Chapter 15
The low groan that escaped Giana's lips as she pushed herself upright the following morning was embarrassingly loud in the quiet of her bedroom.
Every muscle protested, but she forced herself to get up.
Rodrigo had promised to brush up on her old fighting skills, and she wasn't going to be accused of sleeping in or not taking it seriously.
The thought of having close physical contact with Rodrigo sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool morning air.
His confession last night had shifted something inside her.
She had never known how much he had protected her, not just from the other mafia families but from Gabriella herself.
She had been left feeling grateful and overwhelmed by a terrifying flicker of attraction.
More than a flicker.
"Argh, focus on training," she grumbled.
If she had kept up with all the lessons her parents had drilled into her through the years, maybe things would have been different in Turkey, and she wouldn't have ended up in a fucking dog crate.
That thought alone propelled her out of bed. She wouldn't be prey, and she was done being the protected pawn.
She dressed in practical black leggings and a fitted, long-sleeved top, the fabric soft against her hand's bandages. She studied them for a moment before unravelling them.
Her fingers were bruised but not broken, and the damaged nail beds were healing. She flexed them. They were better than yesterday, and the bandage felt too restrictive, so she left it off.
Gingerly, she pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. Usually, it would be a braid, but her sore fingers didn't have the dexterity for it. She downed a glass of water and some painkillers the doctor had left her and headed for the door.
The villa was quiet as Giana made her way downstairs. The smell of coffee and pastry drifted from the kitchen, but she bypassed it, drawn instead toward the lower levels, where the gym was.
She wanted to run through some basic drills before Rodrigo found her so she wasn't completely rusty.
The gym was a vast, echoing hall that spoke of generations of martial discipline. High, arched windows let in shafts of morning light, illuminating dust motes dancing above an expanse of polished wooden flooring.
One entire wall was mirrored, reflecting the impressive array of equipment.
Racks of free weights stood like sentinels near weight machines, and on the opposite wall were weapons.
Dozens of gleaming blades of every conceivable shape and size were mounted in precise rows.
Sabers with elegant, curved hilts hung beside straight, deadly rapiers.
Heavy broadswords shared space with wicked-looking daggers and ornate, spiked maces.
Giana spotted Athena moving with deadly grace, a long, slender blade flashing in her hand, the steel catching the light with a sharp glint.
Athena flowed through a complex sequence, all of her movements precise and perfect.
She wore simple workout gear, her blonde hair in a severe braid, sweat glistening on her brow.
Her expression was serene and almost entirely vacant, as if she were looking at a world different from the one around her.
The blade she wielded looked ancient, its hilt intricately carved, the metal bearing the subtle marks of age and use. It looked like it belonged in a display case, not in the hands of a mercenary warming up.
Athena finished the sequence with a final, sharp thrust into an imaginary opponent's heart, the point stopping dead an inch from the mirrored wall.
She lowered the blade, her chest rising and falling steadily.
She turned, her eyes refocusing on Giana instantly. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," she called out. She walked toward a nearby rack where several other similarly ornate blades rested. She gestured at the wall of weapons. "Come to admire the family silver?"
"Gabriella's collection?" Giana guessed and moved to join her.
Athena nodded, picking up a cloth and meticulously wiping down the blade she had just used.
"The late, unlamented matriarch had expensive tastes and a fondness for pointy things.
Rodrigo promised me one for helping get you out of that shithole in Turkey.
I thought I would put them through their paces before I decided on my prize. "
"A good idea. I hope you take the most valuable one."
Athena grinned. "If he's not careful, I might take them all. What are you doing up this early?"
"Rodrigo agreed to help me brush up on my old fighting skills. I figured I should limber up first."
Athena's eyebrows shot up, and a low chuckle escaped her. "Oh, I just bet he did. Personal lessons from the big boss, huh?"
Heat crept up Giana's neck. "We had a good conversation last night and have agreed to try and work better together."
"Good," Athena said simply. "About fucking time.
You weren't the only one Gabriella treated like shit, you know.
All the boys have issues because of her.
I only met her a few times, and I wanted to murder her, so congratulations on lasting six years without shoving a letter opener into the old cunt's carotid. That's impressive restraint."
A startled laugh burst from Giana. It hurt her ribs, but it felt good. "It crossed my mind more than once."
"See? We have more in common than we thought." Athena grinned, tossed a knife into the air, and caught it by the hilt without looking. "Are you waiting for Prince Charming to descend and bestow his lethal wisdom upon you? Or did you want to actually do something while you wait?"
Giana looked at the knives, then back at Athena. The Edgeworths were legends in the mercenary world, and there was a straightforward competence about Athena that Giana liked.
