Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (6 page)

For the next hour and a half, I was put through a torturous series of tests, covering what I thought was just about every possible measurement of my woefully lacking fitness ability. Well, what I now realized was lacking. Before, I’d thought I was in decent shape.

It started with a climb on the VersaClimber machine, which in fewer than five minutes had me feeling like I wanted to hurl my breakfast.

Somehow, I survived the whole fifteen minutes on the machine, although I could tell as she read the readouts that Luisa wasn't impressed. She gave me only five minutes to recover before she sat me down on the bench press machine, putting a plate on each side. "Press."

I did. The weight wasn't much, but as soon as I set the handles down, she added another ten pounds to each side, the iron clanging.

This repeated until I couldn't press any more, and she noted the amount on her clipboard.

The tests continued, with tests of muscular strength, endurance, flexibility, and even testing how long I could hold positions. I'd never felt like less of a physical specimen that I did after they completed, and I dropped to the mat in the corner, splashing slightly when my forehead smacked into the small puddle of sweat underneath me.

"Good," Luisa said, tapping her pencil on the clipboard again. "Can you fight?"

"You saw all my moves on Friday night," I joked in reply. "But really, who you got lined up?"

She shook her head. "Not right now—you’re spent. Go shower and get washed up, and get your suit on. I’ll meet you in the hallway. Oh, and Dante?"

"Yes?" I gasped, trying and failing to roll to a position where I could get to my feet.

"You did fine. You have a way to go, but you did the most important thing."

"Which was?" I asked, the
s
in
was
turning into a long, drawn-out groan as I finally got to my feet, using my arms to help me before hanging off the machine in front of me. "Not dying?"

"Not giving up. Giving up won’t be tolerated. Now jump to it. You have only fourteen minutes left."

"
A
nd one
. . . two . . . three . . . four!" I called out, clapping my hands in time with the words. The five high school girls on the floor moved from position to position, their matching shoes squeaking on the flooring as they went from maneuver to maneuver. The only sound in the studio was their feet, my keeping the beat, and their breathing.

Dance practice isn’t as glamorous as most people think. It's a fact of life that music eventually starts to wear on you, and that great piece you pick out now is going to be more painful than the Macarena by the time you compete with it. It was a reason that I made sure each of my classes danced to something different, because there was no way in hell that I would have been able to tolerate hour upon hour of listening to the same thing five and a half days a week.

"Miss Carmen," one of the girls, Meghan, who was also the leader of this particular group of friends, whined, "we've been doing this same thing for twenty minutes."

"I know," I said. "I'm the one with the clock, remember? But you're right, there's no competition coming up. Take a break, and let's have some fun with it."

While the girls were getting some water, the doorbell dinged, and I turned, surprised when I saw Dante Degrassi walked in. "Hi."

"Ten minutes," I replied, pointing at the girls in explanation. "Have a seat."

He nodded, making his way painfully across to the little line of chairs I had in place for parents who wanted to watch the little kids’ classes. I had to chuckle. The man looked like he was death warmed over, and he moved like he had the worst case of muscle soreness in the world. I'd seen geriatric old men who moved easier than he was. I watched him settle into the chair, then turned back to the high school girls, who were done with their breaks. "Okay, let's run through something we've done before. Tiffany, do you still remember that Ariana Grande track we did a few months ago?"

Tiffany, the youngest and newest member of the group, nodded enthusiastically, and I laughed. "Okay, let's get to work."

There was nothing really all that complicated about the routine. I had the girls copy what Ariana did in the video for the song. The girls loved it, and it ended the class on a high note, which I wanted to do every time. Besides, they did have some talent, but like most high school age girls, they had a hard time embracing the grind that is real dance training.

After class was done and the girls had left, I walked over and sat down beside Dante, who hadn't moved since sitting down. "How's it going?"

"I'm in pain," Dante said with a laugh, "but it's the good type."

