Chapter 2
Harlow
The locker room is steeped in silence, broken only by the faint hum of distant music threading through the walls, an unwelcome reminder of the world outside.
I move to my usual corner, as I set my bag down on the bench.
Slipping off my silk blouse, my movements falter slightly as the familiar weight of the gun pressed against my side.
It anchors me.
My constant companion.
My reassurance in a chaotic world.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, I didn’t feel the need to carry a gun everywhere I went.
But some events, moments I’d rather not relive, changed that.
Trouble seems to find me, uninvited, like a bad omen I can’t shake, leaving me no choice but to protect myself.
With care, I remove it, the cold metal biting into my palm as though reluctant to part from me.
I place it inside the locker, my fingers lingering longer than they should.
Without it, I feel the first prickle of vulnerability, like an itch just beneath my skin I can’t scratch.
Unarmed, there’s a rawness I despise, a quiet hum of unease.
The gun is safety, and safety is a luxury I’ve learned not to trust.
I strip away the remnants of my armour, changing into black leggings that cling to my legs like a shadow and a white top that feels almost too clean, too bright against the darkness I carry.
My hair, jet black and impossibly sleek, is gathered into a high ponytail with a single fluid motion, the strands whipping against my neck before settling in a straight line down my back.
I tie my sneakers next.
Exhaling sharply, I slam the locker shut with enough force to make the sound reverberate through the quiet room. I roll my shoulders, shaking off the tension that lingers, and step out of the dressing room.
The chaos of the gym floor rushes in to greet me, the noise of movement and voices colliding like waves, drowning the silence I left behind.
Here, the buzz of activity offers distraction, if not solace.
As I step onto the gym floor, my eyes are immediately drawn to Enzo Ricci, effortlessly commanding the space with his quiet intensity.
His tall, muscular frame moves with grace, every step and gesture exuding control.
Tattoos snake across his olive toned arms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his black tank, while his sharp hazel eyes, flecked with gold, carry an edge that seems to cut through the air around him.
His dark hair is tied back into a man bun, a few strands rebelliously framing his rugged, angular features.
Enzo Ricci isn’t just any gym owner, he’s one of the sons of Giovanni Ricci, a Sicilian Don whose name carries weight like a storm cloud over Italy.
Enzo works alongside his family, deeply embedded in their world, but this gym is his escape, or so I’ve gathered from my time spent here.
A professional boxer by trade, he’s not just known for his clean victories but also for his reputation in the underground scene.
Illegal boxing matches, brutal and unrelenting, are where he thrives, and he’s one of the best, a fighter whose name alone makes men fear.
He doesn’t just exist here.
He owns the room, and everyone in it knows it.
I don’t trust him.
But then again, I don’t trust anyone.
Loyalty is a currency too easily spent, and faith in others is a debt rarely repaid. If he ever uncovered the truth of who I really am—that I bear the Moretti name, a name his kind regards as a rival at best and an enemy at worst, he wouldn’t hesitate. He would kill me for the deception. And I have no doubt he would savour every moment of my suffering.
“Finally decided to show up, princess?”
he calls out, his deep voice carrying a sharp edge of amusement.
I roll my eyes, crossing the floor toward him.
“Princess? Really? That’s what we’re going with today?”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.
“It fits. You’ve got that whole untouchable vibe going on. Like you think nothing and no one can get to you.”
“Untouchable, huh? Sounds like someone’s intimidated.”
I reply, my tone dry but laced with challenge.
His chuckle is low, rough, and unsettling, vibrating through the space.
“Intimidated? Hardly. But everyone falls sooner or later, princess. So, what’s it going to be today? More drills, or are you finally ready to step into the ring and prove you’re not all talk?”
I smirk, cold and sharp, stepping closer to the mats.
“Fine. Show me what you’ve got, or prepare to lose.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but says nothing as I move past him toward the ring.
I slide under the ropes with ease, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension and shaking out my hands. Enzo follows, exuding the quiet intensity of someone who knows exactly what they’re capable of.
We move to opposite corners. I grab the wraps from the stand, winding the cloth tightly around my wrists and hands with methodical movements. The repetition is familiar, almost meditative. Across from me, Enzo mirrors the motion, his focus intense.
Once my hands are secure, I slide my gloves on, fastening the straps with a quick pull. Enzo flexes his fingers inside his own before stepping toward the centre of the ring.
We square off, circling each other, the tension between us thick as smoke. His eyes track my every movement, calculating, waiting.
“Don’t hold back, Ricci,”
I say, my voice deceptively light but carrying a note of daring.
“I can take it.”
His smirk hardens.
“You might regret that.”
“Doubt it.”
I raise my fists.
He moves first.
Fast.
Faster than I anticipated. His punches are sharp and testing, searching for a weakness. I dodge, counter. The first few exchanges are cautious, almost teasing, but the intensity builds with each strike. I block one of his hits and retaliate with a quick jab that grazes his ribs.
