Page 33 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

The crowd cries their displeasure, but something is strange about the way Marianna is fighting.

I’ve seen her before, she is a flurry of speed and energy, but now she moves almost slow.

He lands one more hit, this one making her fall to the ground. I inhale sharply, but her eyes flash to mine, mischievous almost, and it gives me pause.

While she’s down, Ivan is a fool not to further his attack, instead taking the moment to gloat, circling the ring with his arms above his head like it was a two punch knockout.

It was not.

Marianna pushes up from the ground in a flash, her movement so graceful and sharp as she jumps onto Ivan’s back. He staggers, not dislodging her fast enough before she’s got him in a headlock, her legs squeezing tight around his sides.

It’s in this moment I feel I can exhale for the first time since she volunteered for this errand. In my distress, I had forgotten that Marianna is the single best fighter in every room she enters.

Ivan tries to shake her off of his back, and when he’s almost gotten her loose, she uses one of her legs to kick the back of his knee, dismounting before he can crush her in his fall.

Marianna doesn’t make the same mistake he had, instead kicking his side immediately and with a force I know from experience can break bones. Even in the roar of the din, I swear I hear a rib crack.

Ivan’s got red hot rage boiling in his eyes.

He wants to murder her, and he rolls to his feet with a shout.

She shuffles away from him, letting him get his bearings before they circle each other.

She glides so easily on her feet, like she’s done this a thousand times before and her body moves on muscle memory.

Ivan lunges for her, but she’s faster, dodging him and planting a punch on his side. I’d guess it’s more embarrassing than it is painful, because when he rights himself, Ivan immediately charges for her again, faster this time and with a furious fist flying through the air.

It’s almost comedic how easily she dodges him, her speed making him look slow in comparison. When her back isn’t to me, I see mirth in her eyes. She’s laughing, enjoying this. This is fun for her.

Marianna plays with him like he’s a mouse she’s just waiting to kill, albeit Ivan is a mouse that’s twice her size and could probably snap her bones if given the right opportunity.

Her body is muscular, thick legs and toned shoulders; she is small, but she is not the tiny thing Ivan believed he had nothing to worry about.

My pulse jumps in my neck when she lands a solid hit on his torso, the side she’d kicked before.

The fear I’ve felt for her morphs into something warmer in my body, anger receding, giving way to the constant desire I’ve felt since laying eyes on Marianna Morelli in my club last year—the desire that’s only gotten worse since having her in my bed, in my home, since being able to call her mine .

She’s not mine like I want her to be, but mine by name, at least. Here she is mine, she is Marianna Orlov, my bride, a beautiful anomaly. And I crave her desperately.

He lunges once more, this time jumping for her, sloppy in his desperation to regain control he never had.

He falls to the mat and before he can get up, Marianna’s foot makes contact with his jaw in an impressive strike.

She is relentless and faster than him, on his feet, but especially on his back.

She kicks and punches and one blow lands squarely to his nose. Blood erupts from his face.

The crowd is going completely ballistic, the parking structure seeming to shake from their noise alone.

The man acting as referee doesn’t stop her—this isn’t a regulation fight after all, but when Ivan groans and looks otherwise knocked out with Marianna’s knees pinning his mammoth biceps, Santiago counts down from ten into the microphone.

“She’s incredible,” Sasha yells as the number passes five. I can only breathe a disbelieving sound that’s muted by the shouting around me.

A loud buzzer rings out when Ivan doesn’t stand before Santi reaches the end of his countdown.

Mary climbs off of him and lets Santiago hold up her arm as every person in the room screams for her. They can’t even be mad that it was such a short fight, not more than one round, because the spectacle of it was too great.

She is their champion, Ivan’s blood on her gloves and arms to prove it. Garza is cheering as exuberantly as the people around him. Beside him, Nikolai claps reluctantly, starting at Marianna with an icy loathing that makes me want to crack his nose. Maybe I’ll have my wife do it.

Her eyes find mine and though visibly tired from the effort, her expression is nothing but mischief and determination. It’s an “I told you so” and a reminder not to underestimate her. She spits her mouth guard into her glove and yells, spurning the crowd on more.

I’m still upset that she orchestrated this, that she would willfully put herself in danger, but I can’t help the smile that takes over my face, especially as she climbs through the bands and jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist.

She’s sweating from the fight and Ivan’s blood smears on my button-up, but I kiss her anyway, a show of a deliriously in love couple for the Garzas and my cousin alike.

In the elation of the moment, her safe and victorious and in my grasp, I almost let myself believe this is a real celebration and not a piece of her elaborately sketched scheme.

“The fastest fortune I’ve ever made!” Garza exclaims as I set Marianna down in front of me.

She uses her teeth to pull one of the tabs of her gloves and I remove the other. Sasha takes them both to stow in her bag.

“People prefer a longer fight, but they go nuts for a Mary Morelli fight, no matter how many rounds it goes,” Santi says, lightly punching Marianna on the shoulder twice in a mock combo.

“Like old days,” Garza says, and the image it invokes of Marianna getting battered at fights before winning makes me almost wince. To my surprise, I’d let myself forget why I was angry.

“Always a pleasure,” Marianna says. It feels urgent that I get her out of here immediately before she gets into more trouble, winning or not.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, we have to get to our own celebrating,” I say.

I shake the men’s hands, and Marianna does the same before walking with her fingers laced in mine through the crowd of people that cheer her on and wave their earnings at her as she walks by.

She’s a celebrity here, the best thing any of them have ever seen.

We’re handed a black cloth bag by a Garza as we exit, and I eye it warily.

“It’s not drugs,” Marianna mutters as we enter the stairwell. She hands it back to Sasha, who puts the sack into her backpack. “Cash. My winnings.”

“Is that why you did this?” I ask, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. Marianna scoffs and presses a fingernail into the back of my hand, not enough to break the skin, but enough to warn me to drop it.

When we get to the car, I open the door for her, and she brushes past me without making eye contact. She’s icy now, the smiling, electric girl who was kissing me minutes ago nowhere to be seen.

She’s a brilliant actress for someone whose anger usually simmers so close to the surface.

“Marianna—”

“Later, Maxim,” she says, a demand. I meet Sasha’s eyes in the rearview mirror and then nod, driving us home without saying another word.