Chapter 8
Maximo
I’m in the kitchen way too early the next morning, with no sign of Constance. After we had dinner last night, she took several of the files we reviewed earlier back to her room. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but I didn’t try to stop her either.
“What time did she go to sleep?” I ask my youngest cousin Luca.
“I believe Miss Monroe turned off the bedroom light and retired just after midnight,” Luca replies. “She requested to have breakfast delivered to her room this morning.”
“She doesn’t want to have breakfast with me?” The question slips out sharper than I intend.
“She didn’t give a reason, sir.”
“Right,” I mutter, trying and failing to ignore the way her blowing me off stings. “Have the cook scramble some eggs and prepare sausage, bacon, and pastries. Send it to her room with an invitation to continue training at nine.”
What the hell?
She’s avoiding me.
I shouldn’t fucking care. But I do, far more than I should.
When Constance finally descends the stairway to the basement later that morning, something tightens in my chest. Relief, maybe, and I hate that her absence at breakfast affected me at all.
At least she looks more at ease today. Her eyes aren’t as puffy and swollen from crying. She’s wearing one of her new outfits, a green sweater over blue jeans with a pair of sneakers.
I want to ask her why she didn’t join me for breakfast when she silently joins me at the workbench.
“You look good today,” I remark instead, returning my attention back to the knife I’m running through an electric sharpener instead of giving her the third degree.
“Your tailor filled the closet with more clothes than I’ve ever seen outside a department store,” she says, then adds softer, “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” I reply.
She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it and nods to the knife.
“I think I’m more nervous about these than I was holding a gun.
” Picking up a green switchblade, she presses the release.
The blade shoots straight out the front with a CHING and immediately she drops it onto the bench, where it clatters among the others.
She looks so offended by the knife jumping out of her hand that I can’t suppress my small chuckle. “That’s an OTF knife, an out-the-front style switchblade,” I tell her with a grin.
“It just surprised me.” She bites her bottom lip and picks it back up, pushes the button to retract it. “It came out with more force than I expected.”
“That one’s supposed to do that. It has a heavy spring made to startle,” I explain. “You just put it up against a person and push the button. It’ll go right through them. Surprise is exactly what it’s used for.”
I step behind her and using two fingers, I poke her gently in the back, around her kidneys.
“You want to use that kind of knife either here, under the ribcage to stab them in the kidney or jam it in the front of their throat. A front-loader can slip between ribs and hit the heart, but if it hits a bone the blade can jam.”
“I’ll remember that,” Constance says with an audible swallow as she picks up another knife, this one a six-inch spine lock. “No springs on this one, right?” She holds it gingerly, as if worried it might fly open and leap out of her hand too.
“No springs,” I confirm as I pick up another lockback knife and show her how to open and close it. “This is a heavier, all-purpose knife. I carry one of these day-to-day for all sorts of things.”
“Is this your preferred blade for cutting people?”
I’m not sure if she’s teasing me or not, so I answer her honestly. “No. I use this one when I need to cut someone,” I explain as I pick up a long, curved sheathe and draw the dark, stained blade. “Blood can discolor a carbon steel blade.”
“Then it must have been soaked at some point.” She shivers slightly as she takes the weapon from me and turns it this way and that under the light.
“That particular blade saw a lot of use in the months after I took over my father’s businesses.
Any time there’s a restructuring in a family, especially a change in leadership, blood is going to be shed,” I explain to her.
“Revenge gets personal, Constance. Close combat is about survival. And someone like Pellegrini won’t give you space to aim a gun.
Eventually, you may be close enough to feel his breath.
That’s why you need to learn how to use a knife. ”
“Fine,” she huffs.
I step behind her again, close enough this time that I could bury my face in her hair if I wanted.
I restrain myself, and instead reach out to take her right hand, and adjust her grip on the knife.
“Place one foot in front of the other and turn your body to the side. Put your index finger here, on the spine, like this,” I instruct her.
“You flick the knife at your opponent, then stab. See? Flick, then stab.”
