Anna Rita

I lifted an eyebrow. “Curiosity… I guess.”
“Curiosity motivates most decisions,” he said, his expression unchanged. “But before we go any further, you need to understand something.” He paused. “This conversation stays confidential. Completely. Understood?”
There was no room for negotiation in his voice.
“Understood,” I said, my thoughts still spinning—caught between how certain he’d been that I would come and how impossible he was to read.
“Good,” he replied. “Now tell me about yourself.”
What struck me was that he still hadn’t looked at me. We stood close, side by side, our attention fixed on the lake, as if the conversation didn’t require eye contact.
“Don’t you already know everything?” I asked.
He smiled faintly. “I don’t know enough.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’m Lebanese. A second-year psychology student—though I haven’t been doing well lately. I haven’t lived in France long. And I’ve never boxed. I was dragged into it.”
The words spilled out, more for me than for him. Then I added, “What about you?”
He scanned the park, slow and deliberate, checking the paths, the benches, the people passing by.
“Lollipop,” he said. “Should I call you Lollipop?” There was a trace of irony in his voice, though his eyes were still elsewhere.
“My friend Jenna came up with it,” I said. “And apparently, I’m stuck with it. So… yes.”
“Good.”
He took his time, then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Only then did he speak.
“I’m a headhunter,” he said, taking a slow drag. “Diamond Ring is controlled by the mafia. Two of them—the Italian and the Russian.”
He exhaled. “The matches are proxy wars.”
“Mafia?” I repeated, stunned.
“I’m with the Russians,” he continued evenly. “The Italians currently have more winners. I’m here to recruit someone who can change that.”
Every sentence sounded rehearsed, delivered with mechanical certainty.
“And you think that someone is me?” I asked, unable to hide the irony. “I’m not even a boxer.”
“You’ll become one.”
“But you’re talking about mafias here. It sounds dangerous,” I said uneasily.
“Does it scare you?” he asked.
“Of course, it does!” I replied tensely. “What if something goes wrong and I get deported?” The thought alone made my stomach twist.
“Your only job is to box, win, and take your money home. Everything else is none of your concern.”
I froze, caught off guard.
He turned slightly toward me. “And besides,” he added, his voice lowering, hardening, “there’s a criminal instinct in all of us.”
Was it a pointed warning, or just empty words tossed out without thought?
“I’ve seen you in the ring, Lollipop,” he continued. “I’ve seen your rage. That’s where your money is.”
“But that was just one fight,” I said. “I’m not a boxer. What if I take your offer and lose? Is this the part where you kill me—like in the movies?”
Gregor didn’t blink. “I’d sooner bet on you killing us first. And no—no one’s going to kill you.”
The words were meant to reassure me. Instead, the knot in my chest tightened, my breath turning shallow. The offer no longer felt like an opportunity, but like a threat wrapped in silk.
I looked down, my voice lower. “I still don’t understand… Why are you so sure I’ll win? Did you see something in me, or are you just counting on me being desperate enough to say yes?”
“I recognize a fighter when I see one,” Gregor replied calmly. “You have the drive. What you lack is technique.”
A pause.
“For now.”
“Explain,” I said, wary but curious.
“Drive comes in two forms,” he continued, his tone flat. “The first is money.” He glanced at me. “And we’re talking serious money.”
“And?” I pressed, leaning in.
“The other,” he said, “is revenge.”
“Revenge?”
This time, the word landed differently. A chill crept in.
He tilted his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “No one fights the way you do unless they’re chasing something. Rage like yours doesn’t come from nowhere.”
He paused. “You have potential. But you lack technique. You react—you don’t calculate.”Then, calmly, “We’ll teach you to fight with your body as well. When the two align, you’ll be lethal.”
I hesitated. “But anger is the only thing that pushes me forward,” I admitted quietly. “Without it, I don’t know how to fight.”
“We’ll find a way to make you angry,” he said. “And we’ll train you hard. This kind of offer can turn your life upside down—and I don’t just mean financially.”
He went on without pause. “You’ll build a fanbase. Craft a persona that sets you apart. The better you perform, the more doors open. Our top fighters have bodyguards and drivers. Some even fly private.”
His voice stayed smooth, almost lyrical. “Give us three to five years. Become respected. After that, you’re set for life. You don’t have to do this forever.”
It sounded rehearsed, effortless—the kind of speech delivered by someone who knew exactly where to apply pressure.
For the first time, he looked directly at me.
And in his eyes, beneath the certainty, there was something I hadn’t expected—an odd, muted sadness.
“That all sounds nice,” I said, narrowing my eyes, “but what’s the catch? What’s your angle?”
“Clever,” he replied. “You’re asking the right questions.”
A pause.
“A percentage.”
“So, you take a cut of my winnings?” I asked, my sarcasm barely concealed.
“In exchange for training, equipment, and access to the system—yes,” he said calmly. “It’s deducted automatically. Whatever reaches you is pure profit.”
Time slipped by as I got caught in the rhythm of the conversation. Gregor spoke with ease—measured, precise—and before I realized it, I had stopped counting how long we’d been talking. It was unsettling how naturally it happened, how quickly I forgot I’d known him only moments ago, while he seemed to know far more about me than I was comfortable with admitting.
After a while, he gestured toward a nearby bench. We sat.
Silence settled between us. I let my eyes drift across the lake, the surface catching the last light of the day—gold and pink dissolving into one another as my thoughts looped and wandered. Then Gregor spoke again, quietly, pulling me back.
“People step into the ring for different reasons,” he said. “Some chase money. Others want the spotlight—to be seen, admired, feared.”
He paused.
“And then there are those who fight because it’s the only place where the noise in their head finally goes quiet.”
I glanced back at the lake, struck by how precisely he spoke as if he understood the psychology of fighters better than most of my professors.
Then I asked, “So… what is training actually like?”
“Three times a week, Friday through Sunday, starting at six. A private gym. No distractions. It’s intense,” he said. “You’ll be training with the best.”
He paused to light a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face.
“These matches aren’t just fights, Lollipop. They’re performances. Spectacles. The crowd wants to be entertained.”
He took a drag and exhaled slowly. “And speaking of putting on a show… I heard you might be getting a makeover. You’ve got to invest in your look if you want to stand out. That’s what gets the crowd going wild.”
“Have you been spying on me?” I asked, shocked, trying to keep my voice steady. How could he know about Jenna’s makeover suggestion?
He smiled faintly, like I’d just asked a naive question.
“Take your time,” he said. “I don’t expect an answer right away. I know this is a serious commitment—but it won’t all be blood and grit. You might even enjoy it. Think of it as a secret hobby, something just for you.”
Then he reached out, offering his hand. “Call me once you’ve made up your mind.”
I shook his hand, giving a small, uncertain smile. “Okay.”
And with that, he turned and walked off toward the main street, disappearing into the crowd like he’d never been there.