The snow goes to sleet by the time Richard releases me into the wild. He throws one last look at my imperfectly-fitted jeans and sighs. I run for it.

Outsides, the clumps of wet snow smudge my glasses, but I trudge diligently toward the Rockefeller Center. Back when I had a Bureau career, and for the four glorious years afterward, when I existed by a largess of a bestselling author, I used to travel for business. My rule during these trips was to do as many tourist attractions as possible. Otherwise, travel doesn't feel like travel, and Seoul is the same as London.

So I walk through New York, re-familiarizing myself with its beat, ignoring snow. I'm not Naz to wrap in furs over three drips of frozen water. I straighten my shoulders and turn my face into the wind. I'm the man!

Yeah.

The wailing of an emergency siren bounces from the skyscrapers. My gaze swivels, noticing cover, vantage points and anything out of place. Old habits die hard.

A cop shouts at a construction crew setting up orange cones. Slouching tourists march closer to me in comforting solidarity. Most of them have the same goal in mind—that big-ass Christmas tree by the Rockefeller Center—because it's too early to look for a sandwich. Eighty percent of them tote coffee. The smell of it drives my taste buds wild.

Who am I to fight peer pressure?

I dive inside the nearest Starbucks and emerge with an espresso of my own. The shit tastes bitter, but its heavenly aroma is so mighty, it melts the snow before it assaults my skin.

Between sipping coffee and wincing at its bitterness, I arrive at my destination.

The sacrificial fir tree is where it's supposed to be. It's decked out in tinsel and LED. No surprises. I'm good for another decade or two.

A trio of girls, about the same age as my niece would have been now, chirp about their New Year's Eve plan next to me. Seeing the ball drop, the kissing and all that jazz. Oh, what a night! What a night it's going to be! their pink cheeks advertise, as their squealing pitches higher and higher.

On the first night of the new year, I'll be a married man, ringing in 2019 with the very people I despise the most in the world.

The scum and villainy who sell drugs to innocent girls just like those gigglers next to me; so similar to my niece, Liz. These people kill without discretion when someone gets in the way, and they'll chink their flutes of Champagne with me on New Year's Eve.

If the New year's Eve one night indeed foreshadows the year to come, my 2019 will be dreadful.

I scowl at the girls, getting the hey, what's your problem? looks in return. For teens, it's always your fault. And in Liz's case, it was spot on. Her death was my fault.

The tree loses its charm, but I can't stand the thought of hailing a cab. Sniffing the overheated car interior after being locked inside Armani—fuck, no. I've had it with its faux ocean breeze, artificial pine and pretend nutmeg. I'd much rather have the car exhaust, wet stone and stale coffee smell of New York plugging my nose.

So, I stuff my hands deeper in my pockets and walk back to the Plaza.

As the sleet soaks through the worn out collar of my jacket, visions of a hot shower and a steaming bowl of noodles repeatedly replace each other in my mind. Glorious, glorious stuff. That's everything a man needs to be happy.

Screw Christmas anyway and New Year with it. Screw New York. Screw Naz.

When I return to the hotel, I drop the soggy jacket on the floor, peel the shirt off as I step over the threshold of the bathroom. A giant box rests on the marble counter. Some sales person's hand wrapped the monstrosity into candy-cane-adorned paper with professional neatness. I rip the foil and the bows off... Shaving products. A brief-case-sized box of fucking shaving products. Bulgari.

Seriously, Naz? I lower myself on the rim of the soaker tub. What am I supposed to do about her? The woman is as subtle as a tank, but maybe it's better that she's forward. Lying could be so exhausting... I have no idea how she survived with Luca for that long. Luca is weaved from misdirection and omissions of truth.

Why did they even end up together? I picture them together, kissing. Fucking. My gut turns. Shit, Naz, why Luca?

I rub my cheek and watch the motion reflect in a wall-to-wall mirror. The offending stubble isn't even that bad.

Naz is just... micromanaging me.

