Cruel Paradise - A Mafia Romance Chapter 63

“Well, now, you don’t have to worry anymore. If your father causes problems, Kirill is right outside.

He’ll make sure your sisters are safe.”

“And Aunt Emma? When she gets home?”

“Of course. Aunt Emma, too.”

He flops back against the seat and, for the first time since he got into the car, he leaves his seat belt alone. “Okay.” Then he spares me a shy sideways look. “How did you know?”

I smile. “Because that’s how I would have felt in your place. You need to know that your people are safe. It’s the hallmark of a good leader.” He sits up a little straighter and I can’t help adding, “It’s the hallmark of a good man, too.”

We spend the rest of the drive in companionable silence. It’s amusing to me that at no point has Josh asked where we’re going or what we’re going to do. It’s only when Boris parks outside the sleek Midtown gym that Josh starts asking questions.

“This is a gym?”

I chuckle at the confused expression on his face. “Something like that. Come on.”

Josh follows me into the locker rooms. Some of the other patrons gawk at the sight of this gangly young boy in their midst, but when they see who he’s with, they decide to mind their own fucking business. Good call.

We find an empty nook and I push a package into his hands. “What’s this?” he asks tentatively, toying with the edge of the plain brown paper wrapping.

“Only one way to find out.”

He sets the package down carefully on one of the benches and frees the tucked-in flap. When he pulls out the crisp new pair of boxing gloves, his face transforms from confusion to elation.

I grin and wink. “It’s time we got some of that pent-up frustration off those little shoulders.”

His face scrunches up instantly. “My shoulders aren’t little!”

Laughing, I pat him on the back. “They are compared to what they will be soon. Go on then—try them on.”

He scurries into them and I help him lace them to proper tightness. I hold up my hands so he can give my palms a few exploratory jabs. “Ready?” I ask him.

He nods fervently, eyes gleaming bright. “Ready.”

We make our way towards the punching bags in the far corner of the gym. I coach him into a stance— knees bent, elbows tucked, fists guarding either side of his face. He listens attentively, his gaze following my every movement.

“It should look like this,” I explain. I drop into my own crouch, then unleash a right hook into the heavy bag.

The chains clack and groan, the leather pops, and a thin shower of dust descends from the ceiling tiles above. Josh’s jaw drops to the mats at our feet.

“Whoa!”

Laughing, I give his arm a mock punch. “You’ll be able to do that one day.”

“Soon?”

I shrug. “Depends on how committed you are. Come on—let’s see what you’ve got.”

Josh gulps and staggers a couple of steps back. “No… I don’t think I can do it.” His gaze veers around the rest of the gym. No one else is watching, but by the fear in his eyes, you’d think he was on stage in front of thousands of critics.

I squat down in front of him. “Josh, look at me. You can’t be perfect on the first try.” My vision blurs for a moment and I hear those words again, but it’s not my voice that says them.

It’s his.

Leonid’s.

Something twists in my chest. I’m so used to experiencing that throbbing burst of pain that this different kind of simmering ache takes me off guard. Thinking about my dead brother isn’t quite as painful as it used to be and I have no fucking clue why.

Focus, idiot.

“There’s a learning curve, Josh. We’ve all been through it. Even me. Hell, especially me.”

He chews at his bottom lip. “But… what if I suck?”

“If you suck—which I very much doubt you will—then fine, you suck. But if you do suck, you will be confronted with a choice: you can continue to suck or you can get better. And if you choose the latter, then that’s exactly what will happen. But you can trust me on this: you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t try first.”

I can actually see the resolve settle into Josh’s clenched jaw. He nods curtly and straightens up. “I’m ready.”

I pat him on the back. “Brave man.”

I teach Josh the same way that Leonid taught me. Silently encouraging, unfailingly patient, ridiculously determined. For me, boxing has never been about releasing suppressed aggression. Well, never just about that.

It is about finding your own power. It is about owning that power.

Josh boxes like an eight-year-old boy who’s mad at the world. That is to be expected. But as we approach the end of the hour, I can see the beginnings of something resembling skill in the force of those tired punches. Control.

He looks drained when we get back into the SUV dripping with sweat, but there’s a newfound confidence in his step. He doesn’t fidget and he doesn’t avoid my gaze.

“I’d say we’ve earned some ice cream, wouldn’t you?”

Josh hesitates. “Can we take some back for Aunt Emma and the girls?”

“Of course.”

Only then does he nod his approval.

On our drive to the creamery, I try to figure out this strange feeling spreading over my chest. I keep going back to the picture Emma sent me of her and the kids eating ice cream. The smile on her face, the happiness in her eyes—they both felt foreign to me at the time. I was an outsider, looking in.

But now?

Now, I think about Emma’s joyful smile and it hits me—I feel the way she looks in that picture. I’ve stolen a little slice of her world for myself and it’s forced me to remember what mine once revolved around.

Before I was pahkan.

Before I was grieving.

Before I thought building barriers to keep people out was the only way to live.