I take her through the motions, hyper-aware of the curve of her hip and butt pressing against my lap as I guide her.
“Good,” I compliment her as I use my hand on hers to turn her towards me. “Now, face me and go through the motion slowly, flick and stab.”
“Are you sure?” Her brow crinkles in concern.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” I assure her. “Just go slow at first. I want to show you how to block the same maneuver.”
With a nod, she holds the blade in front of her, standing slightly sideways as I had instructed her. I wave her forward, and as she approaches me, she raises the knife as if to flick it at my face.
That’s when I grab her wrist and pull her towards me as I twist it, then throw my arm over hers.
“From here, I just have to bend your elbow backwards,” I remark as I put pressure on the joint. “And you can take the knife right out of their hand or break their arm.” I release her without putting enough pressure on her arm to cause any pain, but she still looks angry.
“Again,” she demands as she raises the knife.
This time when she lunges forward, I use my forearm to block inside her slash, then grab her wrist and jerk her towards me until our bodies are pressed flush together. I can hear her sharp intake of breath as I squeeze her wrist, and I loosen my grip before I bruise her.
Our eyes meet, and as she jerks her hand free of my grip, I realize she’s not in pain. She’s furious.
“This is a waste of time! You’re tossing me around like I’m nothing.” She walks over to the workbench and throws the knife down. “We should go back to practicing shooting. I was actually decent with a gun.”
“You are a good shot,” I concede. “Which is why we’re not practicing that.
Now, come back over here. If you’re serious about getting revenge for your father, you’re going to need to know how to fight in multiple ways.
Someone can knock a gun out of your hand easily enough.
Besides, carrying a gun in this city will get you arrested faster than it will protect you.
Keeping a knife on you at all times, one you know how to use, might save your life someday. ”
“Who taught you all this stuff? Did you get a degree in inflicting pain?”
“No. I studied business management at a private university, similar to your own coursework,” I tell her.
“I learned how to fight when I was growing up. My father and some of his capos taught me. It was nothing as pretty or as precise as martial arts. The type of grappling I’m going to show you is ugly and effective.
You’re small, so I’m going to show you every cheap shot and dirty trick I was taught as a child. ”
“Why?” Constance asks. “I mean, I understand why you’re letting me stay here, and I appreciate it.
Until the insurance company finishes their investigation and I get the money to rebuild, I would’ve been stuck couch-surfing.
But I didn’t come to you for the accommodations.
I came here to find out who murdered my father.
When are we going to track down the arsonist? ”
“I’ve got every one of my crews beating the bushes to find out where Pellegrini is hiding.
As soon as he sticks his head up, we’ll drag him in for questioning,” I assure her.
“I’ve also had a team going over every bit of surveillance video from the last few weeks, looking for anything that might give us more leads.
” I walk over to her and place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“What we’re doing right now is making sure you’re prepared for whatever comes next. ”
“Okay,” she says as she reaches up. I expect her to bat my hand away.
Instead, she places her hand over mine, giving it a brief squeeze.
“I know you’re doing everything you can.
I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she adds as she lets go of my hand and picks the knife back up.
The green OTF that scared her. “This is as good a way as any to pass the time until we know more.”
“Right,” I agree. “And from now on, I want you to pick your favorite gun and knife to keep on you while you’re staying here. I’ll help you find a holster for both that’s comfortable.”
“Fine.”
She’s back to one-word answers, which is why I add, “Just try not to stab or shoot yourself.”
She smiles a real smile, one that’s sharp and fleeting when she shoves my chest with both hands. Harder than she needs to.
And the worst part?
I like it.
Over the next few days, I find myself enjoying showing Constance what I know about fighting. More than enjoying it. I fucking crave it, which is even worse.
It’s dangerous how much I like having her this close, her breath brushing my collarbone when I guide her motions, her small body pressed against mine when I correct her stance.
I shouldn’t want her.
And worse, I’m starting to want her enough to forget that she doesn’t want me back. That she fucking hates me, blames me for her father’s death.