"How many?"
"Enough that I stopped counting." I moved behind her and adjusted her elbow angle. "Does that frighten you?"
"It should." She turned her head and met my eyes over her shoulder. "But it doesn't. Is that wrong?"
"Depends on your definition of wrong." My hands lingered on her waist, feeling her breathing. "In my world, violence is currency. You spend it carefully, or you go bankrupt."
"And in my world?" Her voice dropped. "What am I now?"
"A survivor learning to become a warrior."
Three days of training. Three days of watching Valentina transform from frightened victim into something fierce and focused. She learned weapons handling from Domenico, strategy from my security chief, and hand-to-hand combat from me.
Every session was torture.
Every touch—correcting her stance, demonstrating holds, showing her how to break free from restraints—sent electricity through my veins. She felt it too. I watched her pupils dilate when I pinned her during grappling drills, heard her breathing change when our bodies pressed together.
Neither of us acted on it.
The tension was becoming a problem.
On the fourth day, she managed to execute a hip throw I'd taught her, using my momentum to flip me onto my back on the mat. I hit hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. Before I could recover, she was on top of me, straddling my hips, forearm across my throat in a control hold.
We were both breathing hard. Sweat slicked our skin. Her face was inches from mine, green eyes blazing with triumph.
"Better?" she asked.
"You're learning fast."
"Good." Her voice was rough. "Because I'm tired of being the victim."
The control snapped.
She kissed me desperately, all teeth and hunger and pent-up fear transmuted into need. I groaned into her mouth, hands fisting in her hair, in the damp fabric of her shirt. She ground against me, and I was instantly, painfully hard.
My phone rang.
We froze. The ringtone was Domenico's emergency code.
"Fuck." I reached for it without dislodging Valentina. "What?"
"Turn on the news." Domenico's voice was tight. "Now."
I grabbed the remote and powered on the gym's wall-mounted screen.
Senator Richard Caldwell's face filled the display, his trademark silver hair disheveled, genuine fear in his eyes as reporters shouted questions. The banner scrolled across the bottom:Assassination Attempt on Senator Caldwell.
"Someone tried to kill him," Valentina whispered.
"Wait," Domenico said through the phone. "Listen."
Caldwell's voice cut through the chaos: "—hired professional assassin. My security team intercepted communications proving Valentina DeLuca arranged the hit. She's desperate, dangerous, and I'm cooperating fully with federal authorities—"
"No." Valentina's face drained of color. "No, I didn't—I wouldn't—"
"They're saying you hired the hit," I finished.
The screen switched to a federal prosecutor: "We've issued warrants for Valentina DeLuca's arrest on charges of conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder of a federal official, and domestic terrorism—"
