Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Underworld
Staying meant I could no longer be a ghost.
If I was going to live in Vincent Moretti's world, I refused to be a fragile porcelain doll waiting on a shelf.
My cast was removed a week later. My arm was weak, pale, and stiff, but it was mine again.
The physical therapy was grueling. Every morning, I worked with a specialist to regain my grip strength.
And every afternoon, I started going to the basement.
The estate had a fully equipped training facility. Men trained there—sparring, shooting, conditioning.
The first time I walked down the concrete steps, the entire gym fell silent.
Dozens of hardened criminals stopped what they were doing and stared at me.
I felt their eyes crawling over my skin. The old Lena would have apologized and ran away.
The new Lena walked straight to the heavy bags.
A large man with tattoos covering his neck stepped in my path. It was Dante, Vincent's chief enforcer.
"Miss Lena," Dante said, crossing his massive arms. "This area is off-limits to civilians."
"I need to learn how to throw a punch," I said, my voice steady, even though my hands were sweating.
Dante raised an eyebrow. "You don't need to fight. The Boss pays us to do that."
"The Boss isn't always going to be standing right next to me," I countered. "And I swore to myself I would never be helpless again."
Dante stared at me for a long moment.
Then, a slow grin broke out across his scarred face.
"Grab those wraps," he pointed to a bench. "Let's see what you've got."
For the next two hours, Dante taught me how to stand. How to guard my face. How to drive power from my hips instead of just my arms.
It hurt. My healed arm ached, my knuckles bled, and my lungs burned.
But I didn't stop.
Every time I hit the bag, I thought of the night the door splintered.
I thought of the sound of my bone breaking.
Smack.
I thought of the smirks of men like my husband, men who thought power meant crushing those smaller than them.
Smack.
"Keep your guard up!" Dante barked.
I swung again.
From the top of the stairs, a shadow fell over the gym.
I stopped, breathless, sweat dripping down my face.
Vincent was standing there. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking like a king observing his soldiers.
The men in the gym immediately stopped and lowered their heads in respect.
Vincent didn't look at them. He only looked at me.
His eyes tracked the sweat on my neck, the red wraps on my hands, the fierce, unyielding look in my eyes.
He didn't look angry that I was down here among his soldiers.
He looked proud.
He walked down the stairs, his presence parting the men like the Red Sea.
He stopped in front of me, taking my wrapped hands in his.
"Your left hook needs work," he said softly, tracing the bruised skin on my knuckles with his thumb.
"I'm learning," I shot back, breathing heavily.
"I can see that."
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against my ear.
May you like
"Come upstairs, Lena. I have something to show you."
I unwrapped my hands, ignoring the stares of the men, and followed the Devil back into his sanctuary.
