Chapter 85
For as long as I could remember, the training arena of the Marcello estate had been my place of comfort. A place more home than home itself. Maybe it was the lingering scents of sweat and leather, softening the crisp fall air into almost summer comfort.
Maybe it was that, surrounded by an arsenal of weapons I’d mastered long ago, this was the one place I felt safe.
Right now, perhaps, it was because I stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, watching my son work the bag with the dedicated focus of a true warrior.
Eli was nine years old, but he seemed so much older. That much was no mystery; this life aged you. Forced you to grow up and be a man, sometimes far faster than you wanted.
Might have made me sad. But the way his small fists, wrapped tightly in cloth, pattered the bag with both impressive strength and impressive skill, I could feel only pride.
He was my son, through and though.
Sweat slicked his blond hair to his forehead, let little droplets escape down his cheeks. But he didn’t falter. The determined set of his brow and jaw didn’t loosen. Even his steady breath didn’t falter.
“Not bad, kid.” I stepped around the bag. “Take a breather.”
Finally, his little fists let up their relentless pulse against the bag. His wrist swiped across his forehead. His big blue eyes tilted up to meet my gaze. “How was that?”
He looked quickly back down, but I still heard the pause at the end of the query. I’d told him he could call me whatever was most comfortable—Aldo, Dad, Papa, Father, Mr. Marcello—but somehow, none of them had taken quite yet.
“It was good,” I allowed him. “Very good.”
If there was one definite place we differed, it was our attitudes. Where I’d always been cocky and overly confident—the perks of growing up the son of a Mafia don I supposed—Eli was grounded.
“All right, let’s see that fighting stance.”
With a snap, he fell into said stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees loose, hands up. Balanced. Easy. When I reached out to push lightly against his shoulder, he barely swayed.
He really was a natural at this.
“Good,” I said with a curt nod of approval. “Now. Show me your punch.”
I held up my hands, and without hesitation, he delivered two blows, a quick jab-cross in rapid succession. I nearly gasped at the impact; shit, he was stronger than I’d expected.
“Not bad, kid,” I murmured, palms stinging. “Again.”
He threw another combo, his small body twisting to drive more impact behind his punches. He wasn’t just naturally inclined to fighting; he was already far beyond my skill level at his age.
His instinct for movement, his ability to learn quickly—he was downright gifted.
“You’re a natural,” I couldn’t help but admit. “But don’t let that get to your head. You still have to train hard, every day. Natural talent isn’t enough. Strength comes from training, from discipline.”
“Right.” Eli nodded, his face serious. So very serious. I almost felt bad. I’d grown up faster than most kids my age, but I’d still had a childhood.
Would Eli even get that?
“I want to be strong.” Eli nodded, his jaw set in determination. “I can train hard.”
Something tightened in my chest. I crouched down so I was eye level with my son. “Strength isn’t just about fighting, Eli. It’s about knowing when to fight and when to walk away.”
Eli frowned slightly, as if considering the words carefully. “Like protecting Mommy?”
My chest grew impossibly tighter. “Exactly.”
I hopped back to my feet, strode to the other end of the mat. Eli traipsed after me, wordless, his face a mask of determined lines.
“We’ll work on defense today,” I said. “You could be the best hitter in the world, but if you have no defense, it won’t matter.”
Eli nodded and lifted his fists.
We trained for another hour. Basic defensive moves came so easily, we moved quickly on before the lesson was half over. The kid absorbed things like a sponge, his enthusiasm never wavering. Every time I made a correction, adjustment, or suggestion, he accommodated without hesitation.
When I called for a break, he simply shook his head. “One more time. I can do better.”
“All right.” My chest tightened again, but with what, I wasn’t sure. “All right. One more time.”
His punch came so fast, I barely blocked it. Damn, the kid was going to be unbeatable someday, and I’d probably have to think about what that meant sooner rather than later. “Not bad at all.”
Eli beamed as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Does that mean I can start sparring for real soon?”
“Let’s master the basics first.” Without thinking, I reached out to ruffle my son’s hair. “Then we’ll talk about sparring. C’mon, let’s go see if anyone’s thought about dinner.”
We slipped through the door and out onto the grounds. One thing my family had never bothered with was a chef—there was always someone who wanted to cook. Sometimes it was my mother. Sometimes it was Layla or even her Nonna.
We marched into the kitchen to find all three of the aforementioned women inside, though only Nonna was cooking. Layla and my mother leaned on the island, sipping wine.
“How did it go?” Layla’s eyes darted from my sweat-dotted face to Eli’s glistening forehead. “You look like you worked hard.”
“Very hard.” Eli nodded, and the hard line of his mouth finally softened. “I’m a natural.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Layla’s brows lifted, and her eyes slowly tracked towards me. Was that look pride or concern? But no, I knew what she was asking: Is this really the life we want for our son?
But what other choice did any of us have?
Our training sessions became a ritual.
Every morning before school, Eli and I would meet in the training arena—and Eli never brought anything less than a hundred percent. We practiced positioning. Punches. Maneuvers. We worked the bag—sometimes separately, sometimes together. Sometimes he threw fists against my open palms, leaving them red and stinging.
In a matter of mere weeks, we’d moved on from defensive maneuvers to full-on sparring. And damn, the kid could spar. He was fast. He was focused. He had an uncanny ability to read my moves.
I brought Carlo in next, because maybe Eli’s ability to read the play was just about being my son. Training with me made me predictable, I figured.
But he read Carlo just as well. Twenty minutes into their first fight, Carlo was wiping sweat from forehead, his eyes wide with surprise. “What are you feeding this kid? Speed?”
“That’s a compliment,” I said, scratching at the back of my head. “I think?”
“Heck yeah, it is,” Carlo panted around heaved breaths as the fight started back up again. “You’re gonna be better than your dad someday, kid.”
Eli didn’t so much as stumble.
He really was focused, dedicated, determined … and most importantly, humble. He wouldn’t be just a good fighter, I decided. He would be great.
Just two weeks after we’d started, I introduced Eli’s first weapon. His eyes grew twice their size, but he didn’t say anything.
He was only nine, but he knew. In our world, fights were never predictable, and fists were rarely the weapon of choice.
So when he took the knife from my hand, there was no hesitation in his grip. And when he followed my example, his movements were quick, his focus unshakeable.
Just like when he fought with his fists, Eli was a natural with a knife, too.