I dash out of the bathroom, dig the phone from jeans' pocket and fire a text before slamming it on the desk. A desk, fuck! It's almost as big as a pool table. My suite also has a sitting nook by a window, a separate bedroom and a dining area, each equipped with a fireplace... and a floral arrangement rivaling Empire State in height.

Ryan: Naz! Want me to wax my chest while I'm at it?

It takes less than a minute for Nazarevich to reply.

Mila: Whatever turns you on, babe.

I throw my head back and bark out a laugh. Yes, I walked into that one. My Christmas this year might not be merry, like all the Christmases since Liz's death, but it's not without entertainment. Crude entertainment, sure, but better than bitter ashes.

Ryan: Only you turn me on, pumpkin, my fingers respond before I think better of it.

Instead of a text, I get a selfie in response. She must be building an archive of those to keep her father annoyed rather than curious. The selfie she sends me (for the same purpose, I presume) pictures her in an attire that covers as little skin as it can get away with. Three feathers over the crotch, a gem on each nipple, shit like that.

Ryan: Perfection! Wear it for the wedding.

For a good measure, I thumb up the picture, then a devil makes my fingers itch. I text again, even though I know better.

Ryan: Did you send it to Luca too?

Mila: Yup, Jealous?

Ryan: Nope.

I lie. I know that she has to maintain some contact with Luca to fool both families, but the reminder rankles.

I don't know if one can read a person's mood from a text, but Naz sends a hug emoji.

Just as I think we're done with it, my phone pings again.

Mila: Here's one just for you.

It's not a video call, but I do my best to straighten my face. The boutique ought to have known better! The second outfit uses the opposite approach. It plasters Naz in the shiny red polyester. How she breathes in it, I don't know, but I want a video of it. The way the human brain works, my eyes don't stick to the mold of her breasts. The teardrop of skin, peeping through the cut in the cleavage holds my gaze. This is more lick-able than ice-cream.

Ryan: Weren't you shopping for high fashion? I manage to type with shaking thumbs. But trashy works just fine, if the goal was to make me hard.

What can I say? I'm a guy.

A shrugging emoji is a cop-out, but she follows up with a serious text.

Mila: Don't forget about our 3:30, my love. Eat something ffs or you're going to be no fun.

I update my calendar. 3:30 pm. That ballroom crap.

Ryan: I better go and oil my chest. Happy shopping.

She replies with two thumbs up and a wink.

Her emojis take on a different meaning at 3:30.

In the prematurely gloomy N.Y. city's afternoon, with even wetter snow falling in lumps, the limo drives us away from Manhattan's electrical glow.

Once the car stops, I peer at the sign on the two-story building. This isn't some Metro-Dance and JazzFit Studio of my nightmares. I whistle appreciatively. "Nice."

"Thought you'd like it," Naz grins. It feels like the first genuine, relaxed smile on her cherry-red lips since I've met the woman.

A Conan-the-Barbarian wannabe pumps a gigantic fist at the street. Atilla's Kombat, Boxing & MMA, the blocky red letters say underneath him. Or at least that's my best guess because the clumping snow conceals some of the inscription.

Combat spelled with a K! That's not your auntie's sissy-pussy cardio-kickboxing joint. My smart cookie brought me to a MMA dive. Nothing like grappling on the mats to get comfortable with a stranger, because a fist to the face leaves no room for blushing and stuttering.

"Well done, Naz!" I don't just like what I see. I stan it. "You know what, girl? I maybe want to marry you."

Naz gives me a thumbs up and opens the car door into the traffic without looking. "Coming?"

The passing cars honk at the limo in the wrong part of town and at the woman who strolls around it to pop the trunk like she's invincible. All these assholes see is that she's blonde, hot and dressed like a million bucks.

And what do you see? I chide myself. Certainly not the hidden depths of a tragic soul beyond the glam façade.

I hop out of the limo onto the narrow, broken strip of the sidewalk. The wind rushes a plastic bag past me. I ignore its rustling to catch the duffel bag Naz tosses me without a warning. The shin-guards and the boxing helmet's shapes are unmistakable even through the bag's firm cloth. The squishier stuff would be gym fatigues or a white karate gi.