"The good type? I'm not too familiar with the good type of pain," I replied. "What have you been up to this past week?"

"Actually, I've finally gotten a break,” Dante said, smiling painfully. "And for that, I have to thank you. It seems my crazy stunt of tackling Eduardo convinced Tomasso to give me a chance to join his new crew."

"Congratulations," I cheered. "At least you got something good out of it. So what's causing the pain then?"

"Well, Tomasso wants all his people to be top of the line operatives, and to be honest, I'm not in as good of shape as I thought I was,” Dante said, groaning slightly as he leaned forward. "So for the past two days, I've been working hard. Tomasso told me you could help me out.”

“I still do massages for Bertoli men whom I trust," I replied, smiling. "Can I trust you?"

"Trust me to do what?" he asked, somewhat confused. I realized in an instant that he didn't know anything about me, and to him, I was just a girl who did massage and danced.

"Nothing," I quickly dismissed, happy on the inside. "Just some of the guys tend to have problems keeping their hands to themselves. But if you're looking for one now, there's a problem."

"What's that?" he asked, groaning. "Don't tell me you've got another class."

"Nope, that was my last one for the next two hours," I said, not mentioning that the next class was some of my former co-workers from the Starlight Club who would come in on their off nights to practice, "but my supplies are out. I've got an order coming in supposedly tomorrow with the next bottles of stuff I use. Unless you've got a bottle of olive oil in your car, we'll have to postpone."

He groaned then nodded, forcing a calm face. "Okay, I can do that. In the meantime, though, Luisa told me to keep moving, and that starting next week, I'm supposed to work out on my own three days a week. I just have to find something good for cardio that I enjoy and can stick with.”

"So what is your thing?" I asked, relaxing. I didn't know what it was about Dante, but I just felt comfortable talking to him. "I've figured out it's not swimming."

“Very funny,” Dante sarcastically said, but still cracking a smirk. "Actually, I don't really know. I thought maybe you could help me with that, too."

“Oh, really? How’s that?” I asked.

"Well, I may not look like it, but I can tear it up in the club when I go," he said, a bit cocky.

"Oh, really?" I snickered, amused. "And where do I come in? Taking me to a club?"

Dante shook his head. “That sounds fun, but I was considering taking a few lessons."

"Really?" I blurted, surprised. “You’re shitting me.”

"Okay, I got it, bad idea," Dante said. “I’d probably scare all the little ones or women off.”

He went to get up, but I stopped him, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. It's not that it's a bad idea, just that you're the first man to ask me for dance lessons. I was surprised, that's all."

He dropped back into the chair, sighing. "It's okay. I don’t want to cause you business.”

"It's not that, really," I said apologetically. "Like I said, you just surprised me. The next closest man I have as a student is fourteen, unless you count the seniors group I teach twice a month on Thursday mornings. Some of those guys are nearly in walkers though. Oh, and there's George, but he's flamboyantly . . . gender fluid. What sort of dance are you looking for, anyway? You don't strike me as a ballet type.”

Dante shook his head, laughing out loud. "Me in a ballet uniform? No thanks. I was thinking maybe ballroom dance. It might actually be useful every now and then.”

"Ballroom . . . that’s hell on the low back and hips. If you're stiff now, what're you going to be able to do on the floor?"

"I can still do my thing," Dante said, his pride forcing him to his feet. “Trust me, I can dance my ass off.”

“I’d have to see that before I believe it," I challenged him, waving a hand out. "I'll even put some music on. How about what that last group was doing?"

"Ariana Grande? Not my type," Dante said, working his way out to the middle of the floor. “Pick something not so teeny pop?"

"I think I can find something," I said, going over to my computer. Pulling up my iTunes, I chose a favorite beat of mine, not a famous song in any typical sense, but a standard hip-hop beat that formed the base for quite a few other songs. Tapping, I brought it up, letting Dante listen for a minute. "What do you think?"

