Chapter 248: "How Lucky You Are"

Jeremiah remembered the first time he’d seen Ariana Lombardi.

It had been at an exclusive gathering attended by members of several prominent Houses, and for reasons Jeremiah understood all too well, he’d found himself at the center of everyone’s attention.

"Oh, look at this handsome young man!" one woman exclaimed, reaching out to touch his cheek. "You look exactly like your father."

"I wouldn’t be surprised if he grew up even more handsome than Don Claudio," another declared.

"What a shame we never got to meet you when you were younger, Jeremiah!" A third woman sighed sympathetically. "That terrible illness of yours kept you away for so long! But my goodness, look at you now. Compared to the other children, you’re quite a little spectacle."

Jeremiah discreetly glanced toward the children she was referring to.

Fourteen-year-old Caio Sartori stood in one corner of the room, already looking like a polished young gentleman. He was conversing with several adults alongside his father, conducting himself with the composure of someone who belonged among them.

Elsewhere, ten-year-old Isidore Accardi appeared far more interested in the book in his hands than in anything happening around him.

Near another group of guests, three-year-old Jordan Marchetti sat comfortably in his mother’s arms, clutching a small teddy bear against his chest.

Jeremiah studied the little boy for a moment, his lips curving with faint amusement.

’Oh, these ladies are terribly mistaken.’

’That little brown-haired one is rather cuter than me.’

Nevertheless, he promptly turned back toward his admirers and produced his most dazzling smile. Their expensive perfumes were nearly suffocating him, but that was hardly a reason to neglect his manners.

"Thank you very much, ladies. But surely the real spectacles here tonight are the three of you." His eyes traveled appreciatively over their jewelry. "And might I say, those diamonds are exquisite. Though naturally, they can hardly compare to the ladies wearing them."

The effect was predictable by now.

"Oh, my goodness!" the first woman exclaimed. "What a silver tongue you have!"

"And such charisma!" the second laughed. "With a personality like that, you could become an actor."

The third looked thoroughly amused. "An actor? Nonsense. He’d make an excellent master of ceremonies. He’d steal every show!"

The first woman leaned down slightly, smiling at him. "Now, now, let’s not decide the poor child’s future for him. Tell me, little Jeremiah, have you thought about what you’d like to become?"

For the first time that evening, Jeremiah hesitated.

Since entering the Castellano household, he’d devoted most of his attention to learning how to behave, what to say, and which expressions pleased the people around him. He’d become reasonably good at all three, but he’d never given much serious thought to what he was supposed to become.

"I think I’d make a better painter than an actor, madam," he answered after a moment, offering another sweet smile. "After all, if I became a painter, I could make beautiful portraits of lovely women like you."

"Oh, my! Listen to this child!"

"How absolutely precious!"

"Such a gentleman already!"

The women immediately launched into another round of delighted praise, and Jeremiah accepted their compliments with practiced grace. Unfortunately, someone else had overheard his answer.

Claudio Castellano stood a short distance away, conversing with several gentlemen. At the mention of painting, his attention shifted toward his youngest son, and his expression tightened.

Unlike the women, Claudio knew how much time Jeremiah devoted to painting. He knew the boy’s answer hadn’t been entirely intended as flattery.

After politely excusing himself from his companions, Claudio approached the women, exchanged a few pleasantries, and asked to borrow Jeremiah for a moment.

Only when they reached a quieter corner did Claudio bend slightly toward his son.

"My son, did you just tell those ladies you intend to become a painter?" he asked seriously. "Do you actually mean that?"

Jeremiah looked up at him, confused by the sudden interrogation.

"Well, yes, Papà. I am serious. You know I’ve always liked painting."

Claudio’s disapproval was immediate, although he maintained a pleasant smile for the benefit of the guests nearby.

"That simply won’t do, Jeremiah. Becoming a painter is something reserved for losers."

Jeremiah felt his heart lurch.

This was his father, who’d complimented his paintings countless times. The same man who’d once told him how proud he would be if his son became a great artist one day.

