The only reason to wear one is if someone’s about to do something nefarious, and I tense, on full alert despite the fact that they’re now entirely too close to me.
That’s fine, though. I excel in closequarters, if things go poorly.
“Cold, huh?” I ask, getting up from the bench. Even though I’m itching to get into a defensive stance, I stand casually.
No one would be stupid enough to attack me here.
If Ezio sent goons after me, they’d get to me somewhere more private. They’d break into the house, maybe, or they’d confront me in the tunnels. This is entirely too public.
I don’t relax, though.
Just in case I’m wrong.
The two guys share a look, then the one closer to me lunges forward to grab me by my coat.
Yeah, I was wrong, but not unprepared, and I quickly step out of his reach. I grab the zipper on my coat and yank it down. If they get a hold of it, I need to be able to shrug out of it easily.
The time I spend doing that gives them time to get in close quarters again, and I take a punch to the side. It’s cushioned by the thick coat—ridiculously thick, Pandora had told me, but she’d grown up where it’s cold—and I don’t even feel it.
If they really wanted to hurt me, they should’ve gone for my face.
The coat might offer padding, but it’s also limiting my movements. I can’t punch as easily as I normally can.
It’s way, way too cold to not wear a coat though.
“Hold fucking still,” the one guy says, rushing towards me. I have to step onto the street to evade him, and I hope the traction of my boots can deal with all the wetness. I don’t want to fall face first onto hard, salt-and-grime-covered concrete.
The second guy gets close to me, arms up in a sloppy boxing stance. “We know it was Blaze’s girlfriend who did it. Which of you helped her?”
I’m too distracted by the familiarity of their voices to figure out what they’re talking about at first, and they don’t give me much time to think it through.
As I throw a measuring punch of my own at the taller of the two, I realize I know both of these fuckers.
So much for brotherhood.
The guy dodges and counters with a blow of his own. It’s all messy and uncoordinated, which tells me he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing.
But if the two of them both get their hands on me, they could do damage anyway.
I don’t want to stay on the defensive, not with my uncertain footing on the road, so I need to end this quickly. At the very least, I need to hold them off until the bus arrives, and considering the weather, I don’t know exactly when that will be.
“Alvarado’s too chicken to do anything,” one of them taunts. That’s Marcus, I’m sure of it.
I remember his hand on Pandora’s bare stomach. He wrote a nasty word on her body, too.
I don’t have any right to be angry.
I was there, too.
I’d helped hold her down.
But, fuck, I want to make him pay for being part of the reason she’s cracking. It ignites a fire in me, and I aim a punch at his face.
It connects, and he yelps in pain.
My only regret is that nothing crunches or gives beneath my blow.
He stumbles back, but his friend fills the space he vacated, and I have to react quickly to avoid getting hit.
