It took Ilaria a few minutes to fight past the crowd of spectators milling around the arena in the intermission between fights.  The numbers in attendance were stunning, which was excellent news for Race Street and everyone else in Philly.  Crowds meant profits, and profits meant bonuses and happy bosses.

None of that actually crossed Ilaria's mind though, as she quickly hurried down the dimly lit corridor toward the locker room.  He was fine- she knew that- but her medical training simply wouldn't let her go without at least looking him over more closely than she could in the ring.

She pushed the door open and turned the corner. Maggie had already left, likely going back out to mingle and enjoy the excitement.  Joe was leaned against the row of steel lockers, still catching his breath. His lip was split and swollen, and she could see swelling around his left eye already rising.

"Hey you."

She put the bag down on the bench in front of the lockers, unzipped it, and took a small, thin and flat box out of it.  She handed it to him.

"For the pain."

Inside the cardboard box was a silver flask, polished to a high shine, with a screw-off cap. In the middle, there was an inscription with one single word on it that she knew he'd recognize.  Scrolling letters spelled out "Adontoro."  Inside, the contents gave off the distinct smell of Stobart's Finest.

Joe sucked back the whisky. He let the sting of it hitting his open cut wake him up a little. He scratched his teeth over the swollen and split lip, biting down a little on it as he did. He liked the feeling of pain. Not always, not emotionally, but physically he could endure whatever was needed to get to where he was going. The taste of blood was also a welcome reminded of the business he enjoyed so much.

The locker room was lit quite well. The place was new overall, not like some of the places he'd trained in during his earlier days making odd money here and there as a bare knuckles fighter. He wasn't the best, technically. But he had a heart like no other. His aggression usually got him into more shit than it got him out of, but that thing ticking in his chest, that clock kept him pushing forward.

If it were any other broad, any other floozy, he'd already be thinking how he'd like to take her. But the sentiment had him on the back foot. He wasn't use to it. He couldn't remember the last time he was given a gift of such personal meaning. Not from anyone still alive, that is. He took another swig of the contents of the flask and awaited more instructions.

While he downed the drink, Ilaria doused a few of the gauze pads with alcohol and went about cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes on his face. She worked quietly, knowing that his mind was likely still running off pure adrenaline- thinking about the fight- or just trying to steady itself from the blows.

When the flask was empty, or he'd had enough, she sat down beside him with fresh gauze and peered at his busted lip.

"Be still- just going to check and see if you need stitches.  I don't think so, but it's bleeding pretty good."

It was the kind of thing a fighter wouldn't notice just after the bout ended. That's why Ilaria was there.  No- that wasn't true.  Ilaria wasn't there to nurse him, she was just there for him.  In the grand scheme of things, they'd really only known each other for what- three weeks, maybe a little more?  But in that time, they'd already seen each other through a lot.  Gunshot wounds, a break-in, bodies, car chases- and that was just the every day stuff.  

She cleaned the blood from his lip, which had already started to slow it's flow a little. Joe didn't even flinch from the alcohol, which certainly had to sting.  

"No, stitches aren't necessary.  Just a good, cold shower to get those blood vessels restricted.  Now, look at the light and follow it."

From the breast pocket of her uniform jacket, she pulled a small pen light and shined it into his left eye- the one that had taken the hardest and most hits. She moved the pen left to right, up and down, and around in a circle, watching as his eye tracked along.  She did the same with his right eye, her other hand softly resting on his shoulder.

"No signs of concussion that I can see.  Are you feeling nauseated or dizzy?"

Her questions were professional, and standard procedure for a situation like this, but her voice was softer and more familiar; easier.

"Yep. Definitely feeling a little dizzy, mam." Joe replied, poking fun at the situation. He'd spent too much time seeing her other than what she did as a profession, that he found it hard to be serious. Besides, it wasn't like he was bursting through the door at her clinic with a bullet in his shoulder, bleeding profusely.

He pulled his head back as she placed her hands on his face, attempting to open his eyes to take a better look at his pupils. He grabbed at her wrists, then slowly lowered her hands to her side.

