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CHAPTER 1
________
Vittorio Cataneo
The familiar shock runs through my entire body as my closed fist hits the ribs of the man in front of me. Without stopping moving my feet on the mat for even a second, I return my arms to the defense position, protecting my face with my fists while the soldier I'm fighting tries to stabilize himself on his own legs. He staggers, but the moment he regains his balance, he attacks me, betting on the speed of his reaction as an element of surprise. And maybe it would work if I weren't his opponent. I bend my knees, dodging his attack before interlocking my right leg with his left and knocking him to the ground.
“And you're dead,” I say as I press my forearm against his neck and the man's pupils dilate with realization. One move and I could break his neck, right here, right now.
Beads of sweat run down my face and back as the layer of it covering my entire skin becomes thicker. The boy opens his mouth as if he intends to apologize, but closes it, realizing in time what a mistake that would be. Weakness offers only two options, and apologizing for the shame of being weak is not among them: either you get better, or you die.
“Leave the kids alone, brother. Fight someone your own size.” I look up and find Tizziano passing through the ring ropes.
The usual easy smile, hanging on his lips, does not disguise what his exposed body, dressed in nothing more than his many tattoos and a pair of boxers, reveals: whatever the damned man had come to do at the training center, facing me was not in the cards. The sudden change of plans can only mean one thing.
The little relaxation I had achieved through punches and kicks in the last hour vanishes, and I stand up, silently dismissing the boy I was practically suffocating. It will be a good lesson.
“Sputa il rospo![1]” I demand when Tizziano stops in front of me, finishing the last lap of the protective strap in his hands and, if I had any doubts that getting on the mat was a change in his route, they would disappear now.
My brother doesn't mind skinning his knuckles unless he needs to maintain a facade of civility, and he almost never makes a point of it. And if he has somewhere to go, he definitely shouldn't be here. Tizziano bends his neck to one side and then the other, before moving into an attacking position and shrugging his shoulders.
“I don't have good news, so I'll make it up to you first,” he warns, trying the first punch, and I dodge it easily.
But, unlike the men who entered the ring before him, the underboss is not afraid to hit me and adds a series of attempts to the first. One of them hits me in the shoulder thanks to a movement quick enough to prevent the blow from going in the face.
Someone my size, in fact.
I spit on the ground before, moving my feet and shoulders, I move forward, without ever letting my guard down. My brother dodges, advancing when I retreat and retreating when I advance,the intensity of the blows exchanged being appeased only by the expectation of what the son of a bitch has to say and doesn't say.
“I'm not feeling particularly patient today, Tizziano,” I say, and he smiles before responding.
“You never are, Don.”
“Then why are you willing to test the patience that you know I don't have?” I move forward, knowing the opening I'm giving myself to be punched in the ribs. The blow comes, but it doesn't stop me. I continue until my brother is pinned against the ropes.
His body, already as sweaty as mine, is panting and completely unprotected, while he keeps his arms raised in front of his face in yet another cautious gesture. The first punch is to his abdomen, the second to his ribs and the third to his chest.
The civilized smile changes, turning into the manic one I became accustomed to when Tizziano and I were still children. With only three years separating our birth dates, I've been dealing with this son of a bitch for a long time, sometimes much longer than I'd like.
In a calculated movement, my brother takes us to the ground, freeing himself from the ropes that restrained him. The minutes are swallowed up by the blows we exchange, until the underboss finally decides to open his mouth.
“The shipment that was supposed to arrive in Texas this morning didn't arrive,” he announces, stepping back and lowering his arms. I paralyze in the middle of the movement, preventing myself from hitting him again, understanding his willingness to speak as the end of our fight.
I move my eyes from side to side aimlessly, racing around my own thoughts, figuring out what to do with this information.
“Why?”
“That's what I'm going to find out. I have a meeting with the secretary of security in—” he raises his wrist and looks at the clock there “—one hour. It was his contacts in the United States who were supposed to ensure the cargo arrived safely.”
“Where was it when we last heard from it?”
“In New Mexico, last night.”
“There’s something fishy about all this,” I say, moving away from the center of the mat and reaching for the towel hanging over the ropes. I dry my face and shoulders before pushing the sweat-damp strands of hair back as my mind loops back and forth over what the disappearance of the cargo might mean.
I lean on the ropes, letting my eyes sweep over the training center, at least thirty men circulate around the large space making use of the training equipment. The TC would easily be mistaken for a gym if it weren't for the painting on the wall facing the door. The cross, the rose and the dagger are printed on the concrete in the same way they are tattooed on the skin of each of the men circulating around the complex, including mine.
That and the underground floors whose training sessions could never be confused with something as common as the activities conducted by a gym. No, it is in there that La Santa forges its men in sweat, fire, and ashes.