"...What do you mean, Papà?" he asked, his voice suddenly thin. "I thought... you liked the paintings I made for you. You said I was talented."

Claudio’s expression softened with something resembling paternal affection.

"Well, of course I said that. But liking your paintings and approving of painting as your future are two entirely different things. You’re not merely some child I have to keep hidden away anymore. You’re a Castellano now. And as a Castellano, there’s only one thing our family truly cares about, son."

Jeremiah frowned.

"And what is that, Father?"

Claudio gave a casual shrug, as though the answer should have been obvious.

"Money, of course."

He gestured toward the window, through which the building housing Castellano Club The First could be seen in the distance.

"We have our casinos. Those are the legitimate face of our business. But we also have the fight clubs, as you’ve recently learned. Can’t you see how it all works?"

Jeremiah looked at him silently, trying to understand why everything his father had once said about his paintings suddenly seemed to mean so little. Before he could respond, someone called Claudio’s name from across the room.

Claudio glanced over his shoulder, then affectionately patted Jeremiah’s head.

"Unless you want to become a loser in this House, son, you should stop wasting so much time painting and start learning something more useful. And please, stop telling these ladies you’re going to become a painter. It’s embarrassing."

With that, Claudio straightened and returned to his guests. Jeremiah remained where he was, watching his father walk away.

For several seconds, Jeremiah’s face was completely expressionless. Then he turned toward a nearby servant.

"Excuse me," he asked with a charming smile. "Could you please tell me where the restroom is?"

The servant immediately gave him directions, and Jeremiah thanked him politely before making his way there.

Once inside, he found an empty stall and closed the door behind him. He barely had time to bend over the toilet before his stomach convulsed.

"Hurrrgh—BLEGH!"

He vomited violently, his body forcing up everything he’d eaten earlier that evening. The sounds were ugly and humiliating, but he couldn’t stop them.

Ever since he’d entered the Castellano household, this had happened more times than he cared to count.

Sometimes, all it took was embracing Maria Castellano, kissing her cheeks, and telling her how beautiful she looked. Sometimes, it happened after a family dinner, or after she’d affectionately called him her darling boy in front of guests.

He’d learned to endure those moments.

Yet tonight, in a public place where he was supposed to be more careful than anywhere else, a single conversation with his father had been enough to make him sick again.

’What an unreliable body.’

He took a slow breath, waiting for the nausea to subside.

’I’ve got to be more careful in the future.’

’I mustn’t let any of this show.’

Once he was certain he wouldn’t be sick again, he wiped his mouth, flushed the toilet, and stepped out of the stall. By the time he left the restroom, his expression had returned to normal.

He intended to rejoin the banquet, but his attention was caught by a small figure standing near a glass-fronted balcony.

’Oh?’

’Who’s that?’

There were plenty of children his age at the gathering, and Jeremiah was fairly certain he’d already observed every one of them. Yet he didn’t remember seeing this girl.

She looked younger than him, with dark hair and a plush rabbit held in one hand. Her face was troubled as she peered through the glass toward the reception hall below, as though searching for someone.

Jeremiah slowed to a stop.

’Is she lost?’

’Where are her parents?’

’Why is she all alone?’

He considered approaching her.

Before he could decide what to say, however, a woman came toward the balcony.

The little girl smiled with such immediate relief that Jeremiah found himself relaxing too. She hurried to the woman, who took her hand and led her back toward the banquet hall.

’Oh, that must be her mother.’

He resumed walking, relieved that the girl was no longer alone. Yet as he made his way back toward the gathering, another feeling crept in, one he couldn’t quite suppress.

Jealousy.

’How lucky you are.’

? ?? ?? ?? ?

Years later, Jeremiah stepped into the private office overlooking the Pit, one day before the Ultimate Showdown.

Out on the glass-fronted balcony stood the same girl he’d once seen searching anxiously for her mother. Only now, she was a young woman, and she was one of his contracted fighters.

Quite a lot had happened between that first encounter and today.

For one thing, the little girl’s good fortune hadn’t lasted very long. Her mother had died of cancer just two years after that gathering.

