Chapter 25
Ifall into a sparring stance across from Cec. “You’re awfully quiet, Cecilio.”
“Mm,” he hums in response, milky gaze downcast.
I let the tip of my practice sword tap the ground, crouching slightly to peer into his blank gaze. “I’m thinking about stripping down and skipping through the halls in nothing but my boots.”
His tone remains quiet, distracted. “That’s nice.”
I stare at him. “This is troubling. I’m troubled.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Apologies, Hawkins. Despite the enticing image you provided, I’m a little preoccupied.”
“With what we spoke about this morning?” I murmur. “About Anders?”
He gives me a small smile. “No, I’ve made my peace with that. I’m preoccupied with coming to the realization that my father is the monster I always thought him to be but refused to do anything about.”
“Ah.” I approach Cec, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve all been there. I still haven’t gotten over the monster my own father turned out to be. Or that my nonna has been lying to me all these years.”
I wince, the revelation still fresh. Even after deciding Ansaldo’s the true villain in all this, I sat for a long time in my room. Someone—either Bes or Cec, or both—tried knocking once, but I ignored them.
In truth, I’m mad at myself as well. I knew something wasn’t quite right about my nonna involving Ansaldo.
Or, as I knew him for the entirety of my expedition, Uncle Arturo.
The signs began piling up, first with Ailsa, then the man at Gino’s, even Francesca, and especially the Maestro at the club.
All these people with secrets connected to the man who Nonna asked to help me.
Even when I learned his true name, I thought it was only about Ansaldo pretending to be someone he wasn’t to my nonna.
Without even realizing it, I’d absolved her of all guilt by association.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she would lie to me at all, much less lie to me my entire life, blood oath or no blood oath.
Cec shakes his head. “The thing is, I’ve always known him to be a bloody knob. I was simply too stubborn to admit it to myself.”
A cutting insult.
“Believe me, I can relate.”
Just then, someone enters through the heavy wooden doors to the training room.
I glance over his shoulder, finding a man of average height and build, with snow-white hair.
Still no Bes. Not that I expect him to show up, but a part of me wishes it all the same, considering coming here was his suggestion.
Glancing upward to center myself, I stare at the ceiling.
In what I imagine to be an attempt to make us feel like we’re not trapped beneath solid earth and rock, it’s painted with a less-gruesome landscape than the great hall.
The bright blue scene spattered with thick white clouds and ringed by the imposing Dolomites, it allows me to pretend I’m looking at the northern Italian sky through a fish-eye lens.
The longer I stare at it, though, the more I miss the real outdoors.
My gaze falls back to Cec, as the instructor yells, “Let’s get started.”
We do as she asks, following her every direction until she has us practicing the moves on our own with our partners.
“This class is duller than the swords they gave us,” I note, feigning to the left and easily avoiding Cec’s arching swing.
His blade slices through the air a few feet from me, the effort loosening his grip on the hilt.
He’s been fighting me with his left hand—which I’ve learned is his dominant one when it comes to weaponry—but he lifts the sparring sword with both hands now.
Hair pulled back, sweat drips down his face, his clouded eyes squinted in determination.
“Yes, well, some of us are unable to rely on our ocular sense, so we must train ourselves to trust in the others.”
A few beads of sweat have formed on my own forehead. “And some of us have been sword-fighting all our lives.”
“I’m not sure I’d put fencing and sword-fighting in the same category. It takes more strength to wield a blade like this.”
He’s not wrong about that: this broad sword is heavier than any fencing sword I’ve fought with before. Luckily for me, training with Cec means I’ve barely had to lift it.
All around us, dozens of order members clash with their practice swords. The ringing of clanging metal poisons the stale air. Others on the outskirts can be found boxing or lifting weights or doing some form of yoga.
Refocusing my attention to the task at hand, I watch Cec try to sense where I am over the cacophony of noise in here.
It’s not going well. When he approaches a tall, muscled man he somehow thinks is me and taps his calf with the broad side of the sword, I nearly burst out laughing.
The man curses at him in French, and Cec scuttles away.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Cec mutters. Scowling in my direction, he raises his sword again.
In truth, though, I wish Cec and I could fight on equal ground. Partly so I don’t feel guilty about beating him, but mostly because Bes was right: I do need to work out my anger.