"I wouldn't mind a warm-up," she admitted. "It's been a while since I handled anything sharper than a stylus, and I don't want to make a fool of myself."
Athena's grin widened. She walked over to another rack holding an assortment of training knives, blunt-edged, but weighted realistically.
She selected two, identical in size and balance, and tossed one to Giana.
Giana caught it awkwardly with her right hand, the weight and feel unfamiliar, yet stirring a distant memory.
"Basic drills first," Athena stated, moving to an open area of the matted floor. She dropped into a loose stance, knees slightly bent, the training knife held low and forward in her right hand, her left hand raised defensively near her face. "Show me what you remember."
Giana mirrored the stance, the rubberized grip of the training knife solid in her palm. Muscle memory, buried deep beneath years of captivity, began to surface. She shifted her weight, testing her balance, until she felt grounded.
"Good," Athena nodded. "Now, basic thrust. Lead with the knife, step into it, power from the legs and hips, not just the arm. Protect your center line." She demonstrated a smooth, controlled lunge, the knife punching straight forward, her body coiling and uncoiling like a spring. "Your turn."
Giana took a breath, focused, and mimicked the movement. It was stiff, hesitant, and her sore ribs protested the twist.
"Again," Athena commanded, her voice losing its playful edge, becoming instructor-sharp. "Commit to it. You're not poking a cushion. You're trying to puncture clothing, muscle, and maybe bone. Put your body into it."
Giana tried again, pushing through the discomfort. The movement felt more fluid the second time. The third time, she felt some of her old confidence. She focused on the mechanics, the transfer of weight, the extension of the arm.
"Better," Athena conceded. "Now, add the slash. High line." She demonstrated a horizontal slash aimed at neck level, the movement swift and controlled. "Low line." A downward diagonal slash toward the thigh. "Alternate. Thrust, high slash, thrust, low slash. Flow."
Giana fell into the rhythm: Thrust. Slash-high. Thrust. Slash-low.
The movements became less mechanical, more instinctive. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The terror of gloved hands grabbing her in Bodrum fueled her focus.
Never again. She pushed harder, faster, the training blade whistling through the air.
"Good," Athena said, a note of genuine approval in her voice.
She moved closer, adjusting Giana's elbow position slightly.
"Keep that guard hand up. It's not just for show.
It blocks, traps, and sets up your knife hand.
Now, let's add movement. Advance with the thrust. Retreat with the slash. Don't just stand there like a target."
They moved across the matted floor, Athena calling out combinations, Giana executing them, her breath coming faster now, her muscles warming, the initial stiffness melting away.
She remembered more than she thought of the footwork, the angles, the importance of distance coming back to her.
"Faster!" Athena urged, stepping in to simulate a clumsy grab.
Giana reacted instinctively, slapping the grasping hand aside with her guard hand while simultaneously driving the training knife toward Athena's ribs in a short, brutal thrust. Athena danced back easily, a grin splitting her face.
"Good! Instincts are still there. Buried under years of being a pampered prisoner, maybe, but they're there." Athena resumed her own stance. "Now, defend. I'm coming at you with a thrust. Parry with your blade, deflect it outward, then counter immediately. Go!"
Athena lunged, her training knife a blur. Giana met it with her own blade, the dull edges scraping as she deflected the thrust wide. She started to counter, but Athena had already recovered, her knife snapping back into line.
"Faster on the counter!" she barked. "Don't admire your parry. Exploit the opening I'm giving you."
Giana gritted her teeth, pushing herself. The drills became a demanding dance with Athena as a relentless, skilled partner. The ache in Giana's body faded into the background, replaced by fierce concentration and a growing sense of capability.
This was power, tangible and immediate. Not the abstract power of hacking a firewall, but the visceral power of being able to meet force with force.
The rhythmic thud of footsteps broke their rhythm. Frederica appeared at the gym entrance, dressed in sleek black running gear, her dark hair tied in a high ponytail.
"Morning mercenaries," she called out as she stepped onto a treadmill and started punching buttons. She shot a glance at Giana, pantomiming stabbing motions with her hands while she jogged.
"Looking fierce, Sorrentino. Finally learning how to use more than just your keyboard and smile to make men bleed?"
Giana lowered her training knife, catching her breath. She offered Frederica a small, genuine smile. "Something like that. Rodrigo's idea."
Frederica snorted, increasing the treadmill's speed.
"Of course it was. An obsessive control freak who can't control his anger gives lessons in violence?
Poetic. Knives are fun and stabby, but if you really want to make an impression, you need to learn to shoot properly.
None of that 'point and pray' bullshit. I could teach you and make you deadly before breakfast."
Before Giana could respond, a cool, familiar voice cut through the whir of the treadmill and the sound of their breathing. "I believe I was promised the privilege of being your instructor."