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“Grab my arm and twist it behind my back,” Levin instructs. “Go ahead.”
It feels ridiculous to even try, but I know that stalling isn’t going to get me out of it. So I step closer, reaching out to grab his thick forearm.
“Exactly,” he says encouragingly. “Now twist it behind my back. Once you’ve done that, kick at my lower leg as if you’re trying to sweep it out from under me.”
I frown, my fingers still loosely encircling his arm. “This is ridiculous. I couldn’t take down someone your size if I tried. There’s just no way.”
“You can when you’re trained correctly,” Levin insists. “And that’s what your husband has instructed me to do.” There’s an emphasis on the wordhusband, as if he’s reminding me of my duty to Viktor, or perhaps Viktor’s control over me. The fact that really, at the end of the day, I don’t have a choice about anything. I’m just here to be ordered around.
I can feel the resentment bubbling up in me again, and my hand tightens around Levin’s arm.
“Good.” Levin pauses. “Remember, Catarina, winning a fight is not always about size. Catching your opponent off-guard matters too, and you have the advantage in that because they won’t expect you to have training.”
“I just don’t see how someone my size and someone yours could ever be evenly matched.”
“It’s not about even matching,” Levin explains patiently—more patiently than I’d expected, if I’m being honest. “Winning a fight is a mixture of technique and simply having the advantage. In a planned bout, no, of course not. There’s a reason there are weight levels in boxing and MMA. But in real violent combat, things don’t always go as planned. Your attacker might not be well-trained; they might simply be a violent brute. Mob thugs often are. Most of all, they’ll expect you not to know what to do, to be an easy target. The goal here is to make you a more difficult target. Your goal is to escape, not to win a fight. Do you understand?”
It seems unbelievable to me, even with his explanation, that someone like me could ever hope to even escape someone like him in an attack. But some of what he’s sayingdoesmake sense. And if it’s possible that Icouldlearn to escape even against someone like him, then I do want to learn that.
I tighten my grip on his arm, twisting it behind his back as instructed. I feel Levin’s hand ball into a fist, his muscles flexing against my palm, and I follow his command to kick at the back of his leg, my foot connecting with his knee.
“It’s possible to bring me down if you can get me off balance, get a leg out from under me and use my size and weight against me,” Levin says. “And if you’re on my side of this, the one being held, then you’ll want to try something like this.”
His other hand comes around suddenly, grabbing the hand holding his arm as he twists his arm in my grasp, reaching with his other hand to push at my fingers. He doesn’t do it as roughly as I’m sure he would in the real situation, but even pushing my fingers back the way he does makes me gasp. He breaks my hold on him without much effort at all, sidestepping as he does to avoid the kick. And then, just as neatly, he twists my arm back again, his foot connecting with my calf as he sweeps my legs out from under me.
I go down, face first. His arm is there supporting me, so I don’t crash to the ground, but with only one hand to catch myself, it’s a shock nonetheless.
“Fuck you!” I yell, twisting in his grasp, feeling pain shoot through me despite Levin’s carefulness. I feel breathless, the panic starting to curl through me again.
“You can still get out of this,” Levin says from above me. His hand is pressing my arm to my back, and he’s barely touching me otherwise, although I can feel him kneeling on either side of my hips. He’s being very, very careful to keep this PG-rated—probably because his boss and my husband is an actual murderer.
“What is your first instinct? What should you try to do?” Levin’s voice is calm, and it makes me want to hurt him for real.
Maybe that’s the point.
“I could headbutt you,” I tell him darkly. “Or kick you in the balls. Or use my free hand to throw dirt in your face.”
“I don’t recommend kicking an attacker in the balls when you’re on the ground,” Levin says wryly. “That usually pitches your opponent forward, in which case you’ll just be trapped, and they’ll be angry. You could try throwing dirt in their eyes, but you may not always be outside, and you can’t aim well. Which leaves—”
“A headbutt. Should I try that now?” I don’t bother hiding the irritation in my voice. I’m tired, in pain, and ready to quit. I don’t know why Viktor has chosen today to push me again, but I’m thoroughly over it.
“That won’t be necessary.” Levin’s hand is still on my arm, holding it down. “But in the right circumstances, I would agree that would be the best choice. It could startle your attacker and possibly hurt them to the point where their grip will loosen. That’s the point at which you would try to scramble out from under them to escape.” He pauses. “Remember, unless they have a gun, your goal is to escape. Don’t worry about disabling them or “winning.” Just run.”
“Running I can do.”
“If they’re too far back for a headbutt,” Levin continues, “use your own weight to try to get them off of you. They won’t necessarily be all that braced or stable, so use whatever leverage you can.”
He helps me up then, letting go of my arm, and I turn to face him as I let out a long breath. “Just a couple more things,” he assures me. “We’ll practice more kicks and strikes another day. I’ll teach you how to knee an opponent in the gut or groin as a means of getting space so that you can try to escape. We’ll go through more headlocks, and I’ll teach you how to get out of a grappling move. There’s plenty to learn, but we’ll have more opportunity at the next safe house once you’re better healed.”
Levin walks me through the moves again then, skipping the one where I end up on the ground, and then he glances towards Viktor. “I’ll pass her over to you.”
CATERINA
Viktor smiles tightly, stepping towards me as he accepts a gun from one of the other men, some kind of pistol. My stomach knots the instant I see it—I have absolutely no desire to learn how to shoot a gun; it doesn’t appear that I’m going to be given a choice, just like I wasn’t when it came to the fighting.
Despite having grown up around violence, I’ve never liked it. And there was no expectation that I should. I was a mafia princess, protected and coddled. There was no need for me to protect myself.
No need to pick up a pistol and learn how to shoot it.