“Um . . . let’s do it," he said, starting to dance. I watched for a while, and I couldn't hold it in anymore as he flailed around, gyrating and moving in something that looked somewhat like a cross between an epileptic fit, boxing, and twerking. I starting laughing, feeling lightness and happiness coming with each laugh.

Dante, however, didn't understand that my laughter was yes, directed a bit at him, but at the same time, it was that all my stresses were seemingly gone for those moments. Still, he stopped, his face turning red with either shame or anger, I wasn’t sure.

“Damn. Am I really that bad?” he asked.

I sobered quickly, seeing his face, and I knew that here was someone who, like me, was really trying to prove himself better than what everyone thought he was. "I'm sorry. I have to admit, it was a little funny. You at least have timing though. I could see that you were carrying the beat, even if you were doing it wrong. But mainly, it was good watching you dance. I enjoyed myself."

“Well tell me like it is, why don’t you . . .” Dante replied. I wasn’t sure if he was playing along or offended. He was a tough guy to get a read on.

I put my hand on his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart. I felt bad for my laughter, regardless of whether he was offended or not. “Can I ask you for something?"

"What's that?" he asked, stepping back.

"Can you come by tomorrow morning, say at nine? We can start lessons then. Just you and me, one on one.”

Dante thought, then shook his head. "Nine's too late. Tomasso and Luisa have had me coming by at ten the past few days. Can we make it eight, or even seven?"

I tilted my head, smiling. "You're going to try and peel this night owl out of bed early just to dance, huh? Well, as long as you don't mind if I have some bed head, you've got a deal. We’ll have to work in a massage every now and then to work those muscles loose though. I don't want to try and teach you if you're going to be stiff as an old man all the time."

Dante smirked and nodded. "Okay. Uhm, how much is this going to cost me, anyway?"

"I'll give you the Bertoli-slash-guy who stuck up for my honor discount," I said, patting his chest. "How's twenty bucks a month sound? That'll be for two lessons a week, one on Tuesday and one Sunday. If Tomasso and Luisa give you Sundays off, we can even make that one an afternoon lesson so that I can get some sleep and show you that I do know how to brush my teeth too."

“Sounds like charity, but hey, I’ll take it," he replied, giving me a genuine smile. He was cute when he smiled. He was the sort of guy who should do it more often but didn’t. At least he’ll fit in good with the Bertolis. "But if I just happen to bring you breakfast every once in a while on top of the twenty bucks, you won't be too mad?"

"Mad?" I replied with a smile. "You bring me breakfast, and I may just kiss you. Now go. I've got to get some dinner and let it digest before my last class shows up. And no, you can't buy me dinner. Yet.”

"Deal. Thanks, Carmen. I'll see you here tomorrow, seven o'clock."

Dante headed out the door, limping slightly with his stiff muscles, and I called after him. "Dante!"

"Yeah?"

"When you get to your place, take as warm a shower as you can. Pop a couple of Tylenol or something. Tomorrow, I'll show you how to warm up and stretch out so that you won't be so sore!"

“Sounds great!" he said, going over to his car, a used Mercedes that I could tell had come from a bargain lot. "Good night, Carmen!"

As he drove away, I couldn't help but smile as he pulled out onto the road, disappearing quickly into the flow of traffic. I didn't know what it was. Maybe it was his earnestness, or maybe it was his smile. In any case, I hadn't lied to him. I did have to get some dinner before my last class arrived. I went into my little living area, and looked into my fridge.

"Half a Tupperware of Bertoli lasagna," I said, shaking my head. Suddenly, there was another ring of the bell at the door, and I went back out front, seeing a pizza delivery guy standing there. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Carmen Esperanza?" the guy, who upon closer view was actually from Bertoli pizza, asked.

"Yes. Why? I didn't order anything."

The delivery man shrugged and set down the bag that was in his hand. "I just got the name and the order. It's already paid up, just if you could sign for it, please."