"I'm fine. I got knocked. I got back up. I'll wake up tomorrow, and if I'm lucky I'll have the same kind of day."

Grinning, Ilaria let him take her hands away, but leaned in and kissed him on the side of his lips that wasn't split.

"You were brilliant. I have to admit, I've never been one for sport violence, but- when you've got 'skin in the game' so to speak- there's something about it that's...alluring."

She stood and cleaned away the bloodied gauze and bottle of alcohol.

"Get a shower- I'll stay here.  Really, though, if you're feeling like you're unsteady, you tell me."

Joe appreciated the words of support, as he took it. He was content with the idea that Ilaria wasn't so against what he enjoyed doing once upon a time. He'd already made up his mind before today that this would be his last hoorah. It was fitting he had her there watching him fight, even if she were in her working attire.

And for the kiss, he felt a different type of gratitude fill him. She wasn't as he originally saw her, judged her to be. She kept proving that with each encounter. He should've by now already known she wasn't as innocent, as cotton socks and roses as he'd initially pegged her to be. Not holding back from the way she felt on account of his battle scars, probably left a better taste than even Stobart's.

"Well, nurse Santoro. I think any patient would be unsteady around you." Joe replied as he pushed himself up, comfortably.

"I'll grab that shower." He said as he brushed by her with a grin. He made a point to slap her on the behind as he did.

There was something about coming out the other side of a battle that gave Joe that kind of bravado. Like he could just be and say what he wanted, without thinking too much about the responses of others. He enjoyed that about fighting, and everything else he got him self into and somehow out of.

Ilaria squealed a bit and jumped, giggling as he passed and got her on the back side. There was a sense of relief that washed over her as he walked on through. He seemed fine, coming out of the fight no worse for the wear. She knew this wasn't his first fight, and that he knew how to handle himself. On top of that, he and his opponent had become friends, so there wasn't any anger behind the blows. Anger was more toxic than anything she could brew up in her lab. 

A memory can sting. It can send cold shivers through the spine just as a happy memory can warm one to the soul. The memory of anger is one of those cold, stinging sensations, just like a the sting of an open-handed slap across the face; delivered from a 40 year old man to his thirteen year old daughter. 

Ilaria's cheek tingled, the memory triggering her nerves. She could feel herself start to cry, but she wouldn't allow it. She didn't allow tears, and she didn't allow anger. She wouldn't even allow herself anger towards him, though she knew she had every right to it. Instead, she did what she always did when those memories crept in; she busied herself, rummaging through Joe's bag and laying out his change of clothes for him. 

The shower water stopped. Ilaria took a deep breath and cleared her throat, banishing any remaining lingerings of what could have been tears. 

There was a slight pain in his jaw, which he reached for as he let his clothes fall away before entering the shower. Fritz all over again. The whisky did its job. Helped to numb the throbbing, which is all you could ask of it. Like an old friend, that's all it needed to do. Just be there and help. Be a silent partner in your shenanigans. If not in the jail cell with you, at least waiting for you at some dive bar to listen to your ails, and hold your glass while you beat them into some poor guy who gave you the wrong look.

As the water cascaded down, Joe placed his hands against the tiles, bending forward. He let the cold run over him. He wouldn't show it, but the loss stung. Like an arrow to the throat, he could feel his emotions lodged in the back of his neck. He didn't like to lose. To anyone. And for any reason. It stung more than he was leading on. But that was Joe. And that was what you had to hide when you had people looking to you for guidance. You had to keep it together.

He wanted to make a mess of the locker. Thought about putting his hand through the mirror. Breaking the door on the way in. He'd made a deal with the devil, and he should've known. Fucking with money left you feeling the unwholesome aftereffects of the pitchfork in the rear. It wasn't a good time. God's Delinquent? More like Purgatory's whore. 

As he thought more and more about the loss, his fists started to clench. What was at first a helping hand to keep him stable as he washed away the sweat, were hard balls to keep the rage building. How could he be so damn foolish? Was money really worth it? The blow to his reputation? What would people really think of him, once the event blew over and they saw him out in the streets? Would they think him weak? Was, he weak?

