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.”
Jon had heard. He’d watched the news over breakfast yesterday. The Florida Department of Revenue had announced the arrest of a former pop star turned Miami Beach nightclub owner. Taylor Benson had allegedly failed to turn over to the state one hundred grand in sales taxes collected at his two thriving nightclubs. Drew would be prosecuting the case. Naturally, Jon congratulated his friend before taunting him.
Drew struck, his glove skimming Jon’s chin. “Benson is going away for a long time.”
Jon went in for the attack, but Drew adroitly ducked away.
“Sounds personal,” Jon said. “Let me guess. You got kicked out of one of his clubs?”
“I’m wiping out corruption.” Drew circled him. “What have you done this week?”
“I met a woman.” Jon hadn’t realized it but he’d stopped moving. He stepped back and leaned against the ropes. “I really like her.”
“Damn it! You always win!” Drew cried. “Who is she? Anyone I know?”
“I can’t disclose that information. Not yet.”
Drew let out a low whistle. “That’s serious!”
From the floor, one of the trainers shouted at them. “Hey! If you two sweethearts don’t get moving, I’m gonna ask you to step out of the ring.”
“You heard the man,” Drew said. “Get off your ass. Let’s go.”
Jon pushed off the ropes and landed his first punch.
“Check us out.” Brie pointed to the reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. “We look like a ’90s girl band.”
Sofia was sandwiched between Leila and Brie at the sinks. In their bright lipstick and little black dresses, they matched. Leila was the pretty one, Brie the wild one and Sofia the surly one who wouldn’t make it as a solo artist.
It was a Thursday night and they were gathered at the penthouse of a Brickell high-rise to preview an ambitious new Miami real-estate project. The condominium tower, slated to go up in a few months, would transform the skyline and rival any building in Dubai. It would feature a helipad, a marina and five floors dedicated to amenities. Nick and Leila had come to scope out the competition. Brie had come for the free drinks. And Sofia had come to avoid another night watching TV alone at Miguel’s place, although her stated objective was to recruit new clients.
The trio parted ways outside the ladies’ room with plans to touch base in one hour or so. Leila joined Nick. Sofia was on her way back to a secluded spot on the balcony where she’d spent most of the evening “admiring the view” when Brie grabbed her by the elbow. She shoved a glass of champagne in her hand. For the first time in Sofia’s life, the sight of sparkling bubbles made her sad. Even this event, as glamorous as it was, so glamorous she really should be taking notes (an oyster bar, a vodka tasting station...), had left her indifferent.
“Take a sip!” Brie ordered. “You’ve been lost in your feelings all night. You need to loosen up.”
Brie wasn’t so much Leila’s assistant as much as the bossy little sister Leila had never had. A pretty girl with deep brown skin, hair that changed seasonally—presently cropped short and dyed blue—and a vivacious spirit, she was always the life of the party. Her birthday was no exception. The fact that her birthday was long over made no difference. They’d celebrated two nights ago at a Heat game, but Brie had claimed the entire week as her own.
Sofia offered the standard excuse. “It’s nothing. I’ve got a headache.”
It wasn’t a lie. Since her life had turned into performance art, Sofia wasn’t her best. She was moody, sluggish, bloated and prone to migraines. To make matters worse, there was no one to blame but herself. She’d cooked up the scheme that now consumed her. There were a million ways she could have ended things with Franco, and she’d chosen the single most complicated one. It was against her nature to lie and plot like this. She was a sharp shooter, direct and honest to a fault. The surprising end of her engagement had drawn out a side of her she did not like.
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