Whether that loss had directly shaped the girl’s subsequent behavior, Jeremiah had no way of knowing. He only knew that she’d grown up with an increasing taste for parties, drugs, and scandals.

At some point, she’d dyed her hair, and by the time he encountered her again at the latest Summit, she’d even decided to cut it short.

Regardless, her combat abilities were extraordinary, enough to make her an obvious candidate for the Pit.

Signing her had seemed a perfectly reasonable business decision. He’d been delighted when she began earning him two million dollars a night and had every intention of exploiting that success further.

Except she’d stopped in front of his painting.

Except she’d looked at the things he’d spent years expressing on canvas and somehow understood that they mattered.

And except, after hearing his story, she’d asked whether she could call him Jeremy.

Something that should’ve been no more than another profitable step toward his goal had gradually become far more complicated than he’d ever intended.

Jeremiah approached the balcony, glancing at Aren’s profile before directing his attention toward the cage below.

Inside, Rovan "the Black Wolf" Drask was participating in a bout against one of the Pit’s regular fighters.

It was merely a test Rovan had requested to familiarize himself with the cage before tomorrow’s match. Judging by the slight frown on Aren’s face, however, she was studying him with more attention than she normally devoted to other fighters at the Pit.

"Have you spotted anything about him that we should watch out for?" he asked at last.

"Nothing suspicious, as far as I can tell," Aren replied. "He seems strong enough to win without resorting to dirty tricks. He also seems like a very nice person."

The corner of Jeremiah’s mouth twitched.

Not quite with approval.

If anything, that last observation made the situation even more troublesome.

Dealing with cheats and vicious bastards inside the cage was relatively straightforward. They could be treated as threats, and there was little reason to feel conflicted about responding to them ruthlessly.

An opponent who possessed genuine skill and behaved with courtesy, however, was another matter entirely. Jeremiah watched Rovan evade a strike below before asking the question that had been troubling him.

"Think you’re going to win?"

To his growing concern, Aren didn’t answer immediately. He waited, hoping she was merely considering how best to phrase an otherwise confident answer.

Instead, she said something that made his concern considerably worse.

"I think... it’s hard to tell."

Jeremiah turned toward her fully.

"Hard to tell?" he repeated, disbelief thinning his voice. "I thought you accepted this match because you were completely confident you could win."

"Not this time," Aren admitted, shaking her head slightly. "But I think it’s worth trying. Defeating someone as skilled as him would be a huge boost for our club. It would also draw some of the audience from your brother’s club over to ours."

Jeremiah stared at her.

That was precisely what he’d suspected Hezekiah intended to accomplish by having the Black Wolf defeat her. He simply hadn’t expected Aren to approach the match with the same objective in reverse.

"You do understand that if he’s actually more skilled than you, you could end up seriously injured, don’t you? I’ve looked into his previous fights. Several of his opponents suffered serious brain damage from a single punch."

"I know," Aren replied simply, still watching the cage below. "But compared to what you’ve been through, Jeremy... I think a few injuries are really nothing if this helps you become Don."

Jeremiah gave her no immediate reply.

Below them, the practice bout continued, the muffled sounds of movement and impact occasionally reaching them through the glass.

Aren continued watching the cage, unaware that the man standing beside her had gone completely still. Eventually, she noticed how unusually quiet he’d become and turned toward him.

"Jeremy?"

His expression was difficult to read.

He wasn’t smiling, but neither did he appear openly upset. He simply stood there looking at her, so still that she began to wonder whether she’d said something wrong.

"Um... Jeremy?"

She hesitated, uncertain how to continue, but then her attention shifted toward the cage below, where Rovan seemed to be finishing his test bout.

"Ah!"

She reached for Jeremiah’s arm and gave it a gentle tug.

"I think Mister Drask’s finished his turn. I’ll go downstairs and try a practice fight myself. Would you like to come?"

The question finally drew Jeremiah out of his thoughts. He looked at her for another moment before giving a small nod.

"Yes."

Aren smiled and began leading him toward the door. She was already looking ahead and didn’t notice the faint blush that had crept across his face.