Chapter Thirty
Sabrina
The training grounds were quickly becoming one of my favourite places on the island.
Not because I enjoyed waking up early or being yelled at, or because Dad seemed to think light training translated to finding entirely new ways to make my muscles regret existing.
The real reason was much simpler. It was one of the few places where my mind went quiet.
No memories. No questions. No wondering what came next.
Just movement.
Today, however, felt less like training and more like an investigation disguised as exercise.
Dad, Dante, Enzo and Salvatore stood around me near the shooting range, all pretending they weren't studying me every time I picked up a weapon.
They weren't subtle. Every movement seemed to earn a look, every instinctive reaction earned another, and every skill I displayed left them looking somewhere between impressed and mildly concerned.
Apparently, seventeen-year-old girls weren't supposed to know half the things I knew.
They were trying to figure me out, trying to understand seventeen years they hadn't been there for. Unfortunately for them, I wasn't entirely sure how to explain those seventeen years myself.
“All right,” Dante said, stepping beside me. “Relax your shoulders.”
I rolled my eyes. “My shoulders are relaxed.”
“They're not.”
“They are.”
“They're not.”
“Dante.”
“Sabrina.”
I glanced over at him. He stared right back.
For a second, it felt less like training and more like a standoff.
Then Enzo snorted.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?” Dante asked.
“You two are the exact same person.”
“We are not.”
“You absolutely are,” Salvatore said.
“I don't like that comparison.”
“I do,” I replied.
Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “I've had one coffee. One. It's too early for this.”
A smile tugged at my lips as Dante muttered something under his breath before thrusting the pistol into my hand.
“Focus.”
I stepped towards the firing line.
The familiar weight settled comfortably into my grip. The target stood several metres away. I raised the pistol, aimed and fired.
The shot landed just outside the centre.
Not terrible. Not impressive either.
Behind me, Dante immediately slipped into instructor mode.
“All right,” he began. “Nobody gets it right straight away. Shooting takes practice. It takes time to learn proper control, proper breathing, and–”
I fired again.
Then again.
Three shots echoed across the range.
Slowly, I lowered the pistol.
The second target stood untouched except for three perfect shots grouped tightly together in the centre.
When I turned around, all four of them were staring at me. Dante's unfinished sentence seemed to hang somewhere in the air. Enzo looked amused, Salvatore looked suspicious, and Dad looked like he was trying to decide whether he should be impressed or concerned.
Concerned was probably the correct answer.
Dante blinked first.
“You missed the first target.”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
Enzo folded his arms across his chest. “You did that on purpose.”
It wasn't a question.
A grin tugged at my mouth. “Of course I did.”
Dante looked personally offended. “Why?”
I checked the weapon automatically before lowering it.
“Because if your enemy thinks you're weak, they get comfortable.”
The amusement slowly disappeared from their faces.
“If they think they have a chance against you, they stop paying attention,” I continued. “They underestimate you. They stop being careful.”
The words came naturally. Too naturally.
Those weren't lessons somebody taught me. They were carved into me through cold concrete, blood, pain and punishments disguised as lessons.
“The second they underestimate you,” I finished, “they've already lost.”
The mood around us changed. When I glanced at Dad, I found him watching me. The pride was there, but underneath it sat something else that had become familiar since I'd come here.
Guilt.
The guilt that appeared whenever any of them remembered where I'd spent the first seventeen years of my life.
Before the moment could become uncomfortable, I handed the pistol back to Dante.
“Besides,” I said casually, “it was funny listening to you prepare a motivational speech.”
Salvatore burst out laughing. Enzo immediately turned away, though I could still see the grin he was trying to hide.
Dante looked horrified.
“It was not a motivational speech.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It was instruction.”
“You were one sentence away from telling me to believe in myself.”
Salvatore nearly folded in half.
Even Dad's mouth twitched.
Dante pointed at me. “I've changed my mind.”
“Oh?”
“You're impossible.”
I smiled. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”
Enzo shook his head slowly. “She fits into this family way too well.”
“That isn't a compliment,” Dad muttered.
“No,” Salvatore agreed through his laughter. “It's really not.”
The worst part was that none of us could stop smiling.
Standing there between my father and brothers, surrounded by arguments, laughter and complete chaos, I realised something.
For the first time in a very long time, training didn't feel like survival.
It just felt like family.
Training continued for another hour, but by the time we finally stopped, everyone was exhausted.
We ended up sitting along the edge of the training mats while the rest of the grounds carried on around us.
Gunfire echoed from the shooting range in the distance, sparring matches continued nearby, and shouted instructions bounced around the building.
The familiar noise settled into the background as we recovered.
I let my gaze wander over them.
Years of fighting had left their marks. Scars crossed their skin in various places, some thin and faded with age while others remained impossible to ignore. Tattoos wound across arms, shoulders, backs and chests, each one carrying a story I didn't know.
My attention eventually settled on Salvatore.
More specifically, on the name tattooed over his heart.
Aria.
Unlike the rest of his tattoos, it wasn't surrounded by elaborate artwork or hidden amongst other designs. It stood alone in simple black lettering directly over his heart.
Something about that caught my attention.
I studied it for a moment before curiosity got the better of me.
“Who's Aria?”
The question slipped out naturally, but the effect was immediate.
Salvatore went still.
Most people wouldn't have noticed, but I did.
“My childhood best friend.”
I recognised that tone immediately. It was the same one I used whenever someone wandered too close to memories I wasn't ready to share.
I nodded. “Okay.”
For the briefest moment, something that looked suspiciously like relief crossed his face before disappearing.
The conversation gradually drifted back to Enzo and Dante arguing while Dad threatened to make them run laps. Nobody listened.
My gaze lingered on the name tattooed over Salvatore's heart.
For the first time, I found myself wondering what kind of person could leave a mark so deep that years later, their name still rested above someone's heart.