Although I absolved Bes and Cec of Ansaldo’s plans, I can’t help wallowing in the remnants of my anger at them.
Though they might not have known Ansaldo would force me to join the order, they knew outsiders aren’t exactly welcome to come and go as they please without swearing a blood oath.
Though Bes claimed otherwise, they could’ve been aware of my family’s involvement in the order from the beginning.
Then again, if Ansaldo framed it to them as he said earlier, which positioned nonna as a friend and nothing more, then they were as much in the dark as I was about his plan once I arrived. They might’ve thought he was merely offering shelter for an old friend’s granddaughter.
You have to let it go, Mel.
“Giudice, Hawkins, what are you doing?” the trainer at the front of the room screeches. She observes us with thinly-veiled rage, the blue throbbing vein in her forehead visible even from a distance. “Stop moving your mouths and start moving your feet.”
“She’s an absolute joy,” I utter under my breath, squaring up again.
“About time someone knocked you down a peg.”
I grimace. “I’ll knock her down a peg.”
“Don’t let her hear you,” Cec warns. “She’ll whip you with an actual whip, and not in the fun way.”
I open my mouth to reply, but someone cuts me off.
“I’ve been asked to relieve Cec of his duties.”
I turn to find Bes standing behind me, and my traitorous heart leaps in my chest. I didn’t even notice him enter the room.
He glances between us. “Though I don’t see much sparring going on.”
I shift my grip on my practice sword. I’ve never seen Bes fight with a blade before. Or any other weapon for that matter, besides a handgun. I think about the scars I’ve noticed on his knuckles, and figure he’s more of a fighter than I give him credit for.
This will be very interesting.
“Thank the gods,” Cec grumbles.
Before I can form a half-hearted protest, he hands his sword to Bes and takes off in the direction of the yoga group.
Turning to face Bes, I drink him in. A loose white tank top exposes his toned arms—the bullet wound from Claude somehow nothing but a pink fleshy scar.
He covered the knife wound from the Blackshirt in the tunnel outside the club in Civitavecchia with gauze.
His top is tucked into black shorts that reach to the middle of his thighs, followed by tall white socks and white sneakers.
I glance down at my own boots, wishing I had my Chuck Taylor All Stars.
His hair is half-knotted on top of his head to keep it out of his face, and his glasses remain securely looped around his ears, obscuring his mostly-healed black eye. Though his clothes appear so out of place from his usual outfits, he looks more comfortable. More in his element.
I also get to see a lot more of him, which I definitely don’t hate. My pulse hastens much quicker than when I was sword practicing with Cec.
Recalling my own makeshift outfit, I wonder what he thinks of it.
I found a men’s white t-shirt two sizes too big in the back of the armoire, and tucked it into a pair of maroon gym shorts that were likely meant for the same man but sit a bit tight on my hips and ass.
From my suitcase, I picked out the only minimizer bra I thought to bring, glad for the foresight.
His gaze slides to my exposed legs, lingering there as my face and neck heat.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks me, then lowers his voice. “After this morning, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
One side of my lips tips up. “As much as I’d love to blame you so that I can watch you brood for another day or so, I’ve forgiven you. Cec, too. You were doing what you thought was right, based on the information your own uncle gave you. I did the same with my nonna. The blame doesn’t rest on you.”
He smiles fully, taking my breath away at the sight. “I’m glad to hear it.”
We stare at each other a little while longer, until the silence becomes unbearable.
“How’s your knife wound?” I ask, clearing my throat.
He reaches for the spot. “Still healing, but better now. What about your knee?”
I glance down at the gauze, repeating his words. “Still healing.” Eyeing his bullet wound again, I wonder, “Do you heal quicker because of the tattoo?”
He shifts that arm, almost unconsciously. “I do. It certainly comes in handy.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, actually meaning it.
With nothing else to say, I bring up my sword. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Bes,” I goad him instead. “Don’t hold back.”
After a moment, his expression shifts to one of mischief, and he grins. “Oh, I shan’t, Miss Hawkins.”
Heat zings up my neck and along my chest. Why did those words make him more attractive to me? I wonder, right as he swings for my midsection with the end of the sword.
I block him just in time, discarding my ill-timed yearning and replacing it with years of fencing practice.