Chapter 38 – Remi
Thirty-Eight
Remi
“Not even a damn text message.”
My glove connects with the pad in Matteo’s hand, the impact echoing through the empty gym.
“He hasn’t called.” I throw another punch. “He hasn’t texted.” I follow it with another. “He just goes on with his life as if nothing happened.”
Matteo absorbs the next hit and lowers the pad slightly.
“It’s been three days.”
“Exactly.” I fire off another combination. “Three days, Matteo.”
“That’s not exactly a lifetime.”
“It is when some giant idiot spends weeks showing up everywhere, making himself a problem, and then suddenly disappears.”
“Ah.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t ‘ah’ me.”
A stupid grin spreads across his face, and I already know whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to make me want to land a jab somewhere other than on the pad.
“You miss him.”
I knew it.
“No, I don’t.”
“Remi.”
“Matteo.”
“You absolutely miss him.”
I hit the pad again, harder this time.
“I’m annoyed.”
“Sure.”
“I’m irritated.”
“Definitely. I think you’ve bruised my palms.”
“I’m considering keying his truck.”
Matteo laughs. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I roll my eyes and yank off one glove with my teeth, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. When I look up, Matteo wears that infuriating smirk.
The worst part is that I know he’s right, even though I refuse to admit it has anything to do with missing Thiago. I’m standing in a gym, ranting about a man who hasn’t called me, instead of doing literally anything else with my time, and that realization only annoys me more.
“Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you just going to keep taking it out on me?” Matteo asks as he lowers the pads again.
“He invited me to his precinct’s charity ball.”
Matteo stares at me, and I stare right back. When I don’t elaborate, his eyebrows lift as if he’s waiting for the part that explains why I’ve spent the past ten minutes trying to break his hands.
“And?” he finally asks.
“What do you mean, and? Isn’t that enough? Me at a party surrounded by Philly’s finest after they hauled me in like some criminal and leaked a photo of me so every creep within a fifty-mile radius could get off on it? Please.”
I snatch my water bottle off the bench and take a long drink.
“And he got upset because you said no?”
“He got upset because I basically told him I’d rather cut off my legs than walk into that party. Then I told him to lose my number and left.”
Matteo bursts out laughing.
I glare at him.
“I’m glad you find this amusing.”
His laughter finally dies down. With a sigh, he slides off the pads and throws an arm around my shoulders.
“Remi, if you told him to lose your number and that’s exactly what he did, then why are you upset?”
I shrug and look away because answering him would mean admitting something I’ve spent the past three days trying very hard not to think about.
I’ve kept myself busy with music blasting in my ears, torn apart the spare RB26 engine I’ve been meaning to rebuild for months, built a custom AR, and burned through two goddamn bags of watermelon lollipops.
I’ve done everything I can to keep my hands moving and my mind from wandering back to Thiago.
Sure, that’s dramatic, but staying busy is easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of me misses him. It’s also easier than admitting I’m pissed he listened to me.
I snatch my gloves off the bench and start pulling them back on. “Another round.”
Before Matteo can answer, the door to his private gym swings open. Aunt Leni strides in, followed closely by Aunt Eva.
I wait a few seconds, half expecting Mamá to appear behind them, but the doorway stays empty. I love her more than anything. But after being cornered and interrogated as if I couldn’t be trusted to make my own decisions, I’m not ready to have that conversation with her yet.
“We heard you two were here,” Aunt Leni says as she looks between us.
Her gaze drops to the gloves in my hands. “Should we come back after you finish beating up Matteo?”
“Too late.” He drains the rest of his water. “She clipped my chin with a two-three combo.”
“You deserved it,” I tease, crossing my arms. “What brings you two by?”
Aunt Eva places a hand on Matteo’s shoulder, and they exchange a look that seems to convey an entire conversation without a single word.
The traitor grabs his bag, leans in, and kisses my cheek. “Take it easy, Rem.”
“Coward.”
His grin widens as he heads for the door.
The moment it closes behind him, both women turn their attention to me, confirming what I suspected. This isn’t a social visit.
“Look—”
“We’re just here to talk,” Aunt Leni says as she moves closer.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Remi.” Aunt Eva’s softer voice cuts through my irritation, so I turn toward her.
“This isn’t what you’re thinking,” she says. “We’re not here to talk about the other day. We wanted to set the record straight and update you on information that’s been circulating behind the scenes.”
