As of late, the feelings I had toward my father were not of the usual variety. For all my life, I did not feel anything for him except for respect, which I was brought up to have—respect at all costs. Loyalty at all costs. Father and son love did not factor into our relationship.
I was angry at him—angry enough to nod and meet him in the middle of the ring when he set a challenge at my feet.
“Meet me in the middle of the ring.”
I was angry at him for all he had done—using me as a solider and nothing more to gain footing in the family—and angry at all he had not done—not giving me the choice to accept or not the laws of this family, as he did my brother.
He had never challenged me before.
Perhaps he had aggression toward me as well.
I was changing, and he did not care for it.
We met in the middle, and when I went to dance around him, he came straight for me. My father was not a subtle fighter by any means. He would get the challenger on the first swipe, or his challenger would receive two more before he realized it, and by then it was too late. My father did this to me. He hit me so hard, I felt a rib crack. He was fast as well. One hit after another that I could not deflect. When he cracked another rib, he called the fight.
He stared into my eyes, his full of anger he was repressing as much as I was. “You will have to get creative to defeat the man who created you,” he said in Italian, sweat dripping down his face. “I see you are as lacking as ever.”
With those words, he left the room, no one trailing behind him as usual.
Brando stepped into the ring with me, looking me over. Sweat poured from my body as quick and as fast as it was pouring from my father’s. It hit the ground in massive splats. It was not intentional, but when my brother set his hand on my ribs, my body pulled slightly in the other direction.
The fire felt good.
It made me hungrier.
It irritated me enough to keep swinging.
“Your wife is going to be unhappy about this.” Brando’s dark eyes flicked behind me, reflecting a bright light.
My wife was inside with the women, and my eyes narrowed against the illuminated vision. I did not recognize the woman charging into the gym. Her hair was short, much shorter than my wife’s.
Brando seemed as if he wanted to set a hand on my shoulder and squeeze, but instead, he shook his head, and he and my brothers left, allowing the woman inside.
She smelled like my wife.
Her body was familiar.
However, this woman was not my wife.
She seemed much harder.
The woman stopped close to the ropes with her arms crossed—waiting, expectant.
“I do not know who you are,” I said to the woman in Italian, “but get out now—before I make you.”
The woman made a noise at me, an irritated huff. That was when my eyes narrowed even further, and I realized there was no mistaking the soft voice. A voice that could heal me when nothing else could.
“Make me then,” she said in perfect Italian, opening her arms.
I jumped from the ring, part of me demanding I rush to her, but another part ordered me to take slow steps toward her so that what I was seeing could be made sense of.
My wife.
Her hair.
It was gone.
It was darker, much shorter—above her shoulders. Big waves created a halo of hair around her head, however…the cut made her seem more womanly, more mature. It enhanced the shape of her eyes, making them seem much more dangerous.
