Chapter 12
Sophie/Cara
“Look at this.”
Victoria leaps from the messy top bunk to the floor.
Unbeknownst to her, I’ve been monitoring the complex for hours, specifically a woman aggressively stabbing a hanging bag with a knife. The speed of her movements and precision of her strikes have thoroughly engrossed me for hours.
My sister passes me a manila folder.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Just as curiosity compels me to open it, I shut it just as fast, unable to fathom why she’s showing me a picture of our father. She nods, urging me to look further. “Isaac gathered the intel.”
“Why?”
“Vito’s weak. Struggling. Hiding behind Strata.”
I shove the papers back at her. “I don’t need to know this.”
“They’re coming for you. At the very least, you should know who is coming,” she states gravely.
Walking to the edge of the space, overlooking the length of the warehouse, I cross my arms, my mind singular. “It won’t matter if I don’t know how to defend myself. Same with you. You’ve been here before and never thought to train?”
“No. This shit is no joke, Sophie. This is hardcore. You’re angry, scared, but I promise you don’t have to go through all this to protect yourself. You’re smart. Capable. If who you are is the same person who bludgeoned that bastard in Madrid, you are more than able to survive this.”
“You don’t understand. You never could.”
“Then make me.”
“No.”
“ Why ?”
Because you’ve never been used.
Discarded.
Left for dead.
My eyes shut, containing the damage I could unleash.
Victoria sleeps soundly, right through the night.
She isn’t awake long enough to realize that my eyes barely close, ensnared by the need for revenge. She has no idea what it means to need it like air.
Years ago, I went to my sister, expecting to find the girl I grew up with. A young woman interested in fashion and traveling. Her cold, calculating demeanor was a wake-up call. I learned everyone has a side they keep hidden from the world.
Mine has yet to be unleashed.
Xavier knew it was there.
He did his best to settle my angry heart back then. I'm sure when he sent me off, he knew I’d struggle, even if he told himself differently.
Sonya, a Hungarian sporting sculpted arms sleeved with ink, knocks on the rusty door frame. “Food’s out. Hurry, or you’ll get scraps.”
Victoria drops the folder onto the bed, sighing on her way out. “You coming?”
“I’ll follow in a bit. ”
The hall grows silent as the crowd hurries to the dining hall next door.
The woman, like me, has chosen to stay. She doesn’t flinch at all when I approach her.
Part of me questions whether she’s aware of how long I’ve been observing her.
I feel certain when she passes her knife to me.
Language prevents us from speaking, but actions are enough.
She grabs the knife from my hand, showing me how to pivot, how to place my feet, where to direct my arm. I imitate her movements, determined to master them. She takes a break while I go all out on the bag, using what little I know to establish my own rhythm.
“You aren’t a very good listener, are you?”
Turning, I find the owner of this complex against the wall, his arms crossed.
For weeks, I’ve been trying to get a moment with him, determined to prove I have something in me he can’t visibly see, but he’s been skipping meals, moving like a shadow in the dark, rarely spotted unless he wants to be.
Despite his tone, Isaac appears anything but annoyed.
“I know what I want,” I say.
His lips are pursed in contemplation before he ultimately nods in agreement. “I think you do.”
Walking off, he calls out behind him.
“We’ll begin tomorrow.”
“Hang in there, Cara!”
A breathless voice hails the encouragement from above, a whisper in the wind. My eyes are too swollen to see when the next blow will come, but it always does. A boot to my stomach and what little breath I’d recovered while curled on the ground is lost.
I know the onlookers are whispering. If the ringing in my ears weren’t so deafening, I’d be able to make out what they’re saying.
My palms slide as I attempt to shift, blinking through vertigo.
“Block him!”
As the weakest, this room is my personal hell. Combat.
Groaning, I pull myself up onto the bar, silently reciting assurances to myself.
You want this.
You need this.
You’ve been through worse.
My taped knuckles barely graze the side of Ezra’s jaw as I move just quickly enough to avoid his charge.
I swipe my face with my forearm, believing it’s sweat that’s dripping into my eyelashes.
It’s not but I can’t even focus on the blood.
He wails on me, and I retreat, tripping over myself, too terrified to be ashamed as I try to avoid a blow that will send me to the floor.
You want to beg.
I'm told it’s natural to wish it would stop, but they won’t. Not here. You fight until you’re out.