He shook his head. His heart felt heavy. His fists began to slowly tap at the tiles. Soft, taps. Then harder, taps. Who am I? Am I worth her affection? Does she see me as weak? He let it all go and drove his fist aggressively into the tiles, shattering nothing but his own pride in the process. His wrist began to swell as he fumed, and his balls of rage reverted back to steadying hands against the wall. He sighed heavily.

The water trickled down more and more. It felt better to let some of it out. But he wasn't sure he'd made the right move signing on with the devil he didn't know. Regret began to follow the example of his wrist, swelling in his mind. He turned off the tap and made his way out of the shower. He felt a lot heavier now than he did before but as he walked out into the area where Ilaria was, it began to dissipate. A good women could have an effect like that on Joe.

With a towel around his waist, Adonis moved through the locker room towards where his earlier warm up had begun and where his clothes and a medical professional were waiting.

Wearing a sweet smile, Ilaria looked up as Joe emerged from the showers and made his way toward her. It hadn't taken too long for her to sweep away the cobwebs of old memories, especially knowing that, once the headline fight was over, he was hers again for the night.

"I was thinking, maybe Sunday we could drive out to East Delaware Beach and--" 

Ilaria stopped talking, not only sensing a change in his mood, but a new swelling in his wrist. She took a few steps toward him.

"Joe? Are you alright? Your wrist - did I miss something?" 

She held out her hand, hoping he'd let her look at his wrist; but it wasn't the swelling that concerned her, it was the darkness in his blue eyes. 

Joe felt cold. He was cold. He forced a smile anyways but refused the offer of more attention, for his hand or otherwise. He simply dropped the towel and began dressing himself.

"You best get back, miss. There's another fight to attend to." He said as he slipped into some briefs.

Joe wanted the affection, deep down. He just didn't know how to handle his emotions beyond drowning them out and using them as leverage to make a stupid choice, at the very least one stupid choice. Drinking wasn't going to solve his problems, but it would be the first thing he'd look to do once he left the gym.

Slowly, Ilaria withdrew her hand, suddenly feeling very confused. Since the day they met, that was the most impersonal he'd ever been toward her. Naturally, that sent her mind spinning. What had she done wrong? Was it the gift? Too much too soon? That couldn't be it. Not after the bracelet and the dress. Had she said something? 

All the questions in her mind were far too familiar. They were the same questions a younger girl found herself asking constantly. The old familiar sting reared it's head again. Her eyes dropped to the cold tile for a moment, then she took a slow breath and replied softly. 

"I...suppose you're right. I'll give you some privacy."

As she turned, the ten minute warning bell clanged loudly. Ilaria took her bag onto her shoulder and followed the sound out to the arena. All that was left on the bench was the flask. 

She left with his back turned. He dressed somberly. Unusual for the man of many suits and looks to boot. His style was one of detail. He was dignified when he stepped out, of anywhere. For the first time in months he didn't feel the usual self-confident glow that wearing a finely tailored piece provided. Although, it still looked good on him. He just didn't care to see it, as he had his head down, his eyes glued to the ground. And his mind off in a spaced out who knows where. The mirror was the last thing he wanted to look into.

After he tucked the bag away into a locker, Joe closed it with some force. He then let his hand and emotions loose once more and punched it for good measure, leaving a dint in it. He let the pain of his swollen knuckles toy with him as he grit his teeth and let his head drop against the metal. Joe lightly headbutt it a few times as the sight of Tyki's face flashed in his minds eye, before he turned to leave.

'Adontoro'. There it was. Looking up at him. He bent down to pick up the flask. How could he be so cold? So callous? That too made itself present. The way he shrugged her off. Like she was nothing. How could he? Joe nodded a few times, realizing his failings. It'd be awhile before he'd be able to come to grips with throwing the fight, but he'd already seen the error of his ways in another matter. He tucked flask into his jacket before exiting the locker room.

...

The place wasn't as packed as usual. Some locals being locals. He looked the same as he had when he left the Gym. More or less. A sloppy, after the wedding reception had concluded kind of look. And he drank his woes away as if the bride had left him on the alter with his heart in his hand. It was a heavy session. One which as time wore on, had him needing to pour his drinks into the flask as it was easier to grip with his fucked up wrist.

