35. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Alina
Alina stood in the courtyard, the sun slanting over the high stone walls and warming the upper shell of her shoulders even as a faint chill clung to the grass.
The air was pine and iron and something else—gun oil from the shooting range off the main drive, where distant pops echoed sometimes against rock.
She stood waiting, an intentional act: head up, hands unclenched at her sides, grounded in her own skin.
This morning was not for being hidden—nor was it for being watched, though she felt the heat of a gaze on her from the second the door closed behind her.
If she had let her mind wander, she could have imagined herself as a younger version, the girl who ran to catch the school bus, or the woman who stood by hospital loading docks, inhaling concrete dust and coffee steam, not knowing what waited just out of frame.
But there was no before, not really. There was only now: a new day, a new version of herself, assembled out of everything that had come before and everything she was willing to become.
She was here for control. It was not a feeling but a decision.
The gravel gave a warning crunch, and she turned to find Luca approaching across the wide courtyard, a black duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that made it impossible to guess if he was amused or terminally bored.
He sized her up with a click of his tongue. “Well, well,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a smile he clearly thought better of. “Look who decided to join the land of the dangerous.”
Alina crossed her arms. “Don’t make this weird.”
He shrugged, setting the duffel down at her feet. “Oh, it’s already weird. Dante’s been pacing since sunrise. He wouldn’t even eat.”
She looked up, and beyond the edge of the courtyard’s perimeter wall, she could just see the second-floor balcony.
The morning glare made it hard to focus, but she picked out Dante’s shape: broad shoulders, motionless except for the precise flex of crossed arms. Not hiding, not even pretending to be private about watching her.
She held his gaze, or the suggestion of it, for three full seconds before looking away.
She was not here to impress him, she told herself. But she wanted him to see her.
Luca unzipped the duffel and tossed her a pair of battered black gloves. They hit her chest and nearly slipped through her hands before she got a grip, the leather already warm from storage. She flexed them, feeling the unfamiliar press at her knuckles.
Luca nodded with approval. “Better catch than the boss. First day, you’re already ahead.”
From the balcony, Dante didn’t move. But she could imagine, perfectly, the precise flicker of his expression—something like satisfaction, something like fear.
Luca clapped his hands. “Alright, sunshine. First lesson: how not to die.”
“That’s… direct,” Alina said, but she was grateful for the absence of the preamble. Her nerves buzzed, but it was a clean, focused energy—not the old kind that crept up on her after a bad shift, or after a dream she couldn’t shake.
“Welcome to the family,” Luca said, opening the bag to reveal its contents: a set of padded sparring gloves, a practice knife with a blue plastic blade, and a wooden baton. The sticks were cut down from something heavier, their surfaces darkened with sweat and old grip tape.
Alina blinked at the array. “I thought we were starting with, like, cardio.”
He selected the baton and tapped it lightly against her shoulder.
“Cardio won’t save you when someone’s trying to drag you through a door.
” The words were matter-of-fact, not cruel, but her stomach twisted.
Then Luca’s voice gentled, a subtle but deliberate shift.
“Hey. You’re here to take your power back, not to relive anything. ”
He set the baton in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “You’re not a victim. Not with this. Not unless you want to be.”
She nodded, mouth dry. “Okay.”
He stepped back, giving her space. “Hit with it,” he said. “Don’t wave it around like a magic wand. Swing from your hips.”
She tried, the motion awkward, elbow flaring instead of staying tight. The baton made a half-hearted swoosh in the air.
Luca grimaced. “Again.”
She reset, this time planting her feet wider, knees bent, and swung harder. The stick sliced through the air with a much more satisfying crack.
“Again.”
She did it again, the end vibrating in her grip. Again. Again. Her arms started to ache, but the ache was clean and honest—a sign she was doing something, making some kind of mark on the world, even if it was only the air in front of her.
“Better,” Luca said, circling her like a wolf. “Now imagine I’m the asshole who thinks you’re an easy target. You want to break my wrist, or at least make me wish I’d never touched you.”
She pictured it. The guy in the stairwell, the first time after that night, the way his hand closed around her elbow. The memory made her heartbeat skip, but she didn’t let it close in. She swung again, harder, and the sound echoed off the courtyard wall.
“Good,” Luca said. “Again.”
She lost count of the repetitions. Sweat trickled down her back despite the brisk air, and her palms inside the gloves grew slick. It was boring, and it was exhausting, and it felt like being rebuilt from the bones out.
When her arms finally trembled, Luca took the baton back and offered her a bottle of water. “That’s the first part. Next, we’re going to make you impossible to grab.” He gestured for her to finish drinking. “This will be less fun for you, but more fun for me.”
She rolled out her shoulders. “What, are you going to tackle me?”
He grinned. “You wish. I’ll show you the basics and then you learn to make it your own.”
He started by demonstrating: a grab from behind, forceful and tight; the instinct to fight against it, to go rigid and try to pull away.
“That’s what they expect,” he said. “The real move is to go limp, drop your weight, use their momentum against them.” He had her try it, arms awkward at her sides, but on her third attempt she slipped out of his grip and nearly sent him stumbling backward.
The look of surprise on his face was so genuine that she laughed, a startled, delighted sound that felt completely foreign in her own throat.
Luca smirked and reset. “Now, add the baton.” He took her through the motions: elbow strike, twist, baton to the ribs. She whiffed the first two but connected with the third. The thunk of wood against his padded vest was deeply satisfying.
“Shit,” he said, rubbing at the spot. “You’ve got a mean streak when you want one.”
Alina felt a grin spread across her face, something sharp and unfamiliar. “I had a good teacher.”
He gave her a look, equal parts pride and warning. “Don’t let it go to your head. Last drill—someone grabs you from behind, what do you do?”
She thought. “Panic?”
“No.”
“Cry?”
“No.”
“Bite?”
“Actually, yes, but let’s start with the basics.” He moved behind her, slow and deliberate, giving her time to process. “Hands up. Elbows sharp. Drop your weight. Twist. Strike.”
She ran through it—awkward the first time, smoother the next, and by the fifth try she could feel the rhythm in her body, the way her center of gravity became something she could move on command.
The fear shrank to a manageable size, not gone but tamed, like a caged animal she could study instead of being devoured by.
All the while she was aware of Dante at the edge of the scene, never closer than the boundary line between sunlight and shadow, always present.
He didn’t speak, didn’t offer commentary, but she could sense the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to hold his breath whenever she stumbled and let it out when she recovered.
When Luca finally called time, she sagged against the courtyard wall and peeled off her gloves. Her hands shook a little, but she lifted her chin and found Dante’s eyes. For the first time, he was smiling, not the careful mask or the courtly amusement but something raw and unprotected.
He moved down the stairs, his stride measured, as if he was giving her every opportunity to see him coming. She waited, pulse steady, until he stood in front of her with arms at his sides, not a hint of defense or threat in his body language.
“You did well,” Dante said. His voice was quiet, but it carried farther than she expected.
Alina looked down at her scraped knuckles, then up at him. “You were watching.”
“I always watch.”
She searched his face for sarcasm, for reproach, but there was only a kind of awe.
It struck her then that he might have been more afraid than she was—of her breaking, of something in her that he couldn’t protect.
Maybe this was how he showed his care: by standing back, by letting her fight her own way out.
Dante stepped closer. “This is your first step. And I’m proud of you.”