Sweating like a condemned woman, I needed a break and threw myself onto the gym floor, lying down and panting, feeling the sweat dripping down my forehead and neck.
"Wow!" Hitman 2 seemed to praise my punching performance. They made me hit a damn punching bag chained to the gym ceiling until I was exhausted.
Raising my trembling hands from the energy I'd lost, I pulled off the protective glove and grumbled, noticing two of my nails broken down to the quick.
"Water?" Hitman 1 crouched beside my body. He was shirtless, wearing only soft fabric training shorts, like all of them, actually—they were all in these training outfits, or rather, the lack thereof. It was a hell of a struggle not to stare at the well-defined bodies of the three hitmen training me as if I were one of them. They had no pity or mercy; they'd been destroying me ever since I recovered from the flu, and that crap's been going on for a week already. My hand is grabbed, and I'm prompted to sit on the floor, looking completely out of breath at the hitman handing me an ice-cold water bottle. "Drink so we can continue," he declared in a tone that left no room for any attempt at refusal on my part.
I grab the bottle, dying of thirst, and drink desperately, the water spilling and washing over my breasts—a delicious relief for the damn heat and exhaustion I feel in every molecule of my body.
Jealously, I saw Faruk, who was watching us train, rush over with a small towel to carefully dry my neck, which was burning fiercely because of the damn collar Ângelo put on me against my will. That shitty bastard.
I smile, looking at my little brother and hugging his arm, kissing it while still out of breath. Ângelo saved him and brought him to me. It was so unbelievable that it left me over the moon that my brother was here with me. I was definitely grateful to him, and I would be for the rest of my life.
"My sister… if you can't handle hitting the bag anymore, you can beat up all three of them," Faruk suggested, and I smile weakly, loving the idea and breathing unevenly.
"You think I can take on all three?" I ask faintly.
"They're not as strong as Uncle Ângelo. His arms are skinny like a Pinscher's legs. They're like twigs, my sister," Faruk said playfully, and I burst out laughing.
The three hitmen gathered and stood in a straight line in front of us, watching me sitting on the floor with my brother kneeling behind me, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
"I'm going to ban you from coming to watch your sister get her ass kicked by us in the coming weeks," Hitman 1 said, offended.
I'm laughing hard.
"My sister's going to get as strong as Uncle Ângelo, and she's the one who'll kick all three of your asses."
I'm shocked by my brother's words, throwing me off a cliff, my eyes widening.
As strong as the king of hell is almost impossible. But thanks, brother, for the confidence in this skinny girl here.
"I'd like to see that. Your sister's tiny and skinny; she doesn't have the stance to take down any of us," Hitman 1 was determined to roast me, seeming to feel the burn in his butt from my brother openly calling him weak.
I'm incredulous at the audacity of this son of a bitch.
"This skinny girl here can handle more than you think," I say, irritated. Don't tell a skinny girl she's skinny; we already know that.
"Between us, you need to bulk up those legs," Hitman 1 winked at me, mocking.
I'm horrified.
The other two touched their chins, as if they were going to do a detailed analysis, openly and not-so-discreetly observing my legs, exposed in the sports jumpsuit I was wearing to train with them.
"I like her legs like that," one commented, Hitman 27, the blond with full lips. Hitman 1 was also blond, handsome, and seemed to be the oldest of the three.
I look at my thighs, which became the topic of conversation at that moment.
"I like them too, and they're smooth, right? Do you use a razor, Lavínia?" Hitman 2 asked with some curiosity, the one with dark brown, almost black hair, a symmetrical face, and well-defined eyebrows, the youngest of the three.
I stare at him.
"There's this amazing depilatory cream I use. I'll lend it to you later so you can get rid of that ridiculous goatee," I mock, and my brother bursts out laughing.
"I thought you found our little bodies interesting," Hitman 27 teased in a very playful tone.
They were three idiots, and the worst part is that I liked their energy. They were cheerful, playful, and light.
Unlike Ângelo, who was ironic, mockingly acidic, and carried an energy from the depths around him.
"I think I can definitely beat you guys up," I admit, more uncertain than confident.
I stare at the three shirtless hitmen right in front of me, all in soft fabric shorts, arms crossed, barefoot, and standing, looking at me with expressions of disbelief but also seeming to doubt that I could ever face them in a fight.
I drink another good amount of ice-cold water while my brother lifts my wet hair and runs the towel over my nape under the collar. My indiscreet gaze wanders over Ângelo's three hitmen, and it's impossible not to assess them with a certain idolatry, especially their bodies. It stirred me to watch the sweat dripping down their chiseled abs. Automatically, I couldn't help but recall moments earlier when their clenched fists showed their veins popping with every punch or exercise they did, and I watched discreetly. Their muscular thighs when they strained to lift weights were also surreal to see and not feel my femininity awaken with so much testosterone together.