Joe made his way through the Dockside Inn towards his room, the furthest back, tucked away in the corner. He kept his entry as respectful as possible, given the relationship he had with those who owned the place and how they'd put up with the ghosts that seemed to follow him from New York to Philly. He was at a stage of smiling, and giggling, as he leaned his head against the door. He took the moment to have another swig of the whisky, as he had no need for keys. The place was under the protection of Race Street. No need for ordinary safekeeping's.

After a successful tussle with the door handle, he made his way inside.

For the duration of the final fight, Ilaria forced herself to focus on each punch--where it landed, how hard it was, and exactly what injuries could have been caused. She ran through each body part as glove met flesh; the name of every bone and muscle. It was the only distraction she could think of. Even the thundering crowd behind her couldn't drown out the echoing uncertainties in her mind. A picture of his face was etched in her minds eye. That look...what could have happened? And his wrist. Had he fallen in the shower and was just too proud to admit it? After all, he had fully admitted to being dizzy. She should have been more insistant that he let her finish the exam. Maybe there was a lot she should have done.

When the fight finally ended after what seemed like days, Ilaria quickly checked on both Gavin and William, then hurried back to the locker room where she'd left Joe. It was empty and quiet, but there was a noticeable indenting in one of the lockers. She stepped closer and peered at it, finding traces of blood. Now, Ilaria felt that there was something much more going on with him. She touched the dent in the metal door. His face flashed through her mind again. His look was so unlike him. So broken. So defeated. 

Ilaria looked up. Defeated. That had to be it. Something about the match...the loss. Sure, it could be chalked up to ego, or pride; but his eyes said it was deeper than that. Leaving her bag in the locker room, Ilaria bolted for the exit.

----

The dark sky rumbled overhead, and a warm breeze blew off the river, mixed with a slight chill from the wind. Ilaria could smell rain. Her boots slapped the pavement as she ran up the Pier from Hot Shots. He wasn't there, nor was he at Dante's, or any of the other places with booze. Finally, she turned and started up the gentle hill leading to the Dockside Inn. As she jogged on, another rumble of thunder crescendoed into a clap, and the bottom fell out of the sky. Ilaria picked up her pace. When she finally made it through the door of the Inn, she was soaked from head to toe. The lobby was mostly empty, save for a few strange faces. She walked to Joe's door and paused. She tried to think of what exactly she was going to say, if he was there at all. It was nearly 1 in the morning. She reached out and knocked loudly at the door. 

​​​​​​"Joe? It's me...Ilaria."

She stopped and rolled her eyes at how ridiculous she must sound. But she had to try. Her wet hair dripped down her back and shoulders, the white blouse of her uniform sticking to her frame. There was no sound from inside. She sighed and leaned her forehead against the door, closing her eyes before continuing. 

"Please...don't shut me out. I... I want to be with you. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of anything. Not with you."

She placed her hand on the door and waited just a moment as the words came to her. 

"Give me your worst. Give me your best. Hell, give me your mediocre. I don't care. I just want you..."

He couldn't sleep, not with the pouring rain. Usually, it had him in a lighter mode, oddly. He loved the rain. Loved the smell of it. It reminded him of the days he'd spent on the streets, shortly after his parents passed. And when he vowed to never leave this world as poor as they had. It was that fire built from shabby tinder beginnings which had him where he was today. And where he knew he'd always be. At the top, well fed, well dressed, looking down. But also, what had him regretting his latest folly.

The pattering on the smallish rectangular windows usually soothed his soul after nights like this. Mother nature, strumming his pain with her fingers. He was well liquored up. And well into his emotions. The decision regarding the fight would subside, eventually. He knew that. He drank to that. Making the deal he did, wouldn't. Not until he made it right. But that was for tomorrow. He'd plotted the beginnings of it as he watched the barman pour his drinks between cleaning glasses.

