17 | He was wrong
A few days later, I'm sitting in a bar, the kind of place where no one asks questions and everyone minds their own business.
I'm sipping a martini, the glass chilled and sleek in my hand.
Across from me, Franco sits with a glass of scotch in his hand, his gaze heavy on me. I can feel him watching, dissecting me as if I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
He's not like Luciano, not as sharp-edged or polished. Franco is rugged, unpolished, like a blade that's been used too many times but never dulled.
He leans forward, his elbows on the worn wooden table, and his eyes drop to my hands. My fingers, bruised and bandaged, rest awkwardly on the table like I'm trying to hide them but failing miserably.
"You're a fucking mess, Aurelia," he says bluntly, his voice low and gruff.
"These past few days, you've locked yourself away in your bedroom, refusing to talk to anyone.
All you do is bite your nails until they bleed.
.." His gaze sharpens. "What's wrong with you?
Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
I laugh, but it's empty, just a hollow sound that echoes in the small space between us.
"What's wrong with me? Where do I even start..." I look at him, my lips curling into a wry smile. "I guess I'm just an addict. To the pain."
He doesn't laugh, doesn't even smile. His expression is unreadable, his dark eyes searching mine like he's looking for the truth buried somewhere beneath my skin.
It makes me uncomfortable, the way he looks at me. Like he actually cares. Like he actually wants to understand me and help me.
I glance away, raising a hand to call for the waiter.
"Another martini, please," I say, my voice sharp, cutting through the warm hum of the bar. The waiter gives a polite nod before turning away to prepare another martini for me.
Franco shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "You ever think about channeling that pain into something else?"
I raise an eyebrow, my fingers tightening around the stem of the glass. "What, like knitting? Or maybe I'll take up painting? I will create a masterpiece using the blood of my enemies," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
He doesn't take the bait. "No. I'm serious, Aurelia. Fighting. Boxing. Something physical. Something that makes you feel alive without tearing yourself apart."
I blink at him, caught off guard by the suggestion.
"Fighting?" I repeat, tasting the word like it's foreign, strange on my tongue.
He nods. "Yeah. You've got a lot of anger in you, and sadness, too. You think I don't see it? You walk around like a storm waiting to break, but instead of letting it out, you turn it inward. You hurt yourself." He gestures toward my hands. "That's not the way to deal with it."
I stare at him, my mind racing. Fighting? Boxing? The idea is so absurd it almost makes me laugh, but then I realize he's serious. Dead serious.
"You think I'm angry?" I ask, my voice quieter now, softer.
"I know you are," he says simply. "And I don't blame you. With everything you've been through, everything you're dealing with... you've got every right to be angry. But you don't have to let it destroy you."
I sip my martini, letting his words sink in. They feel heavy, like stones dropping into a dark well.
"And what, you're just offering to be my personal trainer?" I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm in my voice, but it comes out weaker than I intended.
Franco smiles, but it's not mocking. It's almost... kind. "Yeah, why not? I could teach you a thing or two. You might even enjoy it."
I laugh, shaking my head. "I don't know. The idea of punching something or someone sounds tempting, but I'm not sure if it's my thing."
"Think about it," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "You don't have to decide now. But I think it'd be good for you. Give you an opportunity to vent. A way to take control of your pain instead of letting it control you."
I study him, searching for any hint of ulterior motive, but I don't find one. He's just... Franco. Blunt and honest, with no patience for bullshit.
"Maybe..." I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll think about it."
"Good," he says, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of his whiskey. "That's all I'm asking."
We fall into a comfortable silence after that, the noise of the bar washing over us like a soothing balm.
────??────
The basement gym is massive, outfitted with every piece of equipment you could imagine.
The air smells faintly of rubber mats and metal, a sharp tang that blends with the faint musk of sweat.
I rarely come down here, this is Luciano's domain.
A place where he works out his frustrations and sculpts that lethal body of his.
But today, it's my domain.
I'm dressed in a black sports bra and leggings, my ginger hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings with every movement.
Franco stands in front of me, his broad shoulders and easy smirk making him look like he belongs here, like he owns the space as much as Luciano does.