My arms clench across my chest. “What information?”
They exchange another glance before Aunt Leni answers.
“The organization has picked up chatter about a covert, government-sanctioned agency that’s been quietly gathering intelligence. They’re searching for databases, servers, and encrypted files linked to The Six.”
A chill works its way through me. “Encrypted files...” I lower my voice. “The Ledger?”
Aunt Leni nods.
“Do they know we have one?”
“If they had,” Aunt Eva says calmly, “we probably wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”
That does little to make me feel better. The Ledger isn’t just information. It’s leverage.
Four years ago, Aunt Leni revealed she had one of the encrypted drives in her possession, and there hasn’t been so much as a whisper about it since. No one outside this family should know we have any connection to the Ledger, let alone that we have one of its drives.
As far as I know, the only person who might have suspected the truth is dead, which leaves me with one very important question.
I look between them. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“We don’t know. Maybe nothing,” Aunt Leni says. “But this is what your parents were trying to warn you about. They wanted you to be careful because there are things happening that we don’t fully understand yet, not because they don’t trust you.”
She slings an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You know we don’t think that, right?”
Sometimes, I’m not sure I believe it myself, but I nod anyway. From the corner of my eye, I catch Aunt Eva’s expression soften.
“Good.”
For a moment, neither of them says anything, and I start to think the conversation might be over. Then Aunt Leni tilts her head.
“So why were you really upset?”
I narrow my eyes. “Sneaky,” I say with a grin. “But respectfully, that’s mine.”
“Fair.” Aunt Leni arches an eyebrow and taps her chin with a dark-red fingernail. “How about we spar for some information about a certain man you clearly don’t want anyone to know about?”
“Spar?”
She may be decades removed from the contract killer she once was, but she’ll always be one of the most badass women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing and loving.
I spent years training under her alongside Val. I still remember walking into rooms like this one and watching my aunt transform the moment she stepped onto a mat, picked up a weapon, or pulled on gloves.
The loving, doting aunt disappeared, and in her place stood a skilled assassin.
She never coddled us or treated us differently because we were girls.
She adjusted for size and technique when necessary, but there was no sympathy, extra breaks, or lowered expectations.
She drilled into us that knowing how to throw a perfect throat punch could mean the difference between life and death, and that drawing a weapon a fraction of a second faster than your opponent could mean the difference between walking away and staining the ground red.
Those lessons stayed with me, and so did the bruises.
“I’m not sure this is a fair trade,” I tell her.
Aunt Leni’s smile widens. “Neither am I.”
I consider it for a moment before deciding I could use the distraction. “Fine.” I roll my shoulders. “But if you break a hip, don’t blame me.”
Aunt Leni laughs as she kicks off her shoes and pulls on gloves. “That’s adorable.”
I barely have time to register the challenge before she moves.
One second, I’m standing in front of her, and the next, my back slams against the mat so hard it rattles my teeth.
“What the hell?”
Aunt Eva laughs from the sidelines while Aunt Leni offers me a hand.
“You dropped your guard.”
“That was a lucky shot. You didn’t even say go.”
“Of course it was. And this isn’t the movies, sweetheart. No one is going to give you a villain monologue before going in for the kill.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I ignore her outstretched hand and climb to my feet on my own.
We begin circling again.
I throw a jab, then a cross. Aunt Leni slips both and pivots around me with irritating ease. I adjust and come at her faster, but she’s already moving before I commit. She sweeps my leg out from under me, and I’m on the fucking mat again.
I groan. “This is getting embarrassing.”
“For you, maybe.”
I push myself upright and brush off my hands, but the next exchange goes even worse.
Every move feels half a second behind. My timing is off, and my reactions are sluggish. Twice, I catch myself hesitating, and Aunt Leni capitalizes on it. Before long, she puts me on my ass for the fourth time.
Aunt Eva is openly enjoying herself now, and I make a mental note to remember her betrayal later.
“Okay,” I mutter as I get back to my feet. “Now I’m annoyed.”
“You’ve been annoyed.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s not wrong.
The problem is that my irritation has very little to do with sparring. It’s about Thiago and his maddening silence. It’s about the fact that three days have passed without any communication, and as much as I hate admitting it, his silence fucking hurts.
