Page 23 of My Italian Roommate

“Yes, it is,” I reply but I’m not looking at the choker. All I can see is how amazing this little girl looks in my arms. “We need to get moving,” I say as I slap her on the ass.

“Just one more minute. I want to keep looking at it,” she smiles.

“But the limo driver is waiting downstairs,” I tell her as I kiss her cheek.

“Limo driver?” Her eyes widen again.

“Absolutely, this is the end-of-the-circuit gala. I might be persona non grata but screw them. We’re ending this season in style.”

* * *

We exitthe limo and step onto the red carpet surrounded by reporters and flashing cameras.

“Mario, how does it feel to be here celebrating Dylan McGee’s win?”

“Mario, do you regret the fight that got you disqualified? Are you going to apologize tonight?”

“Who’s the girl, Mario? Is she the reason for the fight?”

I ignore them and rush Mallory through the doors of the banquet hall. Tony is looming near the door, holding his vodka tonic. He sees me and waves me over.

“You made the right decision here, Mario. It’s the best thing for you and the team,” he tells me.

“I just want to get this over with,” I reply.

“Hey, you have a beautiful lady on your arm. Take advantage of the free food and drink and enjoy the party. So, you have to eat a little crow, but once it’s done, there’s no reason not to enjoy yourself.”

That sounds so simple, but it isn’t that easy for me. I’m a proud man and I don’t like playing politics. Plus, I’ll never apologize for defending my girl. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. If they’re expecting remorse from me, they aren’t going to get it.

“The team is seated together tonight. We’re over here.” Tony leads us to our table and I introduce Mallory to the three other drivers and their wives before congratulating Dante on his win yesterday.

Photographers are milling about, taking candid photos at all of the tables, and a television news crew is positioned by the stage. If this year is like the others, the commission will get the awards and accolades out of the way before the drivers have time to get drunk and act foolish. They want the camera crews gone before then and that’s why they were so put off by my situation. If it hadn’t happened in view of the press, they probably wouldn’t have cared.

With appetizers out of the way, the racing commissioner takes the stage and calls my team up to join him. We’ve technically placed second on the circuit so we go first. Once they get us out of the way, the undeserving Dylan McGee and his team will be showered with trophies and cash prizes. It’s crazy because he could have beaten me in the finals and I still would have ranked number one on the circuit if I hadn’t been disqualified.

The crowd applauds as my team and I make our way to the stage. I swallow hard, trying to reconcile the fact that the only reason I’m here is so the commissioner can appease the sponsors. We stand on the left side of the commissioner as he drones on and on about the spirit of sportsmanship and the heart and history of racing, but it all just sounds like noise to me. I’m tucked securely away inside my own head where one phrase plays over and over again, “Just be a good sport and get this over with.”

I’ve all but zoned out the entire party when a commotion calls me back to reality. I look out into the sea of banquet tables and spot a man standing over Malory. He appears to be shouting at her and she looks terrified. Without a second thought, I leap off the stage and run in their direction. The commissioner is shouting into the microphone and all of the party guests have come out of their seats. All eyes are on me as I weave my way to Mallory’s rescue.

Before I reach them, the man grabs her by the arm and rips her from her seat. The other women at the table try to pry him off her, but he tosses them away like paper dolls. He has his hands on my girl. Something acidic flares in my chest. He isn’t going to get away with this. My boiling blood gushes from my racing heart, building volcanic pressure within me. When it erupts, it’ll take the entire U.S. military to stop me.

He’s shaking Mallory and I can see the terror on her face as he begins to drag her toward the exit. In a room filled with people, no one has tried to step in to stop him. That’s alright. If they did, I might not get my hands on this son of a bitch.

My vision goes black as I make contact with the man and rip his arms off my girl. I spin him around to face me but my rage prevents me from making out a single feature. All I can do is what I know best—eliminate the threat. I start punching and pounding his face and body until he falls to the floor then I climb on top of him.

“You don’t ever put your hands on her!” I shout as I knock his head from side to side until my blood-covered fists slide off his skin.

I feel hands on my back and shoulders as several men attempt to pull me off the man. I fight and claw to continue my onslaught, still set on eliminating the threat. The only thing that brings me out of my rage is the sound of Mallory’s voice.

“Mario, please stop. You’re going to kill him. You need to get up. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

I look down at the bloodied, unconscious man and blink as the cameras flash in my eyes. It’s the same man who confronted me in the parking lot of the stadium. Somehow, this crazy Dylan McGee fan made his way into the banquet to take revenge on me for beating up his hero.

I get back on my feet and catch Mallory as she leaps into my arms. The press has gone wild, snapping photo after photo of the two of us and the beaten man on the floor. Within moments, the police and ambulance arrive. They pull Mallory and me to the side and cuff the unconscious man to a stretcher.

Mallory is a little disheveled but otherwise alright. As I consider the possibility of spending a night or two in jail, I tell myself that’s a small price to pay for her safety. As we wait for the police to question us, I look down at the dried blood on my hands. I suppose you could say that they caught me red-handed.

“Are you okay, baby?”

---