She set the tablet down, looked at me with those extraordinary green eyes. "Why? You barely know me. You're risking everything—your position, your family's peace, your honor in the Commission. Why would you do that for me?"
Because you deserve better. Because I've seen too many innocents sacrificed to protect guilty men. Because when you look at me, you see someone who might actually be worth the faith you're placing in him.
I didn't say any of that.
"Because the blood debt was founded on a lie. Marco told me you needed protection. Instead, he wanted me to be his executioner. That makes the oath void."
"Is that how the Commission will see it?"
"I don't care how the Commission sees it."
Valentina studied my face for a long moment. Then she straightened her shoulders, and I watched her transform. The fear melted away, replaced by something harder. Stronger.
"Good. Because I'm done being afraid." She crossed her arms. "If I'm going to war with my own father, I'm not going to be helpless. Teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to fight. How to shoot properly, not just panic-fire like I did at the motel. How to defend myself." Her chin lifted. "How to survive."
I should have refused. Should have told her to stay hidden, stay safe, let me handle the dangerous work.
Instead, I felt respect bloom hot and fierce in my chest.
"You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
We started that afternoon in my private gym—a converted loft space three floors below the penthouse. Concrete floors, exposed brick, and equipment that could build soldiers.
I wrapped her hands, showed her proper stance, and corrected her form when she threw punches at the heavy bag.
"Don't telegraph." I caught her wrist mid-swing, then moved behind her. My hands settled on her hips, adjusting her stance. "Feet wider. Hips square."
She tensed at the contact, and I felt it—the sharp intake of breath, the way her body went rigid, then slowly relaxed into my grip.
"Relax," I murmured near her ear. "You can't generate power if you're tense."
My hands lingered a beat longer than necessary before I stepped back.
"Like this?"
Better. Her body was lean but strong, muscles responding to training with surprising speed. She'd been educated in dance, I'd heard. Piano. Refinements meant to make her decorative.
She was so much more than decorative.
"Again," I said.
She hit the bag three more times, each strike cleaner than the last. Sweat dampened her hairline and made the shirt cling to her curves.
"How do you know all this? The fighting, I mean. Did your father teach you?"
"My father taught me business. Violence, I learned from necessity." I demonstrated a combination and watched her mirror it. "When you run a family like mine, you either learn to defend yourself or you don't survive long enough to matter."
"Have you killed people?"
The question was direct. Unflinching.
"Yes."