Something taps my cheek. I blink and realize too late it’s Aunt Leni’s glove. She sweeps my leg again, and I hit the mat, sending another surge of frustration through me.
“You’re distracted.”
Heat burns behind my eyes, and I clench my jaw against the tears that threaten to spill. Getting my ass handed to me is bad enough without my emotions deciding to humiliate me as well.
“No, I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
I shove myself back to my feet. “I’m fine,” I snap, swiping at my eyes with my forearm.
“Remi.” The tone alone tells me she doesn’t believe a word of that.
“Let’s go.”
We start moving again. I focus on her shoulders, stance, and breathing. For a few seconds, it works.
Then, as if my intrusive thoughts have a personal vendetta against me, my mind wanders back to the argument in Thiago’s apartment. I replay my words and wonder whether he regrets asking me to the charity ball or if he misses me at all.
Aunt Leni catches my wrist, turns her hips, and sends me crashing onto the mat. Again.
She shakes her head. “You’ve always had the same problem.”
I sit up and glare at her. “According to you, what’s that?”
“When something matters to you, you get trapped in your own head. You overanalyze and overthink every conversation, outcome, and possibility until you’re no longer paying attention to what’s right in front of you.
” She pauses. “Other times, you do the exact opposite and act before you’ve thought anything through. ”
I hate how accurate that sounds.
“That’s why you’re losing,” she adds.
“Or maybe you’re just good.”
“I am good,” she says without hesitation. “But you’re better than this. You’re better than me.”
She crouches beside me. “You know what makes the difference between a good fighter and a dead one?”
I sigh. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”
“The ability to stay present. The second your attention drifts or you let your emotions start making decisions for you, you become vulnerable, Remi.” Her gaze hardens. “And right now, you’re so busy thinking about that man that you haven’t landed a clean hit in ten minutes.”
Heat floods my face as I groan, letting my head fall back against the mat. “Can we go back to discussing government conspiracies?”
“No,” Aunt Leni says as she stands and offers me a hand. “Because those are far less interesting.”
Against my better judgment, I accept it.
The smug smile on her face tells me she just won far more than the sparring match.
A few minutes later, the three of us are sitting on a bench against the wall, drinking water and catching our breaths.
“We had a fight,” I blurt out. “Sort of. I told him not to contact me anymore, and he listened.”
“And you didn’t want him to?” Aunt Eva asks.
Staring down at my water bottle, I shrug. “I guess not,” I finally admit. “But I’m not going to beg him, either.”
“Sweetheart,” Aunt Leni says, taking a drink of water, “have you seen yourself? Begging anyone has never been an option for you.”
I sigh. “Me and him...we’re not dating or anything. We’re just...”
How exactly am I supposed to explain this? Neither of my aunts is judgmental. If anything, they’ve always been open-minded, but that isn’t the problem. No matter how old I get, there are still certain details I don’t want to share with two women who are basically my mothers.
Aunt Eva’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”
Aunt Leni points her water bottle at me.
“Well, maybe you have a little soul-searching to do. You need to figure out what you really want from him and whether you’re willing to admit it to yourself.
” She takes another drink before adding, “Then you can decide whether he’s worth it.
I say that loosely because he’ll have to be one hell of a man to measure up. ”
“Agreed.” Aunt Eva nudges my shoulder. “You know you’re one of my girls too, right?”
The knot that’s been in my chest since that day in my mother’s office loosens a little.
“I know,” I murmur, unable to keep the smile from my face.
Aunt Eva reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Val is just a phone call away, and we’re all here for you. So stop carrying all of this by yourself.”
I look away before either of them can see how deeply those words affect me.
“Now, please go visit Amalia,” Aunt Leni adds.
“She knows I love her.”
“She does,” Aunt Leni says gently. “But she’d probably like to hear it from you anyway.”
I let out a long sigh. “Fine.”
“Good answer.”
After another ten minutes of hugs, unsolicited advice, and last-minute pep talks, they finally head out. A short while later, I’m standing under a stream of hot water, washing away the gym sweat and some of the frustration I’ve been carrying for the past three days.
By the time I step out of the shower, my mood has improved marginally, which I’ll take as a win.
I work some product through my hair, glance at the clock, and decide that whatever air-drying under a helmet does to it is tomorrow’s problem.
If I’m lucky, I won’t look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket by the time I get where I’m going.
If I’m unlucky, Mamá will just have to love me anyway.