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I straighten my spine and clear the lump of emotions from my throat. “We’re going to the gym.”
She gives me the look I’ve come to recognize as argumentative. But logic always threads through her words, too, and I respect that more than I should.
“Why?”
“Because you’re in a situation where knowing how to incapacitate someone could mean the difference between you living or dying.” I meet her eyes. “And you can’t rely on me to be there every time.”
Her chin lifts. “Is that a subtle way of saying that you plan to eventually not be there?”
“No.” My response comes out too fast, and she notices, holding my gaze a moment longer.
The resistance in her expression gives way to resolve. Not agreement, but a decision to stop fighting me.
She disappears into the bathroom to change. Ten minutes later, she returns and laces up white sneakers. She wears black skintight leggings that cling to her hips and the round curve of her ass. They fit so well that it takes me a full thirty seconds to notice the faded athletic tank top. I drag my eyes north, because if I don’t force the effort now, I never will.
Soon, I’m back in the compound gym for the second time today, trying to see it through her eyes. The old training pit still sits in the villa basement, all concrete and cracked mirrors and buzzing fluorescent light, where Enzo breaks in his knuckles when he wants to be left alone.
But this is the space the rest of us claimed, carved out of what used to be a long, narrow stable annex with exposed brick walls and a concrete floor that swallows sound. Training mats line the far end in neat squares beneath a row of pull-up bars bolted to the ceiling joists.
A heavy bag hangs dead center, its leather darkened with years of sweat and impact and flanked by two speed bags that sway faintly whenever someone breezes past. Free weights rack along the side wall in precise ascending order, dumbbells to kettlebells, and a bench press sits beneath the only window, where morning light cuts a single bright stripe across the floor.
A boxing ring takes up the far corner, its ropes already frayed from the hours we’ve put in, the canvas scuffed and honest.
The whole place smells of chalk dust and old leather, the kind of scent that seeps into concrete and never leaves. Nothing about this room exists to impress. Every piece of equipment earns its place through function, not appearance.
Izzy works out in front of one of the speed bags, landing punches at a rapid, rhythmic pace. She doesn’t glimpse over when we enter, and she speaks without breaking her cadence. “Don’t train her like one of your fucking boys. Watch her hips, not her hands. Her power needs to come from her core.”
She leaves before I can ask for further guidance.
Lucia glances at me. “Does she always do that?”
“She does it less around people she likes.”
That earns me an expression I can’t fully categorize before we settle into her first lesson, where I teach her about stance, balance, and how she can hold her center of gravity taut, which grants a smaller person the leverage to redirect a larger adversary.
She listens the way she might to a patient’s medical history, her eyes fixed on the task as she files the information away. I adjust my instructions, giving her short and precise explanations followed by clear demonstrations.
When I grip her wrist to show the first redirect, I expect hesitation. Most people freeze the first time a bigger body closes in, but she doesn’t.
She twists into the redirect with her whole frame, pivoting like I described. For a fraction of a second, I have to shift my weight to stay upright. Pure delight lights up her face once she realizes she almost knocked me down.
I look away before my mouth betrays me.
We continue, and I correct her stance by placing both hands on her hips in a standard position. There’s nothing suggestive about it, yet the warmth of her through the thin fabric is immediate and inconvenient. She adjusts herself before I finish, and my hands remain on her for a couple of seconds without any logical reason.
I step back. Lucia avoids my eyes, obviously trying to hide her reaction to my touch.
“Show me again.” She spreads out her arms and legs and settles into a balanced stance.
We run through three more techniques while I fight to maintain my concentration. We’re both ignoring that shift in the air. Before we started, she checked the wound on my flank, prodding the tissue adhesive with clinical fingers and declaring it “closed enough for light contact, but if you tear this open again, I’m stapling it shut.” I took that as permission to proceed.
In the fourth round, I decide to demonstrate a counter-grab. My hands are on her ribs, so near her breasts that my timing slips a fraction.
Taking advantage of that opportunity, she drives a sharp elbow into my solar plexus, well clear of my healing side and precise enough that I know she aimed deliberately.
The impact drives air from my lungs, and I stagger backward, a bit winded. She stares at me, hovering between being horrified and deeply satisfied.
I straighten and suck in a slow breath. “Again.”
