One
The rain was letting up.
The studio door was propped open and, through the gap, Nikki could see the deluge giving way to a mild patter. Wet cobblestones and asphalt glistened, reflecting the flash of headlamps and the red glow of brake lights. She turned back to the room and clapped her hands.
“Alright,” she shouted. “Ten minutes to go. Keep it up! Switch sides.”
The students were sweating. She was sweating. The ventilation in this place was shit.
Five groups of students were taking turns with yellow plastic prop knives, practicing disarming techniques. One woman had given up and, blonde hair plastered to her face, was sitting on the floor, back against the cinder-block wall, sucking air.
This was the fifth Krav Maga self-defense class Nikki had taught in the city center this fall. The turnout was good tonight—a mix of Americans from the nearby US military base and local kids from the Naples neighborhoods. Most were curious and eager to learn, and Nikki usually enjoyed teaching. But language and cultural differences meant the two groups didn’t mingle well and, after two hours, Nikki was worn out from swapping between English and Italian.
Despite the extra effort, these lessons were a welcome distraction. In this classroom, she was in control. She was in her body, nerves and heartbeat and breath—and these students relied on her. She scanned the assorted collection of teenagers and military wives in jeans or gym gear—the slow, awkward movements, the way they spoke the instructions aloud, executed the sequences, the way they fumbled and dropped the plastic weapons. It was unlikely that any one of themwould become a martial arts expert. But that wasn’t the point, was it? She needed to give them just a little more awareness, a rehearsal of the shock you felt to have someone stick a knife or a gun in your face, and a sense of being able to move, to help yourself if god forbid that moment ever came.
She was preparing to start the cooldown sequence when the door opened fully, letting in the street noises. Two men strode through. They wore puffer jackets, slick with the rain. A damp breeze wafted in as the door shut behind them, breathing diesel fumes and ozone.
“Motherfucker,” exclaimed the first man, the word reverberating in the small space.
He was muscular with a thick neck and short haircut. He leaned over to slap the water off his head, spackling the floor.
“Keep going,” Nikki shouted to the students, who were slowing, turning to look. She moved to meet the men.
“Can I help you?”
“Buona sera, signora,” said the second man. “What a lovely night for…what is this? Aerobics?”
He was tall and rangy, with wide, bulging eyes and thick eyebrows. His smile was unpleasant.
“Self-defense. I’d invite you to join but we’re nearly finished. We have other classes on the schedule if you’d like to come then. There are flyers by the door.”
She spoke the words in an efficient, clipped manner, hoping it would urge them to leave. But something about them told her that this was more than an innocent escape from the rain.
Close to them now, Nikki became keenly aware of the height difference. She was accustomed to being the shortest person in the room, and relied on a muscular physique and confident bearing to make up the difference. But these men were significantly larger than she, and they drew in, looming over her, a challenge in their posture.
Nikki recognized the type from her years as a bouncer: pack animals, puffing their chests, slamming their heads to assert dominance.
“Self-defense?” snorted the muscular one. “Very important. This isn’t a safe neighborhood, you know?”
“Indeed,” said Nikki, squaring herself to him. “Which is why I need to get back to teaching. The rain has stopped. You should leave now.”
The man with the bulging eyes looked over her head and called out to the group. “We’re in the same business, you know? Self-protection. How much are you paying for these lessons? Sixty? Seventy? We can protect you all for much less.”
His words jarred Nikki, the metallic flavor of adrenaline suddenly in her mouth, pulse accelerating.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Listen,” said the muscular man, pressing in closer and adopting a reasonable, brotherly tone. “We only want to help you stay safe. These are dangerous times.”
“Fifty euros,” said the other one in English, once again to the class. “It’s a good price.”
Rage surged in Nikki’s gut, in her throat, behind her eyes—hot and electric.
“Or what? You’ll do something stupid in front of seventeen witnesses, everyone taking pictures? Get the fuck out of my class.”
She stared unblinking at them, a sort of mania in her fury that she held back with effort.
The muscular man met her gaze for a few beats, then laughed. “Aren’t you adorable? No offense, signora. No offense at all. We’re just here to help.”
