I can see it in his eyes. He hopes it won’t come to that. Still, Joe has a business to run, and he can’t have a loose cannon on his staff.

We both turn to find James grumbling loudly as he leans against the window facing the street. He’s holding an ice pack over his eye.

“What happened to you?” Joe asks, thick white brows furrowed together.

“Borignone,” he spits out the last name like a curse. “I can’t work with him anymore. He’s too big. Too strong. Find someone else, Joe. Boy got out of prison, and I swear, he’s twice the size as he was when he went in. He throws punches like his damn life is on the line, and I’m not down with that. Plus, Maria swore she’d divorce me if I came home with another bang to the head. What the fuck am I gonna tell her now?” The right side of his face pulses red, the bruise threatening to be nasty.

“Why’d he hit you? You don’t spar.”

Baring his teeth, he yells, “I couldn’t hold up the damn pad!” His face flashes red, anger covering up embarrassment.

His eyes dare us to laugh. Joe chuckles despite the threat. I try not to, but my smile stretches wide. It’s funny.

Like Joe, James’s accent is thick New York. Growing up on a farm in Virginia, I never thought anyone actually spoke like these men in real life. Maybe just in the movies. But, as it turns out, the accent is real.

A fire engine goes off somewhere outside, and my heart skips. I’m still not used to the nonstop noise of Manhattan. Close to a year in this city, and sleep is still impossible. I need to leave, but the main question is, Where to?

Joe faces me, a smile moving from ear to ear. “Well, son, looks like today’s your lucky day after all. Between the two o’ you?” He points to Borignone, who’s doing push-ups on a corner mat. “Not sure who’s angrier.”

I walk into the gym, toward the back. Here he is, the Mafia man. Ex-convict. Son of Antonio Borignone, boss of the largest Mafia on the East Coast. What if I piss him off and he decides to throw his goons on me? I shrug to myself. That would be an ironic way to die. Borignone thinks he’s dangerous, but I’ve got nothing to lose other than my life. I win.

I push my emotions aside as I step over to the hulking lunatic. He hooks two sixteen kilogram kettlebells onto a weight belt around his waist. Pull-ups. I’m impressed, but my face shows nothing.

He completes his set and drops to the ground for push-ups. After that, he asks, “You the new guy? Hope you’re ready to spar.” His black eyes are hard, as though he’s seen some serious damage. I know the look well because I wear it myself. He doesn’t look over thirty, but it’s obvious he’s lived heavy. There’s just something about him that’s different. Commanding.