I did, making sure to give the kid a tip, and watched as he walked out. Opening the bag, I saw that inside were two Bertoli pizzas with a note attached.

My friends. Still taking care of me, even though I didn't deserve it.

"
S
o how is
dance class going?"

I stopped in the middle of where I was reading and looked up, surprised. Tomasso was standing in the doorway of the library where I had been reading an annotated copy of
The Art of War
, an assignment from Luisa that I actually enjoyed. It was part of my training. The Bertolis wanted me to train mentally
and
physically.

"It's going well," I said, putting my bookmark in and closing the book. "I apparently at least halfway know how to waltz, and we're going to start working on the foxtrot."

"Having fun with it still?" Tomasso asked, smirking.

"It’s a fun little stress remover and exercise at the same time. I'll admit that," I said. After nearly three weeks, I wasn't sore anymore, but instead, I felt more comfortable, both with the intense regimen they were putting me through and being around the Bertolis. "The VersaClimber sprints still suck, though."

Tomasso laughed and nodded. "They suck for everyone, but that's part of the appeal, learning to embrace the suck. In any case, are you ready for this afternoon?"

"This afternoon?" I asked, confused. "Nobody told me anything about this afternoon."

"They didn't?" He said, mock-perplexed. "Probably because I didn't tell anyone. Do you have jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt?"

"Not here, but I have some at my apartment," I replied, sitting up. "Should I get them?"

"Yes, and then meet me back here. I'm taking over your training this afternoon." Tomasso had a little twinkle in his eye, like whatever I'd be doing was going to be fun.

"Any hints?" I asked, setting my book aside and getting up. "You know, so I can make sure I wear the right set of jeans."

He shook his head and tapped his watch. "Think you can make it to your place and back in a half hour?"

It was a rush, but I did it, pulling back into the parking area at the mansion exactly twenty-nine minutes after I left, although it had involved me running through my apartment, and I knew I had a mess to clean up afterward.

The tasks that they gave me weren't impossible. They had an innate understanding of my limits. But what they both did was challenge me, pushing me just one step past what I had been able to do the day before, and with each new step, I found myself gaining, mostly in self-respect. Tomasso was standing by his sports car, waiting for me when I got out, slipping my keys into my front pocket. "Good job. Nice choice on the shoes, too."

I looked down, glad that I'd gone with instinct and worn an old set of Timberland boots that I had from an old part-time job years before instead of the exercise shoes I was wearing so often now. "The Nikes were stinky as hell, and I knew if I tracked dirt and mud into the kitchen tomorrow, Jessie would take a mop handle to me."

"Yeah, she's fun like that," Tomasso said, getting into his car. "Jump in. Watch the back."

We drove for about a half hour, out into the woods south of Seattle. "What are we doing out here?"

"I've never seen you shoot. It's part of our job, even if we haven’t had to in a while,” Tomasso said. "I'm not expecting you to be as good as Daniel is, but I do need to know you're not going to shoot yourself in the foot. Or me.”

We reached an empty area off a dirt road, where a natural embankment provided a safety backstop for anyone who wanted to shoot. I decided to not ask questions and just accept it, and I got out of the car. "So what are we shooting?"

"Beretta Cougars," Tomasso said, taking the case that had been in the back seat and opening it, showing matched pistols. "We start with these, and then we'll move on from there. What experience do you have with them?"

“Does Call of Duty count? No, seriously, not a whole lot, but one of my old co-workers was a gun nut. He was one of those old-school gun fans, ready with his Garand for the collapse of Western civilization or the zombie apocalypse people. He taught me some stuff."

"Like what?"

"Enough to tell that those AKs that I delivered to Tacoma a few weeks ago had enough aftermarket parts to obscure that they were old Yugoslavian copies instead of real Russian ones," I replied. Tomasso looked surprised, and I nodded. "The parts on the Yugoslavian ones are stamped instead of milled. Better than the Chinese copies, though."

