14. Alexei #2
The space occupies nearly half the floor. Heavy bags line one wall while free weights fill another. A full-size mat area stretches across the center beneath industrial lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the harbor, though neither of us pays attention to the view.
Luka crosses toward the weapons cabinet. “Escrima?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He tosses me a pair of rattan sticks. I catch them easily, the familiar texture fitting into my palms like muscle memory. We move toward the center mat, neither of us bothering with protective gear.
Luka attacks first.
The crack of rattan striking rattan echoes through the gym as he drives a strike toward my shoulder. I pivot, deflecting the blow before countering toward his ribs. Luka blocks, rotates, and attacks again. I step inside his range, forcing him backward across the mat.
Wood collides against wood in rapid succession. Strike. Block. Counter.
Our footwork carries us through tight circles, years of training allowing movement without conscious thought. Forward pressure. Retreat. Angles. Distance. Luka has trained beside me for nearly fifteen years. He knows every weakness in my form, and I know his.
He feints high.
I ignore it.
The second strike comes low toward my knee exactly as expected. I evade it and retaliate with enough force to jar his grip.
“Better,” Luka mutters.
I attack harder.
Rattan cracks loudly as he blocks. Again. Again. Again.
Sweat begins sliding down my spine as the pace intensifies. My breathing deepens. A bruise already darkens along Luka's left forearm where one strike slipped through his defense. Another blooms across my right shoulder. Neither of us acknowledges it.
Luka drives forward aggressively now, forcing me backward across the mat. I absorb the assault, redirect his momentum, and slam my stick against his wrist.
He grunts. “That was unnecessary.”
“You left an opening,” I reply, circling him.
“You’re in a terrible mood.”
I don’t respond.
Luka exhales through his nose. “As expected.”
I attack again, driving Luka backward across the mat.
The pace escalates quickly. Every strike lands harder than the last, the crack of rattan echoing through the gym.
Years ago, exchanges like this would have ended with broken bones and blood on the floor.
Experience and discipline keep that from happening now.
Mostly.
Luka spins away from a strike aimed toward his shoulder and catches me across the ribs hard enough to sting. I retaliate at once. He blocks. I press harder. The exchange grows increasingly vicious until I drive him backward and he collides with the padded wall.
He shoves away and circles me warily.
“You’re trying to work through something,” he says between breaths.
“I’m training.”
“You left your office after forty-five minutes.”
“I don’t quarterly reports.”
Luka snorts.
Before he can answer, the gym doors open. Roman walks inside. He pauses near the entrance, taking in the scene as Luka and I continue circling one another.
Neither of us lowers our weapons.
Roman folds his arms across his chest. “I see you’re coping well.”
I strike Luka hard enough to force him backward three steps.
Roman watches for another minute before speaking again. “Finish.”
Luka and I continue for another few minutes. Only when exhaustion finally begins dulling my reactions do I lower my sticks. Sweat drenches my shirt. Luka looks no better.
We move toward the benches along the wall, grabbing towels and water bottles while Roman waits in silence. He wouldn’t have come here himself unless the matter was important.
I drag a towel across my face. “What happened?”
Roman waits until Luka closes the gym doors behind us.
He removes a file from beneath his arm and places several photographs on the bench between us. I recognize the shelter laundry room at once. Blackened walls, destroyed shelving, and fire damage dominate every photograph.
“What am I looking at?” I ask, picking up one of the photographs.
“The fire department completed their final report this morning,” he says.
I study the image again. “They determined the fire started in the laundry room.”
Roman nods. “They were correct.”
I lower the photograph slowly. “You didn’t come here to repeat the fire department's report.”
“No.” Roman's expression hardens. “It wasn’t accidental.”
Luka straightens beside me.
Roman taps one of the photographs. “My investigators recovered remnants of a melted lithium battery pack hidden inside a donated box of towels stored in the laundry room.”
The only sound in the gym comes from our labored breathing.
“The device overheated,” Roman continues. “It ignited nearby lint and cleaning supplies. By the time the fire spread into the electrical system, the original source had been destroyed.”
I study the photographs again. The device had been hidden inside a donated box of towels in the laundry room, where Maggie spends hours every week sorting supplies.
Fury tears through me. “The donor?” I ask.
“Fake information,” Roman replies.
I lift my head. “Security footage?”
