So I traded the barn for my grandfather’s gym. I traded silence for noise. For loud grunts and sharp shouts. For the slap of gloves on pads and the metallic rattle of weights. ForNonnoyelling in Italian at some poor kid who forgets to keep his guard up.
Nonnonearly cried the first week I started showing up every day. My grandfather, the terrifying oldCapowho built his name with his fists, actually got misty-eyed when he caught mewrapping my hands in his office, giddy that I would be the one ending the night in the ring instead of Marcello.
“You finally came to your senses about coming here to train, huh?” he’d said, trying and failing to hide that huge, proud grin. “About damn time.”
He pretends he’s casual about it, but I see the way his chest puffs when the guys whisper that I’m his granddaughter after I drop some meathead twice my size.
Tonight, the air in the gym is thick and humid, smelling like sweat, chalk, and disinfectant. The fans overhead do almost nothing to cool us down, but nobody complains. This is syndicate holy ground and we all respect it as such.
“Hands up, Stella!”Nonnobarks from behind the ropes at the edge of the ring. “You drop them again and I’m coming up there myself.”
“You can barely get up the stairs,” I toss back, ducking under another one of Izzie’s jabs aimed at my face.
“Enough sass and show me what you got.”
I grin and slip to the side, letting Izzie’s punch sail past me. I pivot, hook my arm around her neck, and drag her forward in a mock clinch.
Izzie laughs, breathless, twisting out of my hold. “I forgot that you fight dirty,” she pants, sweat darkening her sports bra and making curls stick to her forehead.
“You’re dating my brother,” I say, circling her. “You should have expected it. We Romanos never fight clean.”
Izzie laughs again, bouncing on the balls of her feet, gloves up. She’s quick and sharp, all lean lines and stubborn energy. When we first met, I knew there was a reason I liked her. And after all the support and love she’s shown Marcello, I can honestly say she’s become one of my closest friends. Even if she was a Fed once.
“Come on,” she taunts. “You’re too slow tonight. When I beat you, I want to make sure you gave it your all.”
“You honestly think you can take me?” I mock, sweat dripping down my temple.
“Keep fucking around and I’ll be taking a victory lap around this ring in… say, five minutes?” She winks.
I hiss through my teeth and lunge. My glove taps her jaw. Not hard enough to hurt, but solid enough to snap her head back a fraction.
“Cheap shot!” she protests, laughing.
“You opened your mouth,” I say. “Not my fault.”
We move together to a rhythm we’ve built over the past few months.
Sparring. Jab. Slip. Counter. Repeat.
Sweat slides down my spine, while my lungs burn and my muscles sing.
This is one of the few places where my brain shuts up entirely.
No riverboat numbers. No assholes to keep in line. No obligations. No Kirill.
Just the ring, Izzie in front of me, and the sound ofNonno’svoice cutting through the noise.
“Use your footwork, Stella! She’s dancing around you like you’re a tree!”
“Hey!” Izzie shouts with a giggle. “Don’t insult the trees. Trees are useful.”
“Trees don’t talk back,”Nonnomutters with a wink. “Again!”
Izzie feints left, goes right, and I follow. She throws in a hook, forcing me to duck and step in close, chest to chest. We clash, brace, and then I hook my leg around hers and twist just enough to knock her balance off. She hits the mat with a whoof of air and a burst of laughter, arms spread wide.
“Well, that was rude,” she wheezes, her smile ear to ear.
I stand over her, grinning, breathing hard. “Yield?”