"Shin guards? How thoughtful. The beauty of my shins is important to me."

"Your beauty is paramount to me as well." She shrugs. "Hence, no punching above the chin. I want us to look pretty next week."

For a second I forget about the stupid snow, New York, our impending marriage and the ball. Heck, I forget that it's Luca Tangorello who brings us together. I practically drool in anticipation of turning our endless back-and-forth verbal jabs into sparring. Naz's going to be one Hell of an opponent.

I swing the duffel at the doors. "After you, my love."

"Want to hold the door for me here too, Ryan?"

"Most definitely." I do so with a flourish, then follow my questionable angel inside the paradise for the rest of us.

The building's interior matches its urban-dump exterior. It stinks of armpits and dust, carpet cleaner, rubber and burnt-out electrical bulbs. Fortunately, enough of those cling to life to provide illumination. Rap music rasps over rhythmic blows of fists on the padded surfaces or sweaty skin.

A hairy black guy at the front desk hands us our wristbands. He wears a frown and a pair of earbuds. His personal music booms so loudly it makes a decent rival to ambient easy-listening. Both tunes are crap, but beauty's in the eye of the beholder.

Naz disappears into the ladies' locker room. The ladies' own space is not as surprising in our day and age, but the guy-with-bad-taste-in-music still gives me a pitying shrug. Maybe he caught me holding the door for her earlier.

Instead of weeping on the guy's shoulder about the women getting into the men's sacred places, I feel like socking him in the eye. He should mind his own damn business!

I suppress primal manly urges and limit myself to Thanks, man. For the wristbands. Only for the wristbands.

I'll let Naz do her own fighting against prejudice. She must do a lot of it in the macho world of the mafia. Otherwise she would have been a footnote on some drug lord's file as a wife, not the prime suspect.

I don't rush changing into my gi—the duffel held a black gi, so points for class—and I'm still two minutes before her on the floor. Good to know she fits at least some stereotypes. Wouldn't it be ironic if a woman who didn't, was Luca Tangorello's ex?

The gym monitor who points me to the rink Naz rented for us. I jump rope next to it, facing the locker rooms' doors. When Naz shows up, there are three other girls on the floor already, doing drills like everyone else. She's not the only girl who plays with the boys, and yet, she surprises me again.

I don't know why, but I was expecting tight leggings, bare navel and a halter top.

Instead, she wears worn cotton pants of a fighter and a sleeveless t-shirt over a black bra so tight that it flattens her to basically a boy's chest. I know that on a good day, the shiny red polyester has plenty to hug and push-up in that area, so points for trying. She isn't a skinny-minny elsewhere either, with thicker bones and wider hips typical of her ancestry. The blond waves I'm used to are pulled back into a tight braid.

Oh, boy. Whenever a girl ties her hair back like that, she's not in a joking mood.

Naz cuts through the gym. Punching sounds and grunts slow down in her wake, but her shoulders stay relaxed. It's like the leers just bounce off of her.

On the way, she yanks a jumping rope from a hook and gives me an appraising stare. Involuntarily, I speed up.

She positions herself close, but not close enough for my whistling rope to lash her. In just a few jumps she speeds up to three revs on every hop. Impressive in its own way, but that's rope jumping. I block the almost palpable mix of envy and hostility coming on in waves from the locals. They want to see what my blonde catch can do on the mats, but Naz is as tireless as an Energizer bunny.

After a few minutes, the sounds of the gym fall back into the normal volume. One has to be as close to her as I am to catch a faint smile curving her lips. They're strangely pale without her favorite red-red-red lipstick, almost blending with her pinking complexion.

"Ready to fight?" she asks.

"Is my name Ryan Lee?"

She rolls her eyes—actually rolls her eyes—then goes to hang the rope.

To tell the truth, I'm with the locals. I want to see what she's made of. "Let's do it, Naz."