Roman folds his arms across his chest. “The individual wore a baseball cap, sunglasses, and gloves. Facial recognition produced nothing.”
I rise from the bench so abruptly that the water bottle in my hand crumples. “Someone intentionally burned the shelter.”
Roman nods once. “Someone planned it.”
Luka swears under his breath. “They could have killed everyone inside.”
I begin pacing across the gym floor. The fire. The break-in at Maggie's apartment. The threats, the men following her, the vandalism at the shelter. None of it was random. None of it ever was.
“Maggie was supposed to be there,” I say, stopping beside the windows.
Roman meets my eyes. “That’s my conclusion.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Maggie was meant to die. If she had remained inside only a little longer, she and Jules would have never come out.
My fingers flex once before closing into fists.
“Fuck,” Luka swears again. “Enzo?”
Roman shakes his head once. “No. Isabella Moretti.”
“You sound certain,” I say.
“I am.”
Fear and fury collide inside me, stealing words I rarely struggle to find.
Isabella Moretti has crossed a line. She targeted Maggie. There’s no other interpretation.
Roman exhales slowly. “We still lack proof tying her directly to the device. Until we have it, we proceed carefully.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m finished proceeding carefully.”
“Alexei,” Roman says, a clear warning in his voice.
“Someone tried to burn Maggie alive. I'm going to the shelter.”
Luka is already moving toward the door.
Roman rubs the back of his neck. “I assumed you would say that.”
I stop beside him. “When you find who delivered that donation, I want a name.”
Roman meets my stare. “The moment I know who it is, you'll know.”
I leave the gym without another word.
For the first time in years, work no longer matters. Only Maggie does.
Luka pulls the SUV into the shelter parking lot, and I reach for the door handle before the vehicle fully stops. The moment my shoes hit the pavement, I take in the scene in front of me.
When Maggie told me repairs were progressing, I expected the contractors to be replacing drywall and repairing smoke damage. What I find instead resembles a full-scale construction project.
The parking lot overflows with trucks bearing company logos.
Flatbed trailers sit near the side entrance, stacked with lumber, drywall, and insulation.
Construction crews move in every direction, carrying supplies, operating lifts, and hauling debris into large dumpsters positioned near the rear of the building.
The steady sounds of hammers, power drills, and saws fill the afternoon air. Second Chance Savannah looks less like an animal shelter and more like an active job site.
I instantly recognize several of the contractors because I hired them.
Luka falls into step beside me and surveys the activity. “You may have overdone it.”
“I disagree.”
He sweeps a hand toward the construction crews. “You hired three separate crews.”
“The shelter requires extensive repairs,” I say.
Luka glances toward the building. “You also hired a landscaping company.”
“The grounds sustained damage.”
“You hired them this morning,” he says, giving me a sidelong look.
I remain silent.
Luka huffs out a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Before either of us can continue, Winston explodes through the front doors, barking enthusiastically, Daisy trotting behind him. Both dogs charge across the parking lot directly toward me.
Maggie appears seconds later.
Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, sunlight highlighting the loose strands escaping around her face as she directs volunteers carrying boxes toward a storage trailer.
Even from thirty yards away, I know she’s exhausted. I also know she’s ignoring every medical instruction she received.
“Maggie,” I call.
The weariness in her features fades when she sees me. A second later, she notices Luka standing beside me, and her expression turns wary.
“Oh no,” she mutters loudly enough for me to hear. “Y'all look serious.”
Winston reaches me first, dancing excitedly around my legs while Daisy leans heavily against my knee, demanding attention. I crouch, scratching behind both ears.
“Hey,” she says, rising onto her toes to kiss me. She keeps one hand on my arm as she steps back. “What're you doin’ here?”
“I came to see you,” I tell her, brushing a smudge of dirt from her cheek with my thumb.
A small crease appears between her brows. “Everything okay?”
Before I can answer, Jules appears from inside carrying a clipboard. He no longer needs the crutches, though the walking boot remains firmly in place.
“Praise the Lord,” he announces dramatically, pressing the clipboard against his chest. “Please take her.”
Maggie groans. “Jules.”
“No.” He points the clipboard directly at her. “Absolutely not. You're growin’ a whole human being. You can’t be carryin’ boxes around.”
Maggie looks offended. “It weighed maybe five pounds.”
“Five pounds too many,” Jules replies, narrowing his eyes.
“It was dog toys.”