"Do you miss him?"

The question came so casually from Marco's mouth, like he was asking about the weather. He stood by the edge of the boxing ring with his arms folded and his eyes hidden behind those tinted glasses he always wore, even indoors.

I paused. The gloves on my hands were still heavy from the last punch I threw. Sweat was dripping down the side of my face so I peeled one glove off and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.

"Miss who?" I asked.

Marco tilted his head, almost like he was disappointed in my deflection. "Alex."

I took the water bottle resting on the stool, twisted the cap slowly, then drank in slow, long gulps. I had to give myself time to think.

"If you are trying to pull something out of me, it will not work," I said flatly, then paused.

"Missing someone is not always productive. It's a distraction that adds no value to neither body nor soul. I'd rather direct my thoughts to better things."

He smirked. "Tactical. I respect that."

The ring felt too quiet after that. My muscles were still stiff from the sparring earlier and my thoughts started to do their thing.

It had been a year since I came under Nico's wings. I had not asked for the protection, but I did not know that I had needed it. And in some ways, I had earned it. With every bruise from the intense trainings, every cracked knuckle, every night I spent memorizing routes, codes and different kinds of deadly weapons, I could boldly say that I had paid for the protection that Nico provided me with. However, this was just the training. The real operations were yet to begin.

Marco had taken on the role of teacher and sometimes, father. And Nico? Nico was another mystery entirely.

He had arrived in the city only three years ago, but his name had spread wide and far. No one knew exactly where he came from. Some said Sicily. Others gossipped Venezuela. But wherever he hailed from, he came with plans. A full blown strategy. And a bone-deep hatred for the Morales.

He never told me why. But I had learned enough to piece some things together.

Nico ran his own mafia like a goddamn empire. He killed quickly too but as he had once told me, "I only kill when it is absolutely necessary. That is what makes me different from your friends, the Morales."

Nico believed in order. In restoration. He claimed to want to bring sanity to the madness and chaos that the Morales had created in the city. At least, that was the part of the speech he let me hear.

What he did not say, what he probably never would say, was that his war against the Morales was personal. I could see it in his eyes whenever their name was mentioned.

Marco, on the other hand, was more transparent than Nico. That night, after another intense training session in the ring, he pulled up a stool and sat across from me.

"Do you know why I joined him?"

I looked at him, already sensing the shift in the air.

"Because he pays well?"

He shook his head. "Because I got tired of watching the Morales clean blood off their hands with silk napkins. They’ve buried too many good men and played god with too many lives. Nico… he is not a saint. But he is trying to build something that is not soaked in corruption."

"For many years, while I worked with them, I watched many civilians die. Victor is not going to stop killing people to satiate his greed and expand his empire but we will not also stand by and watch him."

I did not reply. Mostly because I was afraid of what I might say.

He continued, but this time, with me as the subject matter.

"And you? You are not a pawn, Millie. You are a damn queen! I knew it the first day I saw you. Whatever tough life you have experienced so far could not break you. It only stripped off the softness. What is left now is something the world will have to reckon with."

I stared at my bruised knuckles. Marco's words felt like I had been given a new purpose.

"What if I do not want to be anything? What if I am just tired of being a story everyone else wants to write for me?"

Marco’s expression softened. "Then write your own damn ending. But I suggest you start by learning how to throw a better left hook."

We both chuckled. The sound felt strange in my throat. Like something I had forgotten how to do.

The training intensified after that. Day in. Day out. I learned how to break arms, how to shoot with both hands, how to disappear in a crowd and lie with my eyes wide open.

I buried every curious thought about Alex. Every time my heart longed for him, I forced it to harden with more intense training.

And just when I thought I had control, when my scars began to feel like armor instead of shame, Nico showed up in the training room.

He stood at a side of the room, watching silently as I dodged Marco’s punch and countered with a hit that sent him backward.

"She is ready," Marco said to Nico and left us in the room.

Nico launched a fist at me so suddenly but my instincts were alert and I quickly caught his wrist midair.

"That’s enough for today," he said, freeing his hand from my grip.

"It's fine, Nico. I can keep going."

"You will wear yourself out.

"I said I’m fine."

He stepped closer. “Millie, you need to know something.”

I wiped my brow, breath heavy. “What?”

He hesitated, then handed me a sealed brown envelope.

“It arrived this morning. I thought you should see it.”

My heart stuttered.

I took it slowly, fingers trembling.

Inside was a single photo.

It was a recent one and Alex was in it.

Oh my God.

He was in a hospital bed.

Covered in blood.

His eyes were closed.

I have never seen him in such a state.

I looked up at Marco.

His lips were moving but my ears could not hear a word from what he was saying.

The room around me was spinning and my heart beat increased.