"Good catch. Yeah, Dad and I both didn't like it, but those Vietnamese guys insist on having their AKs and being cheap about it. At least with us doing the deal, we know how much they're getting. But back to today's business. How well do you shoot?"

"Let's find out."

We set up our target, a dense foam rubber-backed competition target at just about fifteen feet, not far away, but a good start.

I tried, firing a five-round mini-clip at the target before we paused and checked my progress. "Hey, that's not bad," Tomasso said, looking at the collection of holes on the paper. "Four out of five in the black zone, and all five hit paper. Nice work. Let's have you step back some, and we'll try it again."

We kept going, and by the end of an hour, he was confident enough in what I could do. We finished with a little old-fashioned plinking, shooting empty cans that Tomasso had positioned on rocks that made a satisfying sight flipping into the air with each hit. Afterward, Tomasso chuckled and went around to the trunk of his car, popping it open. "Now for the fun part?"

"What's that?" I asked, making sure my pistol was clear. "Rifles?"

"Nope . . . cleaning," he replied, pulling out what looked like a fishing tackle box. "You know those crappy AKs? If they're cleaned, they can actually work pretty well. But we keep our tools cleaned and ready. I don't know what every man working for my father does, but my crew . . . we're going to be professionals."

I nodded, breaking down my pistol to its base components and getting to work without complaint. As I wiped down the outside before starting on the barrel with the bore swabs, Tomasso did the same with the other pistol, which he'd fired only a few times for his own practice. "Thanks again. Today was . . . fun."

"It won't all be fun," Tomasso said. "Tonight, you have a job to do for me."

My toothbrush, which was getting unburned flecks of gunpowder out of the trigger assembly, stopped for a moment before I resumed cleaning. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

"This mission . . . all about getting your respect back," Tomasso said. "I won't have these numb nuts calling you Dumbass Degrassi, or 'âm hộ lớn', or Rat-boy."

It was that last one that hurt the most, because the name wasn't aimed at me as much as it was aimed at my father. "My dad wasn't a rat. And I'm no rat, either."

"I know you're not," he said, "and I didn't ever say you were. I want all those names gone by the time the rest of the crew is put together, and you start that tonight."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, starting back on my pistol.

"You're going back to Tacoma," Tomasso said as he grabbed the little can of compressed solvent and sprayed his own pistol's action. "Those guys owe us a payment, and you're going to be the guy who picks it up. If they give you any disrespect, you handle business."

"As in?"

Tomasso reassembled his Beretta in seconds and gave me an even look. "Why do you think I brought you out here to see if you could shoot? It shouldn't come to that. Those guys will back down if you show strength. So you're going to go down there tonight and come back with twenty thousand in cash. Oh, and to help you out a little, you're taking one of my cars. No offense. I know you were busting your ass with that Mercedes of yours, but Bertoli men don’t drive vehicles like that. At least, not on the job."

"Good deal. Well, let's get back to town, then. I need to change for work."

* * *

I
felt different
, pulling up into the International District of Tacoma again, this time behind the wheel of a black Alfa Romeo 156, wearing a good suit and with the weight of a Beretta against my ribs. I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to do, and the nervousness that was digging in my stomach was a good feeling. I wasn't afraid of being disrespected, or even of being hurt. I was more worried about not getting the job done. I had a newfound confidence, something I always knew I had.

"New car, âm hộ lớn? What, did you start turning tricks on the side for some rich old man?” Danny Huong asked when I got out of my car, his smile disappearing when I got right into his face.

"You can cut the tough guy shit right now," I said, keeping my voice even. I wasn't trying to be a caricature of being out of control, but instead, I wanted him to know I was being all business and wouldn’t tolerate any more disrespect. "It's Mr. Degrassi from now on."

"You got yourself a new attitude," Danny replied, waving behind him for backup from his boys. "What bug crawled up your ass and died?"