He's dressed in a tight black t-shirt and gym shorts, his hands wrapped with tape.
"All right," Franco says, his voice rough but not unkind. "You ready to let some of that fire out, or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?"
I glare at him, but there's no real heat in it. "I can handle whatever you throw at me."
"We'll see about that," he says, motioning me to step closer.
I adjust the boxing gloves on my hands, their weight awkward but strangely satisfying.
Franco moves behind me, guiding my arms into position.
His hands are rough and warm against my skin as he adjusts my stance, pressing his chest lightly against my back.
I can feel the heat of him, the strength coiled in his body like a spring.
"Keep your hands up," he says, his breath ghosting over my ear. "Protect your face. Always."
I nod, biting my lip, and he steps back. I miss the heat of him immediately but push the thought aside as he holds up the pads for me to strike.
"Hit me," he orders. "Hard."
I do as he says, throwing a punch that connects with the pad. The sound is satisfying, a sharp thud that echoes in the gym.
"Again," he says, grinning.
I hit it again. And again. Each strike feels like a release, a way to channel the storm inside me. I start to sweat, the damp heat clinging to my skin as I throw everything I have into each punch.
Franco keeps goading me, his voice low and steady, pushing me harder, faster.
"Good," he says, his eyes gleaming with approval. "You've got some fire in you, Red."
"Don't call me that," I snap, even as a smirk tugs at my lips.
"You don't like nicknames?" he teases, stepping closer, too close. "Or is it just that you don't like me?"
I don't answer, throwing another punch instead. He catches it with the pad, his gaze steady on mine. We're both breathing hard now, the air between us thick with heat and something else I can't quite name.
"Come on," he says, his voice softer now, coaxing. "You're doing good. Keep going."
I swing again, but this time my balance falters, and Franco catches me by the waist. His hands are firm and strong, holding me steady as I straighten up.
We're so close now, his face just inches from mine. I can see the sweat glistening on his forehead, the way his dark eyes seem to flicker with something dangerous.
"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
I roll my eyes, but my breath catches as his hand lingers on my waist for just a second too long. The moment stretches between us, charged and electric, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my chest.
And then I hear it.
"Aurelia."
The voice is sharp and cold, cutting through the charged air like a blade.
I freeze, my head snapping toward the doorway. Luciano is standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes burning with barely concealed anger.
He's dressed in a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, and his jaw is set in a hard line. His presence is overwhelming, filling the room and suffocating everything else.
"Luciano," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze flicks to Franco, and I can feel the tension in the room spike. Franco steps back, his hands raised slightly as if to show he means no harm.
"We were just—" Franco starts, but Luciano cuts him off with a sharp glare.
"I don't recall asking for an explanation," he says, his tone deadly. His eyes shift to me, and I can see the fury simmering beneath the surface. "You're done for today, Aurelia."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Luciano—"
"I said you're done," he snaps, his voice like a whip.
Franco looks at me, his expression unreadable, before he steps away, giving Luciano a wide berth as he exits the room. Luciano doesn't even spare him a glance, his focus entirely on me.
"Why are you here?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.
I lift my chin, refusing to cower under his glare. "I needed to let off some steam."
"And you thought he was the right person to help you with that?" he asks, taking a step closer.
I meet his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "I wasn't doing anything wrong."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You think I don't see what's happening here? You think I don't see the way he looks at you?"
"There's nothing happening," I say firmly, but even as the words leave my lips, I can feel the weight of his disbelief.
Luciano steps closer, his presence overwhelming, until he's towering over me. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the damp skin of my cheek.
"You're my wife, Aurelia," he says, his voice low and possessive. "Don't forget that."
I hold his gaze, my breath catching as the intensity of his words washes over me. But I don't back down.
"I haven't forgotten," I say softly, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "I'm just training in this gym with Franco, instead of grieving over my sister like a little bitch."
For a moment, he just stares at me, his dark eyes burning into mine. And then he steps back, his jaw tight as he turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of the gym.
He thought I wouldn't bark back? He was fucking wrong.
The next time he returns, all jealous and possessive, I will print pictures of Ciara and throw them right in his face.