Rocco follows me silently up the stairs until we reach my bedroom door. He waits outside, standing guard while I shove on my workout clothes.
“So how did you get so lucky to be my babysitter?” I ask Rocco as we walk towards the gym.
“The Don gave me an order,” he says stiffly.
“Duh, but what is your specialty? Like are you the best fighter we have, are you a good shot, or did you fuck up?”
“Si,” is all he says back. Great, he’s probably been threatened by Luciano to not talk to me.
Walking into the gym, Carlo rubs his throat with a familiar smirk, the kind that says he’s been waiting for this moment—the moment that his brother snaps at me, his handprint still red raw on my neck.
“Fuck off, Carlo,” I spit. His laugh cuts through the air like a jagged knife, harshly. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh, and it catches me off guard.
Carlo turns to Rocco. “You can leave when she’s with me,” he says, but Rocco doesn’t move away from the door.
“Don told me I can only leave her alone with him,” he says, shifting slightly under Carlo’s gaze. The look on Carlo’s face is priceless, and I bet he’s thinking of a million ways to kill this soldier. I struggle to keep in my amusement.
Carlo reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone. “If you want Rocco to live, tell him to fuck off while Charlie is with me,” he grumbles into the phone.
I can’t hear what Luciano says back, but Rocco’s phone starts ringing as soon as Carlo ends his. Rocco nods. “Si,” he says before walking out the gym door.
“Thank you!” I say to Carlo.
“Suit up.” He tosses me a pair of gloves and headgear without missing a beat. For once, I obey without argument. He peels off his shirt, folding it with a brutal neatness onto the chair, his muscles flexing and stretching beneath the intricate web of tattoos that crawl over his skin. I can’t help but stare. Underneath the inked patterns show a map of his hardened life. Small scars and raised burnt marks can still be seen if you look close enough.
“Do you have any bare skin at all, or is it all inked?” I tilt my head, my curiosity cutting through the tension.
“All inked.”
I press my luck, a teasing edge to my tone. “What about your ass?”
“Inked,” he replies, unfazed.
“Your dick?”
“Inked,” he confirms, voice steady, no hint of humor.
I scoff. “Seriously?”
“I don’t joke around,” Carlo says, eyes darkening. “Now punch me."
I raise my hands instinctively, my heart pounding, and launch myself forward, aiming a punch at his chest. The shock of impact sends a jolt of pain through my wrist. “Fuck, why are you so hard?” I hiss, shaking my hand.
“You punch like a fucking girl,” he retorts, stepping back.
“You punch like a fucking girl,” I mock, peeling off my shirt to stand before him in just my sports bra and gym pants.
“Play games with my brother, not me, little girl,” he warns, lunging forward to jab me hard in the ribs.
The sting is sharp and real. “Ow! Are you fucking serious?” I clutch my side and breathe through the pain. I’m not used to this. My style of exercising is running.
“You even cuss like a fucking girl.”
“Do you want me to magically grow a dick?” I challenge, squaring up to him. His fist connects again, sending me stumbling backward. “You’re really starting to piss me off, Carlo.” I raise my hands defensively and bounce on my feet, copying his stance.
“Good. Get angry,” he urges. I lunge forward, slamming my fist into his arm. “Again,” he commands, and we start to trade blows, a relentless back-and-forth that leaves my lungs burning and my arms trembling with exhaustion.
I collapse onto the mat, closing my eyes for a second while I gasp to catch my breath, the sting of sweat in my eyes. Suddenly, cold water splashes over me, shocking me. “What the fuck, Carlo?” I gasp.
