Page 11 of No Words
“If Borsellini’s men find us, you need to know how to survive.”
She sits up, clutching the sheet to her, a pointless modesty after last night, but I don’t comment on it. “I’ve had firearms training and basic self-defense. I’m not helpless.”
“Against ordinary threats, maybe.” I lean against the doorway, giving her space. “Alessio doesn’t send ordinary threats.”
I leave her to dress, returning to the kitchen where I’ve spread maps across the table. She emerges ten minutes later in the clothes I provided, cargo pants and a fitted black t-shirt that hugs her curves in ways my brain catalogs against my will. Her hair is up in a loose, messy bun, and her face is completelyfree of makeup. Somehow, she looks even more beautiful this way. She looks younger, more vulnerable, and infinitely more determined.
“Show me,” she says, joining me at the table.
I tap the map. “Borsellini territory. Giovanni runs the traditional operations: gambling, protection, union control. Old-school and relatively predictable. But Alessio...” I trace a line through the various neighborhoods. “He’s modernized. Money laundering through tech startups, blackmail operations targeting officials, strategic assassinations.”
Her eyes narrow as she studies the map. “How deep does his influence go in law enforcement?”
“Deep enough that you weren’t safe in federal custody.” I meet her gaze directly.
She flinches but doesn’t look away. Her fingers trace the edge of the map, her prosecutor’s mind clearly working through the implications. “And your network can really keep me off their radar?”
“We’ve done it before.” I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t need the details. Not yet. “My contacts can track Borsellini movements that federal surveillance would miss.”
“And they won’t find us here?” The question is practical, not fearful.
“This place doesn’t exist on any records.” I close the map, watching her process the information. “We have a lot of resources.”
“What kind of resources?” Her prosecutor’s instinct for interrogation surfaces despite her situation.
“The kind that keeps people alive when official channels fail.” I evade specifics.
Her gaze is calculating, assessing. I can see her filing away the information, building her own theory. She doesn’t need toknow about Killian yet. That knowledge comes with its own dangers.
“We need to start with physical training,” I say, clearing the maps. “If we’re separated or if I’m incapacitated, you need to defend yourself long enough to reach my backup.”
I need to see her capabilities. Not just her files or her training records. I need to see how she moves, how she reacts under pressure. Because when Alessio comes, and he will come, her life depends on what I teach her right now.
I push the furniture aside, creating a training space in the living room. She helps without being asked, adapting to the environment with quick efficiency. Another point in her favor.
“Attack me,” I instruct, standing relaxed in the center of the space.
She hesitates. “What?”
“If Alessio finds us, you’ll have less than thirty seconds before I can reach you. Show me what you know. Try to take me down.”
She lunges forward with decent form but telegraphs her movement. I sidestep easily, catching her slender wrist between my fingers, the difference in our sizes almost comical. With minimal effort, I twist her arm behind her back in one fluid motion, my strength fully overpowering hers. She gasps as I pin her against me, her back to my chest, her whole body engulfed by my frame. I could immobilize her with one hand if I wanted. The knowledge sends a dark thrill through me I shouldn’t indulge.
“Again.”
For twenty minutes we repeat the exercise, her attacks growing more creative each time, but always ending with her restrained. By the end, sweat dampens her shirt, and her movements have become more fluid, more instinctive. Her breathing becomes labored, her skin flushed with exertion, and something else I recognize from last night.
I adjust my hold, pulling her tighter against me to demonstrate her vulnerability. Her breath catches as her feet barely touch the ground. At five foot four against my six foot six, she’s like a bird in a bear trap. The fragility of her bones beneath my hands makes me acutely aware of how easily I could break her if I’m not careful.
“If I grab you like this,” I seize her from behind, one arm around her throat, “what’s your instinct?”
She struggles, trying to break my grip with pure strength.
“Wrong. That gets you killed.” I tighten slightly. “Think. Use my weight against me.”
On her third attempt, she drops her weight and twists correctly, slipping out of my hold. The triumph in her eyes ignites something in me.
“Better,” I acknowledge. “Now, floor techniques.”