I can’t even see where I'm going, let alone make him bleed, so I know I'm not the victor here. Letting the next blow be my last is tempting, but something inside doesn’t let me stop. It pushes just a little harder, making me run faster when I should stop. Slamming my fist with more strength than the last, despite how exhausted I’ve become.
They tell me it’s my will to live.
I think it’s something else.
Something dark and traumatic that comes from a lifetime of abuse.
He seizes my throat, causing my stomach to drop, my fingers trying to pry him off. In an instant, I see my father. I see myself on the night before my wedding, choking under his suffocating grip.
I am no longer in Iceland.
“Get up, Cara! Get up!”
Nothing I do will spare me. I kick, wail, and claw until my body slams into the mat, and everything goes black.
I throw myself into the bag, punching with vigor.
The usual noise echoing through the warehouse has faded at night, leaving just a few engaged in personal battles.
I shift my foot forward, my weight transferring onto it just as Xavier taught me. I initiate a swing with my right arm before launching my left into the leather.
I fight the pain, the exhaustion.
After so many years alone, I’d forgotten what it feels like to connect with people again, others who have faced similar struggles. Or worse. They don’t even need to discuss it. Their dedication speaks for itself. I’m desperate to be like them, to experience some kind of improvement.
I now have a sense of purpose that I didn’t before.
But I’m weak. My body is weak, and my soul is weaker.
This is all I have.
"Engage your core," a deep voice reverberates in the empty space. Turning, brushing back the hair that has escaped my braid, I spot Isaac leaning against the staircase railing, a towel draped over his shoulder. He descends, stepping into the room with me.
I’m too alone in here with him. My eyes dart to the door. “I'm done. I’ll let you work out.”
He drops his towel by me. “Come stand at the bag.”
My feet instinctively retreat. “What?”
“Come stand here. Hold your fists up as if you were going to swing right.”
I do it, waiting in anticipation.
“Hit the bag.”
“Just… hit it?”
“Yes, as you normally would.”
The moment it connects, I grimace and see him nod out of the corner of my eye. I flinch when his hands grip my hips. I try to breathe through it, unaccustomed to the touch.
“Hit again,” he commands.
I strike the bag like usual. But this time, he keeps me steady. I feel the punch ripple through my arm like a shockwave, the impact of my fist against the sand louder than I’ve ever heard it before.
My brows shoot up in surprise. “Wow.”
He releases me. “Better, right? You aren’t grounding yourself. If you throw your entire body into the punch, the hit will be weak.”
“I see.” I look down at the bruises peeking through my taped knuckles. “Thanks.”
He nods, tilting his head to get my attention. “Listen, you have improved since you arrived despite the beatings. Don’t get discouraged.”
“I'm not.” I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I'm going to be the best.”
He smiles without seeming condescending. Like everyone else here, his face is bruised and scarred beyond repair. “I’d like to see it.”
He will.
I’ll make sure of it.
“It’s good to get out.”
My eyes are on Victoria, who is currently three drinks in, hanging from the edge of the bar. Her unhinged laugh could wake the neighborhood .
Isaac nudges my arm and I realize I’ve been drowning him out. At this time of night, the tourists have long gone home. Only a select few from the complex chose to come. Victoria dragged me here.
You need to let loose.
Smile, for fuck’s sake.
Isaac is interested. It’s plain as day.
Victoria’s words echo in my mind as I glance to my side and see the towering giant of a man she referred to, patiently awaiting my answer, rubbing the crook of his neck. I look down and nod. “Yeah, it’s good to get out.”
“You’ve been doing well.”
I massage the bruises on my arms. “I feel stronger.”
“You know, everyone here has a story. Something they’re running from.” He grins slyly. “Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
I scoff. “As if you don’t already know mine.”
I’ve shocked him. Victoria said that wouldn’t happen. His lips press together as he rotates on the stool to look at me. “And what makes you think so?”
“Victoria told me you gave her intel about my father. Yesterday, you almost called me Sophia. You caught yourself.”
His smile broadens. “Your sister seriously underestimates you.”
“How long have you known?”
The humor he’d found in this banter fades when he truly sees my reaction. My expressionless face regarding him like an enemy.
“Your sister came to me before she went to you, fearing for your life. I helped her locate you… I knew about you before you even stepped through my door.”
I nod, having suspected it. His gaze was too direct then. I should have figured it out sooner.
“You probably feel betrayed,” he says, glancing at Victoria, who falls off her stool, saving her drink before it spills. Neither of us move to help her, letting the others handle it.