"Maybe I'm just tired of some two-bit wannabe punk and his boys giving me shit," I said. "Now, tell your boys to back off, get me the money that you owe the Bertolis, and everything will be cool."

"And if it isn't?" Danny asked, his eyes wavering slightly. He was surprised and a little off guard.

"Then I'm going to make sure that every person in this alley remembers who the fuck I am, and who you
were
. Trust me, they might kill me—your boys outnumber me—but I swear to God and sonny Jesus that I’ll put five rounds in your guts before they do. Then Tomasso and Luisa will come to take care of the rest."

"Tomasso?" Danny asked, suddenly nervous. "You work for him now?"

"I do," I replied quietly. "Now, what's it going to be?"

Danny blinked and stepped back. "Come on, I'll get you your money. Wait here."

I shook my head. "No, I think I'll follow you inside. I'd like to see what the specials are tonight anyway. Think you can hook me up with a to-go box?"

"Of course . . . Mr. Degrassi."

His words were like the ultimate sense of accomplishment, and as I drove back toward the Bertoli mansion with two stacks of hundred dollar bills in my coat pocket, I couldn't help but smile. Checking my phone, I saw that it was only nine at night, and I made a quick decision, calling Carmen's studio line, hoping she was still at work. I was running on instinct and the high of my success, and I didn't want to let it fade.

"Hello, Dreamstyle Dance, this is Carmen."

I felt my smile stretch, and I leaned back, happy. "Carmen, it's Dante. Sorry if I called so late. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, not at all," she said, her voice sounding pleased. "What's up? Our next lesson isn't for another few days."

"I know, but actually, I wasn't calling about that," I said. Before my nerves could get the better of me and my adrenaline high faded, I spoke. "I'm calling because I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me some time?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, but then she replied, "Well, I've already had dinner tonight, and it is kind of late, and I've got plans for tomorrow. But . . . what about a late-night coffee and dessert tonight?"

"Sounds great. Where should I come pick you up?"

"I'm still at the studio. I've got a change of clothes here. You're not too dressed up or anything, right?"

I laughed and glanced down at my clothes. "I'm in my work suit. But I don't care. You could wear pajamas, for all I care. I'll be there in thirty minutes?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

I got to the Bertoli mansion, nearly running in the side door to make my delivery. I found Tomasso in the study, discussing something with Luisa. "Hey, Dante. How'd the pickup go?"

“Easy peasy,” I said, taking the money out. "Here you go."

"He sounds excited," Luisa commented, smiling. "What, did you shoot someone?"

"No, nothing like that. Just, things went well. Danny Huong even called me
Mr
. Degrassi by the end, and well . . ." I paused, suddenly realizing I'd let my personal excitement mix in with my professional work. "Nothing."

"No, what is it? I'm too intrigued to let it go now," Luisa said, standing up. I noticed for the first time that she and Tomasso were in their suits, getting ready for something, I guess.

"Okay, well, you know I've been taking dance lessons with Carmen, right?"

"Duh," Luisa answered in her quirky, fun to listen to, modified American slang. She was dualistic in that way, very businesslike when she had to be, but relaxed and personable at other times. As she had trained me more, I was seeing more and more of this personable side, and I liked it. "She's one of my best friends. Of course I know."

"I kinda asked her to dinner," I said, "and we're going out in about fifteen minutes for coffee and dessert instead."

They both paused, then smiled, nodding. "Good," Tomasso said, not even looking at the cash as I set it on his desk. "Then I have one more thing for you."

"What's that?" I asked, hoping I wouldn't have to cancel or delay.

"Get that car you're driving waxed and detailed. The place I want you to take it to is closed for the night, so you'll have to do it tomorrow. Keep it tonight. Oh, and turn in your gun to the kitchen before you go," Tomasso replied with a grin. "We'll work on getting you your permanent one later. Also, stop by tomorrow. I want to talk to you about who else I'm bringing on our crew. Now get out of here before you make Luisa angry for making Carmen wait.”