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“Yes,” I reply, also in Italian. “And Russian. And Chinese.”
That ghost of a smile blows across his face again for a fraction of a second. Then he waves his hand at his guards.
They immediately descend on me.
I duck underneath the first fist, twisting and driving the heel of my hand into the second guard’s stomach. A satisfying huff escapes his chest. I draw my foot along the floor, forcing the third one to jump back. Then I yank up my forearm to block the strike from the fourth one.
Pain vibrates through my bones as his fist connects, but I’m already moving again.
The stitches on my wounds pull against my skin as I twist and duck and punch and kick, but I ignore the flickers of pain. Because I am going to win this. I’m not just going to prove myself. I’m going to win.
I land several punches and kicks, making the guards stagger back and lose their breath. And I manage to keep them from grabbing me.
But even with my lifetime of being trained as an elite assassin, I can’t simultaneously knock outfourgrown men, who not only have an entire head and about a hundred pounds on me, but also have their own elite training to rely on.
However, I refuse to lose.
So once I have shown off my hand-to-hand skills, I go in for the kill.
Feinting a strike to the right, I duck and twist in the other direction while swiping the gun that the guard kept underneath his suit jacket.
In one fluid motion, I straighten and level the gun straight at Mr. Morelli’s head.
“Don’t,” I snap at the other three guards, who were reaching for their own weapons in a sudden flurry of panic.
Surprise and quite a lot of curiosity swirl in Federico’s eyes as he watches me.
“Tell them to take out their guns and slide them across the floor towards the other wall,” I tell him.
He watches me for another few seconds before giving his guards a nod.
The guns make a faint scraping noise as they slide along the floor before coming to a halt by the opposite wall.
“Now tell them to back up to the other wall and get down on their knees,” I continue.
Yet again, Federico gives them a nod.
I watch as the four men back up and then lower themselves to the polished wooden floorboards. Once they’re kneeling, I turn back to Mr. Morelli and flash him a smile.
Releasing my grip on the gun, I let it spin around so that it’s only hanging on my finger with the handle facing Federico. I keep it like that, offering him the gun. With his gaze locked on mine, he stands up from his chair and takes it.
I let my hand drop back down to my side, but I say nothing. Only keep holding his gaze.
“You’re not only very skilled in close combat,” Mr. Morelli says eventually. He glances down at the gun in his hand before meeting my eyes once more. “You’re also intelligent. Not many people understand the difference between fighting hard and fighting smart.”
A soft thud sounds as he puts the gun down on his desk. Twitching his fingers, he motions for his guards to get to their feet again. Their dark suits rustle faintly behind me as they no doubt rise from the floor, but I keep my eyes on the mafia king before me.
My heart patters in my chest as Mr. Morelli straightens his spine, standing taller. Judgement is about to be passed now.
“You’re an exceptionally skilled fighter,” he says, his serious eyes locked on mine. “You’re intelligent. And you’re loyal.”
I swear I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears as Federico pauses for a few moments and lets the silence stretch.
Then a smile breaks across his features, and light glints in his brown eyes. “I knew that Enrico would someday find someone who matches him so perfectly.”
A small gasp escapes me. It’s followed by a flood of emotions so intense that I can feel tears prickling behind my eyes.
Federico holds out his hand to me, that warm smile still on his lips.
