“Who wants you to step down?”
He laughed, but there was no humour in it. It was hollow, filled with pain. “Fucking everyone. I’m the weak, scrawny bossno one respects. Haven’t you heard? Maybe it would be better if I did. Clearly, I’m not cut out for—”
I slammed my hand over his mouth and growled, “Never show weakness.” My eyes darted down the hallway, checking we weren’t being watched. “There's no way out of your position except in a body bag. Whether you like it or not, the mafia owns you. But you can decide how. Are you up for it, Aiani?”
He nodded against my hand, and I let him go, stepping back. His eyes were defiant. I’d seen that look the night I met him, and it hadn’t faded. Fire. As long as he had that, he’d survive. And I’d make damn sure he did.
“Follow me,” I said, walking down the stairs towards the Buccinis’ gym. I typed in the code, and the door buzzed open. I bypassed the gym equipment and weights, heading straight to the floor mats in the centre of the room, where a boxing bag hung from the ceiling.
“I didn’t think we’d be doing this... right now,” he said behind me.
I pulled off my shirt and kicked off my flip-flops, leaving me barefoot. I faced him as he stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, glancing around the huge room. He looked like a fish out of water, but it was clear he’d been in a gym before. I’d felt the emergence of muscles beneath his clothes when we kissed only twenty-nine days ago. Had I been counting? Yes.
Each day felt like torture, with memories replaying endlessly in my mind. I’d moved too quickly, pushed too hard. He wasn’t ready to accept who he was or what he wanted. He was bloody terrified of it. I wish I’d been a bit gentler, but if he thought I’d go easy on him when it came to this—learning how to survive—I wouldn’t.
“Take off your shirt.”
“What?” His blue eyes widened like a fawn’s. He swallowed his arousal as they scanned my torso, packed with bulgingmuscles and dark ink. We had entirely different builds. Where I was shorter and stockier, he was lean and athletic. That wasn’t always a bad thing. Where he might lack the strength I had, he was probably quick. Agile. I needed to see what I was dealing with.
“Take off your shirt, Aiani. And your shoes.”
He hesitated, looking over his shoulder to make sure we were alone.
“There’s no one here. No cameras either. We’re alone,” I said, not meaning my voice to deepen with hunger on the last word.
He slipped off his polished shoes and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then tugged it down his arms. My mouth went dry. Fuck, he was so beautiful. Elle was right. He looked like he belonged on Milan’s catwalk, not in the mafia. He was too damn perfect. Sun-kissed golden skin stretched over lean muscles and a narrow waist. No tattoos. Just blemish-free skin I wanted to lick every inch of. But the bruising over his ribs made my chest tighten.
“Mypadrenever taught me to fight with my fists. Our family is passionate about guns. I can hit a target with my eyes closed. Kill a man before he even blinks. I’m probably one of the best snipers my family has ever seen,” he said, as if he needed to justify himself. He didn’t. I understood.
We all had our strengths. I was a terrible shot. It took me years of practice to hit a target. But I knew how to kill with my hands. Where to hit the body to do the most damage. How to disarm a man in three seconds flat and put him in a chokehold, fighting for his last breath. We were different creatures with different skills.
“Then maybe,” I said, stepping into him and closing the gap between us. “You can teach me when I’ve finished teaching you.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed directly in my line of sight. He was a few inches taller than I was, giving me the perfect opportunityto bite it or graze my teeth along his jaw. But the angry purple bruising on his collarbone and ribs sobered my desire. The only marks I wanted to see on this man’s body were my own. No one else’s.
Turning away from him, I moved to the centre of the mats, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. “Come on.”
He took a few hesitant steps closer, uncertain. I raised my hand and beckoned him towards me.
“Hit me.”
“Eh?”
“Punch me in the face. As hard as you possibly can.”
“I—” he hesitated, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I chuckled. “You won’t. That’s the challenge. I want you to try to hurt me, but trust me, you won’t succeed.”
That seemed to spark determination and his competitive spirit. His nostrils flared, and he drew back his fist before swinging it at my face. I didn’t even flinch. Instead, I smiled, turning his shock into fury.
“Fuck, no wonder they beat you to shit. Again. Harder.”
He roared, landing two more punches to my face. One across my cheekbone and the other straight into my nose. Once again, I didn’t so much as stumble, but warm blood trickled from one of my nostrils. I stuck out my tongue, licking it away, and smirked.
“Not bad. This time, I want you to put all your fury into it. Think of something that really pisses you the fuck off. A person. A memory. Words. Whatever, but lock onto it. Use it.”
The following punch stung. My face whipped to the side, and my smile widened as I tasted blood in my mouth. Yes, there it was. He had raw strength and rage. He just needed to learn to channel them. I could teach him the rest.