The flask lay on his bare chest, empty, with his hands over it. As he heard the rapping at the door, he jolted forward and up. The gift tumbled onto the bed beside him. Ilaria?

He slowly moved to the side of his still neatly made bed. Ethel did a hell of a job keeping the rooms tidy. As his feet touched the floorboards, he heard her again. He rubbed at his face as he began moving across the room...

"Please...don't shut me out. I... I want to be with you. I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of anything. Not with you."

A smile. He leaned his back against the wall to the side of the door as he heard that beautiful voice again...

"Give me your worst. Give me your best. Hell, give me your mediocre. I don't care. I just want you..."

Joe shook his head. How? Were the God's with him, or against him? One minute he was fretting how he'd treated her, contemplating how he was going to make it up to her. Dinner, though, was quickly crossed off his list. It seemed to be the worst meal of the day for them. And now, she was suddenly here, outside his door.

After a moment, the door opened. And with Joe's glassy blue eyes behind it. He lightly chuckled, seeing the effort she'd gone to for him. She was soaked.

"I'm sorry.."

Hearing the door begin to open, Ilaria's nerves finally caught up to her. In a single moment, she felt twenty emotions all at once. Her fight-or-flight instincts were having a boxing match of their own. Then, she saw those eyes again. That blue like she'd never seen anywhere else on earth. 

"I'm sorry..."

Ilaria practically launched herself into his arms. The smell of alcohol was not a surprise, and had she not been so intent on finding him, she might have been just as drunk. But none of that mattered now. She had her arms around him, and didn't waste another second before pressing her lips firmly against his, answering his words with her body. Having crossed the threshold of the door already, Ilaria used her foot to shut the door behind them. Pulling away just slightly, she looked deeply into those eyes.

"It doesn't matter now. Whatever it is, let me carry some of the weight. I don't need you to be indestructible. I just need you."

She let her fingers run through his wild hair, shivering slightly as her wet clothes trapped a cool breeze. 

​​​​​​

"I'm sorry...."

Joe's words were cut short as Ilaria's cold and wet clothes suddenly pressed against his chest and her lips locked into his. He was surprised at first, but that quickly melted away. Hugging her body tight against his, he let her know he was thinking about her and missing her as his lips responded in kind. His hands felt both the wetness of her would-be curls and the skin through her soaked dress as he held her tight, his left hand behind her head and his right forearm wrapped around her back.

Sorry wasn't all he wanted to say. He had to catch his breath as their lips parted and she'd kicked closed the door. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the knock out punch, but he took a moment to catch his bearings again as she told him she needed him. With her fingers running through his hair, he tried finishing what he initially wanted to say.

"What I wanted to say was, I'm sorry.. you came here." He paused a moment, "I'm sorry we met."

Joe let her take in those words before he continued, feeling her hands drop to his shoulders.

"The clinic. The pool hall. Dante's. Tonight. All of it. I'm no good for you. I'm only going to get you killed. Or break your heart. Men like me, we can't have women like you. Everything goes to shit with us at some point. Us, me and you, will go to shit too."

He felt her pull away even more. He grabbed her hand and gripped it tight, making sure she didn't go too far. He had to say what was on his mind. He had to let her know who he was, what he was. A sinner with both feet in Purgatory. He wasn't toeing the line with how he went about things. He never could. He was constantly ripping up the status quo and throwing it off the end of the pier into the Delaware.

"Trouble follows me. All its done is follow us. We can't even have a simple meal together. Don't you want a normal guy? Someone to take you to the drive-in? To eat a meal with, without having to look over your shoulder? Don't you want normal? I'm not normal. I'm not that guy."

His words were like jabs to her stomach, but the words didn't match his body language. The swirl of emotions in her mind was something she couldn't ignore. A side of Ilaria was emerging that even she had never seen. Her eyes narrowed from wide and pleading to a look more intense. 

​​​​​​"Normal? You think that's what I want out of life? I signed up for the same business you did. It may have taken some getting used to, but I didn't run. I didn't run after the break in, I didn't run after the shooting in the car, and the only running I've done tonight is straight to you."

Her voice changed, a slightly higher pitch and more rapid cadence. Her native accent seemed to come out more as she continued. 

