The next time Alessio moves to hit me, I don’t block him. His fist connects with my abdomen, forcing the breath out of my lungs. Then again, and again, and again.
The next punch he throws at my head sends me to the ground. The pain in my jaw is so blinding that for a moment, I wonder if he broke it. My bloody spit collects on the mat. I push myself up using my gloved fist and move my jaw back and forth.
Still attached.
Alessio’s feet appear in front of me. “You tapping out?”
I shake my head at the ground. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I snap and roll away from him. My body hums with pain, but I get back on my feet.
We start circling each other, and I dodge a few of his hits before I let him land one on me. Then another.
The next time I end up on the ground, Alessio crouches down beside me.
“There aren’t many men in this city who don’t know your reputation, Nero.”
With a groan, I turn onto my back and meet his cool, assessing gaze.
“That Labor Day, when the city was this close to going up in flames, it was you against six men.”
I spit out blood. “Seven.”
“That was the night you got your nickname. The Angel of Death.”
“If you ask me, there isn’t much angelic about death.”
“I agree.” Alessio cocks his head. “Are you out of practice, or are you going easy on me?”
“Does it matter?” With effort, I get back on my feet. “Let’s go.”
“You’ll be useless to me with a broken arm or leg.”
I give him a dark smile. “Then don’t break ’em.”
CHAPTER 7
BLAKE
The creature comforts Nero promised me begin arriving at noon.
First, the groceries. Alec—the front desk attendant I met last night when Nero and I arrived—opens the door to the penthouse from the outside and explains Nero’s given him temporary access for the day. He lets in four men carrying large paper bags. They drop them off in the kitchen and leave without saying a word.
Later, a woman strides in with a rack of clothes. Somehow, every item is my exact size. I ask her how she knew, but she just shakes her head and says she’s not supposed to talk to me. Weird.
As I’m finishing up a snack around four p.m., a dozen or so boxes are brought in. These dudesalsorefuse to talk to or even look at me.
I stop Alec right as he’s about to follow them out of the condo. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
He looks reluctant but nods. “Sure.”
“Why is everyone treating me like I’m radioactive?”
Alec clears his throat. “Maybe it’s better if you ask your husband.”
“I’m asking you,” I insist. I feel stupid, like I’m missing something.
