Page 19 of The Diávolos: Part Two
“I will kill the Kouvalakis Godfather and take over his territory. And I swear to you all by blood,” I say, grabbing a steak knife off the table and slicing my palm, blood dripping onto the white tablecloth. “That I will only act in everyone’s best interest. Iwilldestroy the Sisterhood.”
We’ve turned a corner, the echoes of our unspoken agreement lingering in the air.
It’s time to find Peter Kouvalakis and end him.
PART II
6
ANGELICA
"It’s hard to beat a person who never gives up."
—Babe Ruth
“Stand up straight, girl. Feet shoulder width apart.”
I do as Mickey says, despite my absolute exhaustion. My shoulders are slumped forward, my breathing is heavy and short.
I’ve started coming to the boxing gym three times a week, courtesy of Gianis. I had started carrying a gun instead of a knife, but that wasn’t enough for him. He promised to find me the best martial arts gym in Antium, and he did. My trainer, Mickey, is the baddest bitch to ever exist, and I feel stronger and more powerful than I ever have before.
“Shift your left foot slightly in front of the other, but keep it mostly parallel to the right one,” she explains while nudging my legs open. I oblige and straighten my back, placing my hands in front of my face.
“Remember that your lead foot should be far enough ahead of your back one so you can shift your weight when throwing a punch, but close enough to maintain your balance.”
I nod. It’s hard to breathe with the mouth guard on, but I take a deep inhale. The hum of activity around us and the rhythmic beat of Mickey’s music envelop me as I get ready to throw my punches.
In the midst of my daily life and thinking about my mother’s past, my father’s present, and my future, I find myself teetering on the edge of overwhelm. But these sessions help.
Mickey puts on her punching mitts, positions herself in front of me in a boxing stance, and taps them together twice once they’re adjusted. “Alright, let’s go, Ang.” I shake out my shoulders, rolling them backward a few times to loosen them up.
“One, one. Two. Three. Six. I want you to do it over and over until I tell you to stop.”
I repeat the combo many times, screaming after each punch as I push myself to the edge. Giving up is not an option, even when I’m at my wit’s end. What’s happened to me before might’ve changed me, but I refuse to be lessened by it.
“One,” Mickey screams. I throw a jab. “Again!” Another. “Two.” Right cross. “Three.” Left hook. “Six! Give it all you’ve got, Angelica!” With all my might, I deliver a strong right uppercut directly into Mickey’s punching mitt and she staggers back a little.
As soon as Mickey nods that we’re done and my arms fall down my body, I run to the other side of the gym and hurl into the little garbage bin next to the bench. My evil instructor chuckles, still in the same spot I left her. I take off my boxing gloves and show her the finger behind my back as I continue to heave into the can. She ignores the gesture and comes over to hand me a towel.
“Thanks,” I croak.
“You really pushed yourself today. I’m proud of you.”
I lift my head up and wipe my mouth with the rag. “Go hard or go home, right?” I reply with a strained laugh.
“You’ve done enough for the day, go home and rest. I’ll get you a bottle of G2 for the ride. Don’t forget to eat a proper meal.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes,Mom.”
Mickey smacks me on the arm before walking to her office.
After getting rid of the evidence of my overexertion—the garbage bag filled with vomit—I head back to my apartment, feeling the temporary absence of any weight that’s been burdening me. For now.
Walking down the street toward the Broadway metro station, my phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket.
“Hi, G,” I answer with a smile. He knows my boxing schedule, so he’s probably calling to check on me.
“Are you alright?” His voice sounds urgent.
