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“Why would I need you?” I glared. What was he playing at? Was he a fortune teller as well? A Nostradamus in a suit?
“Because I can tell that this,” He poked at my chest which was exposed over my sports bra, “is a heart that beats like your father and this,” he poked at my forehead, “Is as thick as a block.”
I crossed my arms and sucked a breath in through my teeth.
“You’re not throwing that fight.” It was a statement, as though he could read my mind. “And he will retaliate. The bratva isn’t anything to mess with. Call me and I will help you.”
He turned to walk away from me.
“I can handle myself,” I called out to him. I don’t need one bratva man to protect me from his own brother, no matter what he might say about family. What was his angle? His game? What did he want from me?
I would normally suspect that he wanted something sexual, but his eyes didn’t roam my body. He didn’t leer at my sports bra and fighting shorts. He had stared into my eyes the entire time, and nothing else. Not like his brother.
“I know that.” His hand was on the locker room door, his head turned over his shoulder. “But you don’t have to. Not while I’m alive.”
Before he left, he looked at LeBlanc. They gave each other one of those chin lifts, but otherwise didn’t say a word.
I dropped the card to the ground, letting it settle on the damp cement floor, forgotten. I finished out my wrappings and put on my gloves. I stood, and LeBlanc jumped in front of me.
“Listen to me, Rose.” LeBlanc grabbed the nape of my neck, bringing my forehead to his. This was our routine before a fight. Head-to-head, he’d give me a final word of wisdom. I hung my hat on his advice, and he had never steered me wrong.
“Anton Vasiliev is head of the New York bratva. You understand? He’s telling you to throw it. If you win, it could cost you your life, or worse.”
Shit. Was he telling me to take the fall? Was he telling me to lose?
I tried to yank my forehead from his, but the hand on my neck pinned me in place.
“Do you have an exit plan?” he asked.
“What?”
“If you win–which you will,” he gave me a playful wink. “Do you have an escape plan? Can you get out?”
“No. Do you think I have one of those lying around in my back pocket?”
“Sorry, kiddo,” He shook his head. “Sometimes I forget I was only training you to be a fighter and not...”
His voice trailed off, his mind probably wandering. Then his eyes snapped back to me.
“When you win, it’s going to be chaos.” His eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching us, but we were alone. “Fight your way out and go to the Four Green Fields Bar. Your bag will be at the back door. I, or someone else, will be there to get you.”
“Did you know this was going to happen?” I felt my brows pinch together as I looked at my only real friend. “Have you been keeping secrets?”
“Secrets are how you keep from dying, where I’m from.” He said with a half-cocked smile.
“Where is that?”
“New Jersey.” He said, straightfaced.
I let out a littleughat his off-the-cuff joke. He laughed, lightly. It had taken me a while to get used to his particular humor.
I needed more contact with him. I brought one hand up to grab his wrist, which hovered by my face. With my other hand, I clutched at his shirt near his shoulder.
“Will my win cost you? Would they come after you?” I was a selfish dick for not thinking about his safety before. Of course, he’d be in danger if I won.
Could they hurt him? Would they go that far? I wanted to embrace him, and to say a million words of gratitude for how long he had been at my side: teaching me, training me, cheering me on. LeBlanc wasn’t a father figure. But he was… something. Maybe a mentor? A rock? A guiding hand?
There was a heaviness in the air. I had felt it the last time I saw my mother. The last time I saw my father. Would this be the last time I saw LeBlanc as well?