Three hotties…
"I want all three," I say, only realizing I spoke with a cunning tone when I notice them frowning and exchanging glances.
"Where do you want each of us?" Hitman 27 asked, and I glimpsed mischief, immediately recalling what Ângelo did to him when he came to my room to invite me for breakfast.
I smile, bringing the bottle to my mouth and dragging my gaze over his toned abs.
Suddenly, I felt a massive shock on my neck and coughed in pure shock, choking on the water, handing the bottle to my brother and quickly bringing my hand to the collar, running two fingers inside, soothing my flaming neck, burning the skin around my throat. Even so, I turned my enraged gaze to the corners of the walls where cameras were everywhere.
"…I'll know if you're trying to flirt with one of my hitmen."
It was obvious that Ângelo Fontana was glued to those dark eyes, watching me every day and at every moment. I felt constantly observed by him.
"I want to fight all three," I explain, embarrassed—not because of Ângelo, but embarrassed by the three men. Sometimes it's good to play dumb so they look at me differently, because I will indeed provoke that son of a bitch Ângelo with his hitmen. Come on! The guy put a collar on me!
With effort, I stand up and put the protective gloves back on, ignoring the crap about my weak, broken nails.
"This is going to be interesting," Hitman 1 approached me, getting into an attack stance, aiming his fists at my face.
I bring my gloves together, hitting them and preparing to advance, raising my hands in the same position as my opponent and looking at him threateningly, ready to hit him.
If there's one thing I learned watching two of them fight these past days, it's that all three were cheating scoundrels. So, if I wanted to try to face them head-on, I'd have to act like them.
Hitman 1 looked into my eyes for a long time, and seeing that I wouldn't strike first, he moved to throw the first punch. At that exact moment, this skinny girl here skillfully crouched, turned on her heels, and dodged, his punch hitting the air. As I stood up, I threw my punch with all my strength at Hitman 2, who was beside him, knocking him to the ground.
I heard Faruk's shouts and claps of pure ecstasy, but as my joy is short-lived, Hitman 27 came up from behind and put me in a chokehold that left me with no defense; the bastard completely immobilized me.
"I could strangle you, knock you unconscious, or even kill you with just this move," he whispered, pressing his body against mine.
I felt a massive shock on my neck and ended up groaning from the pain it caused. My hateful gaze fixed on the camera turning in my direction, and I felt that Ângelo, wherever he was now, demanded I get out of that situation somehow.
I thought and thought, and the only thing I could do was lower my head as far as my neck could handle and, with all my strength, raise it, headbutting the nose of the hitman holding me by the neck, making him let go and stumble backward.
Looking back, I saw him bleeding from the nose, and a proud smile adorned my lips.
Yeah, I think I can one day be good at defending myself.
***
We were having dinner in the dining room, all of us gathered and chatting casually.
"When will Uncle Ângelo come back?" Suddenly, my brother asked, silencing the laughter and conversations at the table.
I set my glass down on the table and glance over the three guys. The truth is, I also wanted to know. It's been many days, and he hasn't even called.
"We don't know, Faruk. When he travels like this, he doesn't usually set a return date," Hitman 1 explained cautiously, wary that my brother might cry.
I touch my brother's shoulders and run my hands down his back, soothing him.
"And where did he go?" my brother pressed with questions. I only realized he liked Ângelo these days he's been away from the mansion. Ângelo was the first person he saw when he opened his eyes; I think that meant more to Faruk than it did to Ângelo.
My gaze gets lost in the juice pitcher.
What must Ângelo have felt when he saw my little brother in a hospital bed opening his eyes?
I take a deep breath, completely ignoring what I'm thinking and snapping out of my foolish daydreams. Ângelo probably didn't feel anything. Saving Faruk was his guarantee to bring me close to him. Nothing more.
"He's with someone who needs him a lot," one of the hitmen said.
I quickly turned my eyes to him, the only one with black hair.
"Is it someone from his family?" I ask, intrigued, and he didn't respond. I narrow my gaze at the hitman beside him, anxious for an answer.
"No one here knows for sure who this person so important to him is," he revealed, and Hitman 27 pulled something from his pocket, an envelope, and slowly slid it to the middle of the table. I look at him, understanding absolutely nothing. "Ângelo told me to give this to you."
"And what is it?" I'm apprehensive, looking at the envelope.
"It's a letter that a neighbor of yours asked him to deliver to you."
Quickly, I lean forward and grab the envelope. I turn my back to them and read the sender's name.
Zaia
The girl who studied with me in Syria.
With that, I turn my face to Faruk.
"It's from Zaia, Faruk. It's a letter from Zaia," my eyes fill with tears.
With the trembling envelope in my hands, I stare at it.
Does she know something about my father?
Because even if he's not the best father in the world and I tried to escape an arranged marriage after he killed the man I loved, he's still my father, Faruk's father, our only family.