We sit in silence that feels less oppressive than before. The tea is warm, the honey a balm on my raw throat. For a moment, it soothes wounds I can't name.
"Tomorrow, you start training." He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Physical outlet for all that anger. You'll learn knife work. Hand-to-hand. Enough to keep you alive."
"Why knives?"
"Personal. Quiet. Effective. Guns are for soldiers. Knives are for survivors."
"Which am I?"
His eyes darken. "That remains to be seen."
The challenge in his voice makes me sit straighter. Tomorrow, I'll prove I'm more than Francesco's spoiled niece. More than a burden. More than a liability.
"Six a.m is early."
"Discipline starts early." He stands, the chair creaking. "Wear something you can move in."
"Thank you. For the tea. For tomorrow."
"Tomorrow you'll hate me." No smile softens the warning. "I don't train gently."
"I don't want gentle."
"Six a.m. Don't be late."
The door closes behind him with finality. I'm left with cooling tea and the promise of tomorrow.
Lorenzo
Five forty-five. An hour isn't enough, but it's what I have. The training room waits in predawn silence. Weapons line the racks, a hundred different ways to kill gleaming in the half-light.
I check each knife, the familiar weight in my palm a comfort. The edge bites my thumb sharp, ready. The ritual is supposed to ground me.
Just another student.
I tell myself.
Except she's not.
Four a.m, the intelligence came through secure channels. Daniil Morozov crossed into Chicago last night.
The Russian wants Sophia, and he's brought enough muscle to take her if we're not careful. A million dollars for information about her location. Two million if someone delivers her directly. Francesco couldn't keep it a secret any longer. If he ever really tried.
The clock on the wall ticks toward six. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, force my body into instructor mode. Professional distance. That's all this needs to be. Teach her to defend herself, give her the agency she craves, keep her alive long enough for Pietro to figure out our next move.
Footsteps in the hallway light, hesitant. I left a note under her door explaining where to find the training room.
She appears in the doorway exactly on time. Workout clothes cling to curves I shouldn't notice. Black leggings, grey tank top that rides up as she stretches her arms overhead. Her hair is pulled back, baring the long, pale line of her throat.
An invitation.
She's not made for me. She's young and needs help. That's all you fucking creep.
"Morning." Her voice is tight, but her chin is high. All pride, even when she's scared. It's the part of her that will get her killed. It's also the part I can't resist even if I've seen little of it so far.
"You're on time. Good."
She steps into the room, her eyes scanning the weapon displays. "This is... intense."