​​​​​​"You...you don't get to tell me what's good for me, Joe. I'm a grown woman, and perfectly capable of making my own decisions - good or bad. I've never met anyone like you, and no one has ever made me feel the way you do."

Tears began to sting the corners of her eyes, and this time, she made no effort to stop them.

"I do not care if it kills me. When I said I want you, I meant everything. The good days, the bad days, the dangerous days...the drunk days. Why can't that be our normal? I'm woman enough to handle it. Goddamnit, Joe...I love you."

Finally, the tears spilled down from her eyes, mixing with the rain drops on her face. Never in her life has she felt the desire to fight so hard for something she wanted. She had spent her entire life up to that very point shrinking away and letting life run her over. This time, she wasn't losing without a fight.

The rain seemed to bucket down harder and harder with each emotion that poured out of Ilaria. For Joe, that's what he felt. Like her heart was on a surging drip and he was the recipient. He could feel the intensity, her passion, which came at him like an engulfing flame. It burned for him and he knew it beyond the words, he felt it, hot as coals under his skin. She wanted him, balls to bones, and he knew he couldn't question it. Not now, not ever again.

He didn't return the words, but Joe meant them with the fondness in his eyes as he picked Ilaria up and carried her across the room. No more words. No more tears. He'd wanted her since the locker room. In that outfit. In her caring demeanor. He wanted her all the while he told himself she'd be better off without him, whilst denying three women the Adonis of old, as he drunk himself stupid again. But not so brainless he forgot her. No amount of liquor this night could do it. Probably never could.

He didn't need her to prove herself. Never did. He just wanted to feel the passion returned that he had for her ever since the night they met. As even though he denied himself that feeling when they were together for the most part, it raged within him like a torrent. And now, he didn't feel the need to hold it back. She told him so, in words and more.

Joe let her down gently at the foot of the bed. Slowly, he helped the dark green skirt slide down around her ankles all the while looking deeply into her eyes. He could sense the vulnerability. The openness. It had him in his own strength, allowing him to be the man he believed himself to be, but without the crutch of three fifths of a bottle and a broken record of an unsatisfied backseat romp.

If they were to be together, these next steps would make it so. It wouldn't be like after Dante's, like two adrenaline junkies keeping the pedal to the metal. It would be more, and say more. He placed his right hand on her cheek which was met with a kiss. It would be something Joe hand't experienced in a long time. It would be the tenderness that only two in love could experience.

Outside, the sky continued its bravado of thunder and rain, but even the heavens were no match for the passion between them. Ilaria left her uniform in a wet heap on the floor, while Joe Adonis proved his namesake with every touch. She held him in a way that swore she would never let go. Their eyes never once left the other's as they enveloped one another.

----

Ilaria lay in the space between Joe's chest and arm, her head resting where she could hear his heart beat begin to slow back to normal. The bed sheet loosely laid around their waists and legs. They hadn't said a word since he carried her to the bed, but the silence had been the most beautiful score accompanying their passionate movements. 

Looking up to him, Ilaria's fingers traced over his chiseled chest and abdomen. 

"What are you thinking about, mio core?"

He'd been thinking. It probably wasn't the best time for it, given what he had his mind set on. But being in the relaxed space he was, they were, the thoughts just naturally flowed in. And if they were consistent and unobtrusive to the point they became intrusive by being so frequent, he knew he had something to address. It was the same with his thoughts about Ilaria hours earlier.

A knowing glance at her, and he felt she may have already known his mind was set on something untoward. He ran his fingertips down her arm, feeling the goosebumps as he traced them back up again. All the while, he was smirking. That sly grin he shot out when he was plotting, scheming. He hoped she'd take it well. After all, she'd just confessed her love to him. The last thing he wanted was her taking it back on account of him being a madman.

"Well." He said, still tracing his fingers along the softness of her skin, looking down at his fingering as he did.

"I was wondering about that trial you were talking about." He eventually ran his fingers up to her hand, grabbed it, and placed it on his chest as he looked into her hazel eyes.

"You up to giving that recipe a test?"