“What’s the matter, Ricci? Thought I’d be an easy win?” I ask.
His chuckle is dark.
“You’ve got a mouth on you, I’ll give you that. Let’s see if your fists can keep up.”
I don’t back down, meeting him punch for punch, the sound of gloves colliding and the sharp rhythm of our movements filling the space. There’s something almost hypnotic in the way we move, brutal, unrelenting. I catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes when I push harder than he expected.
“You were hiding your talents,”
he says between breaths, a faint smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze narrows.
“What else are you keeping from me?”
I step in close, my voice low.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I throw a hook, narrowly missing his jaw as he counters with a swift jab that barely grazes me.
He pauses for a fraction of a second, his tone shifting slightly, almost cautious.
“You push too hard. You’ll burn yourself out.”
I laugh softly, cold and biting, as I block his next strike.
“Careful, Ricci. You’re starting to sound like you care.”
His smirk returns, sharp as glass.
“I don’t. But it’d be a shame if you fell apart before proving you can take me.”
I step back, just out of reach, and grin.
“Good to know I’m worth the effort.”
The match continues, neither of us willing to give an inch. Defeat is simply not an option.
But I’m fighting a professional boxer. Despite my skill, my speed, my stubborn resolve, he’s way better. And I know he’s holding back. His strikes are sharper, his movements more calculated, and with one final combination, a feint followed by a swift uppercut, I falter.
The impact knocks me off balance. My back hits the mat hard, a brisk jolt radiating through my body. I grit my teeth, pushing down the frustration as I catch my breath.
Enzo steps back, his chest rising and falling. He doesn’t gloat or smirk. Instead, he extends a gloved hand.
“Good match,”
he says, though amusement flickers in his eyes.
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
“Good match.”
I echo, my voice even, though my pride stings.
We step out of the ring together, peeling off the gloves and wraps in silence. Without another word, Enzo moves toward the weight racks, already shifting his focus elsewhere. I do the same, slipping back into my routine.
The hours pass in a blur.
Two classes, sequential, where I guide women and young girls through self-defence techniques. I focus on their stances, correct their grips, encourage their punches, each task a welcome distraction. Each strike, each block, a quiet rebellion against a world that too often preys on those who cannot fight back.
Because I know what it means to be powerless.
I know what it feels like to have control ripped away, to be at the mercy of someone stronger.
I refuse to let them feel that.
By the time the last class ends, a familiar exhaustion settles over me. The kind I can manage, that keeps my mind too busy to wander.
Back in the locker room, I grab my bag and head for the showers. The hot water streams over me, washing away the sweat and tension of the day. It scalds, but I let it burn against my skin.
After drying off, I wrap myself in a towel and pull my bag closer, reaching inside for my body cream and fresh clothes.
That’s when a note falls. It flutters to the floor, a small rectangle of stark white against the cold tile.
My breath catches. For a moment, I just stare at it, my pulse pounding against my ribs. A weightless dread settles heavily in my chest. My fingers curl into a fist, the bite of my nails into my palm helping me focus. I can’t lose it here.
Slowly, I crouch, the towel clinging to my damp skin, and pick up the note. The handwriting is jagged, aggressive. The words are scrawled in blood red ink.
My stomach twists.
From shadows, I’ve watched, from steel, I’ll stay,
No matter the miles, I’m never away.
You changed your name, you crossed the sea,
But you can’t escape, you belong to me.
Each word sears into my mind, haunting, my breath hitching before it morphs into a cold dread edged with fury.
These notes began appearing nearly a year ago. At first, I dismissed them, an oversight, a meaningless coincidence. But then, they started turning up where they had no business being.
My bag, car, even my own room.
For so long, I told myself it was Troy. That it had to be him. But he’s dead now.
I killed him that night. Glass in my hand, his blood pooling on the floor. I ended his life.
And even when he was alive, this was never his style. Troy was brute force, a neophyte who took what he wanted with his bare hands. He didn’t hide behind riddles or cryptic notes. He wouldn’t have had the patience. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it openly, violently, without hesitation.
But I still clung to the lie, convincing myself it was him. Because the alternative was far more unsettling.
So who is it, truly?
Who has been watching me from the shadows, unseen yet ever-present?
How long has he been circling, calculating, waiting for the precise moment to strike?
The note crumples slightly in my grip, the paper bending under the force of my fingers. My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath the surface.
I thought I had escaped.
But no matter how far I go, no matter how meticulously I erase my traces, he remains.
Watching.
Waiting.
Deluded enough to believe I belong to him.
A cold, bitter smile ghosts across my lips.
He’s wrong.
I slip the note into my bag, smooth the fabric of my clothes, and step out of the locker room. His words linger, a whisper at the edges of my mind, but so does my resolve.
Whoever he is, he’s made a grave miscalculation.
Because I am not running.
I never was.