat in the front, while Nonna and I shared the backseat. She took my hand during the drive. I knew she probably favored Mick because his family was more traditional, but I was glad for her support.




Roger’s Arena was more crowded than I’d thought it’d be. Dozens of eyes followed me as my family and I headed for one of the booths close to the fighting cage.

Toni hurried our way, smiling. She pulled me into a tight embrace. “You look like you want to run,” she whispered before she released me.

Part of me wanted to run away, but the other, bigger part longed to see Savio’s fight.

“Do you have to work?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Dad hired two new waitresses, so I can watch the fight with you.” She turned to my family. “Hello, Mrs. Bazzoli, Daniele, Diego.” Her eyes halted on my brother and for once, he didn’t look like she was a fly he wanted to swat away. Toni was eye-catching with her long straight brown hair and those huge brown eyes, not to mention her tall, willowy model figure.

We all slipped into the booth.

Remo stepped out of the changing room and silence fell over the bar. “The fight begins in five minutes.” He didn’t say more, didn’t explain, only briefly nodded toward my father then toward Mick’s family who sat on the other side of the Arena.

Mick was the first who came out of the changing room. I’d never seen him in anything but street clothes. Now he wore only fighting shorts and flip-flops. Maybe he was worried about touching the floor with his bare feet. He wasn’t very tanned, his Italian heritage definitely less prominent than with me, and tall and lanky with only the hint of lean muscle. A small scar marred his left arm and the Camorra tattoo flashed on his other. His eyes found me.

I didn’t look away. I owed him that much, but I couldn’t bring myself to give him more than a small smile. Everyone was watching. I could feel the force of their gazes on my skin, making it itch.

Then everything faded into the background because the door to the changing room opened again.

Savio prowled out of it. He oozed confidence and lethal determination. My eyes took him in, every inch of his body. One look at him and everyone knew there could be only one winner tonight: Savio Falcone.

He was tanned, tall, but not in a lanky way. Savio was well-proportioned male-perfection. He was pure muscle. Not in the bulky way of some bodybuilders whose muscles made them immobile. Savio’s muscle were of the agile, functional kind, meant to make him strong and fast, lethal and attractive.

Scars littered his chest and arms, marks of a struggle for power, and the absolute will to defend it. They adorned his body like battle trophies, which he proudly presented to the world. Only two scars were covered up by the inked artwork his brother had created: the cuts on his wrists.

My gaze lingered on the tips of horns peeking out of his waistband, marking the very edge of his delicious V. I felt the unreasonable urge to tug his shorts lower to see more of that infamous bull.