Chapter 10 - Alisa #2
I mimicked his position, feeling awkward and stiff.
“Relax your shoulders,” he instructed. “You’re too tense.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t standing inches away from someone who made his pulse race just by existing.
Dante stepped closer, his hands coming up to adjust my posture. “Like this,” he said, his voice dropping lower as his fingers pressed gently on my shoulders, guiding them down and back.
His touch burned through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, and I bit into my cheek to remind myself I was here to train.
Right?
“Now, hands up,” he continued, lifting my arms into position. “Protect your face and keep your chin down.”
His fingers wrapped around my wrists, positioning them just so. I wondered what those hands would feel like against other parts of my body, and immediately cursed my mind.
“Good.” He circled behind me. “Now, when you throw a punch, it’s not just your arm. Use your whole body. Power comes from your legs and your core.”
His hand pressed lightly against my lower back, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Sorry,” he said, misinterpreting my reaction. “Too much?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Show me again.”
He resumed his position behind me. This time, his hand settled more firmly on my hip. “When you punch, you pivot on your back foot, like this.” He guided my body through the motion, his chest nearly pressed against my back.
I bit my lip, focusing on the movement rather than the heat of his body so close to mine. The motion helped—channeling all that confused energy into something physical, something I could control.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as I threw a punch into the air. “Again, but this time with more hip rotation.”
I repeated the motion, putting more force behind it. The exertion felt good, cleansing somehow.
“Better,” he said, stepping away to grab some hand wraps. “Let’s get these on you before we move to the bag.”
For the next hour, Dante guided me through the basic moves for boxing, throwing in a few for self-defense. With time, that mat, that bag, and I became one. With every strike, jab, and hit, I thought less and less of my father’s betrayal.
By the time we finished, I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard, but my mind felt clearer than it had in days.
“Not bad for a first session,” Dante said, handing me a bottle of water. “You’re a natural.”
I drank deeply, then poured some over my head, letting the cool water run down my neck. When I looked up, Dante was watching me, his eyes dark in a way that made my stomach flip.
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly shy. “It helped. You were right about that.”
He nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “We can make it a regular thing, if you want.”
“I’d like that,” I admitted, surprised by how much I meant it.
And so we did. Over the next few days, our morning boxing sessions became a ritual. Sometimes we talked about nothing important, just an easy conversation to fill the quiet. Other times, we worked in comfortable silence.
I grew stronger, more confident with each session. And something else grew too—a familiarity, a comfort in Dante’s presence that I once thought would be impossible to achieve.
On the fifth night, Dante suggested we try something new.
“You’ve got the basics down,” he said as we wrapped our hands. “Let’s see how you do with a moving target.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You want me to hit you?”
He laughed. “You can try.”
He led me to the center of the room, then raised his hands, palms facing me. “Aim for my hands. Don’t worry, I’ll move them. The goal is to test your speed and accuracy.”
I nodded, settling into my stance. His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, I forgot what we were doing. Then I snapped back to reality and threw a jab at his right hand.
He moved it easily, making me miss.
“Too slow,” he teased. “Again.”
I tried again twice more, but he evaded both.
“Your eyes give you away,” he said. “Don’t look where you’re going to hit.”
I gritted my teeth and tried again. This time, I landed a weak blow on his palm.
“Better,” he grinned. “Keep going.”
I hadn’t slept well again the previous night.
I’d been thinking of my father again. Something kept creeping into my mind: Doubt.
I knew my father was involved in the Bratva, but what I wondered was whether they’d cornered him into a spot so tight that he saw no way out and was willing to risk it all, including his reputation and daughter, or had he joined willingly, for just a little extra cash.
But in the gym, Dante and I fell into a pattern—me attacking, him defending. Around him, my father never came to mind, and the constant analyzing stopped.
“You’re holding back,” he said after a while. “Don’t be afraid to put some power behind it. I can take it.”
I narrowed my eyes at him playfully. “You sure about that?”
He grinned. “Try me.”
I gathered myself, focusing all my energy into a single, powerful cross. But as I threw it, my foot slipped and I lost my balance, stumbling forward with a squeal.
Dante’s arms were around me in an instant, one around my waist, the other against my shoulder, steadying me against his chest.
“Whoa,” he said, his voice low in my ear. “I got you.”
My hands had instinctively grabbed onto his biceps, feeling them flex beneath my fingers. I felt his fingers dig into my waist, and his eyes flickered between mine.
Time seemed to slow down, and I became hyperaware of every point of contact between us—his hand on my waist, my shoulder against his chest, his perfume beneath the sweat.
I let out a shuddering breath, and his eyes dropped to my lips, and that’s when I felt myself coil tight. He didn’t push me away, and I thought with bated breath that at last, this time around, we might just—
Tring, tring.
Fuck. His phone rang.
For a second, neither of us moved, and I thought he’d ignore it. But then, with a sigh, he loosened his grip on me and sent my heart crashing.
“I should get that. It’s my emergency line.”