One
The rain was letting up.
The studio door was propped open and, through the gap, Nikki could see the deluge giving way to a mild patter. Wet cobblestones and asphalt glistened, reflecting the flash of headlamps and the red glow of brake lights. She turned back to the room and clapped her hands.
“Alright,” she shouted. “Ten minutes to go. Keep it up! Switch sides.”
The students were sweating. She was sweating. The ventilation in this place was shit.
Five groups of students were taking turns with yellow plastic prop knives, practicing disarming techniques. One woman had given up and, blonde hair plastered to her face, was sitting on the floor, back against the cinder-block wall, sucking air.
This was the fifth Krav Maga self-defense class Nikki had taught in the city center this fall. The turnout was good tonight—a mix of Americans from the nearby US military base and local kids from the Naples neighborhoods. Most were curious and eager to learn, and Nikki usually enjoyed teaching. But language and cultural differences meant the two groups didn’t mingle well and, after two hours, Nikki was worn out from swapping between English and Italian.
Despite the extra effort, these lessons were a welcome distraction. In this classroom, she was in control. She was in her body, nerves and heartbeat and breath—and these students relied on her. She scanned the assorted collection of teenagers and military wives in jeans or gym gear—the slow, awkward movements, the way they spoke the instructions aloud, executed the sequences, the way they fumbled and dropped the plastic weapons. It was unlikely that any one of them would become a martial arts expert. But that wasn’t the point, was it? She needed to give them just a little more awareness, a rehearsal of the shock you felt to have someone stick a knife or a gun in your face, and a sense of being able to move, to help yourself if god forbid that moment ever came.
She was preparing to start the cooldown sequence when the door opened fully, letting in the street noises. Two men strode through. They wore puffer jackets, slick with the rain. A damp breeze wafted in as the door shut behind them, breathing diesel fumes and ozone.
“Motherfucker,” exclaimed the first man, the word reverberating in the small space.
He was muscular with a thick neck and short haircut. He leaned over to slap the water off his head, spackling the floor.
“Keep going,” Nikki shouted to the students, who were slowing, turning to look. She moved to meet the men.
“Can I help you?”
“Buona sera, signora,” said the second man. “What a lovely night for…what is this? Aerobics?”
He was tall and rangy, with wide, bulging eyes and thick eyebrows. His smile was unpleasant.
“Self-defense. I’d invite you to join but we’re nearly finished. We have other classes on the schedule if you’d like to come then. There are flyers by the door.”
She spoke the words in an efficient, clipped manner, hoping it would urge them to leave. But something about them told her that this was more than an innocent escape from the rain.
accustomed to being the shortest person in the room, and relied on a muscular physique and confident bearing to make up the difference. But these men were significantly larger than she, and they drew in, looming over her, a challenge in their posture.
Nikki recognized the type from her years as a bouncer: pack animals, puffing their chests, slamming their heads to assert dominance.
“Self-defense?” snorted the muscular one. “Very important. This isn’t a safe neighborhood, you know?”
“Indeed,” said Nikki, squaring herself to him. “Which is why I need to get back to teaching. The rain has stopped. You should leave now.”
The man with the bulging eyes looked over her head and called out to the group. “We’re in the same business, you know? Self-protection. How much are you paying for these lessons? Sixty? Seventy? We can protect you all for much less.”
His words jarred Nikki, the metallic flavor of adrenaline suddenly in her mouth, pulse accelerating.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Listen,” said the muscular man, pressing in closer and adopting a reasonable, brotherly tone. “We only want to help you stay safe. These are dangerous times.”
“Fifty euros,” said the other one in English, once again to the class. “It’s a good price.”
Rage surged in Nikki’s gut, in her throat, behind her eyes—hot and electric.
“Or what? You’ll do something stupid in front of seventeen witnesses, everyone taking pictures? Get the fuck out of my class.”
She stared unblinking at them, a sort of mania in her fury that she held back with effort.
The muscular man met her gaze for a few beats, then laughed. “Aren’t you adorable? No offense, signora. No offense at all. We’re just here to help.”
“I don’t need your kind of help.”
The rangy man began laughing, too. “We’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said.
They left, and Nikki watched the door swing shut behind them. She fought an instinct to rush forward and turn the bolt; it would only signal fear to those assholes.
Slowly, she turned back to the class.
“Good work,” she said. “Let’s cool down and do some stretching.”
—
Afterwards, as the students left by twos and threes, Nikki gathered her gear, shoved it in a duffel bag, and swung this across her body. She was drained, and ready for bed.
The past few months had been unexpectedly difficult—and Nikki often felt as if she were wading knee-deep through sludge. She prided herself on her resilience, an ability to pick herself up off the mat and come back swinging. But the events this past summer had cost her more than she wanted to admit. She hated the vulnerability, the sense of weakness in body and mind. She wanted something solid to slam with her fists. But there were only shadows, rumors in the dark. She moved ever onward to the next thing, and the next, but couldn’t shake the sense that some terror was breathing down her neck, scraping at her heels. She steadfastly refused to give it attention, yet this only seemed to intensify the dread.
—
pulled down the graffiti-tagged metal grate, and locked that, too. Rent for this place was inexpensive—an arrangement made through a friend of a friend. It had seemed like a good deal at the time, and she liked that it was accessible to the metro so that her students could come from across the city. She’d spent a few evenings tidying it up, scrubbing away some of the grime, and getting a plumber in so that the toilet flushed properly. But Nikki didn’t know the neighborhood well. More important, she didn’t know the neighbors—so there was nobody to keep an eye out, to whisper in the right ears that she was one of them, someone who could slide by without excuse or toll. Being an outsider put her and her students at risk, and she didn’t like it.
She didn’t know exactly what had prompted this impractical urge to start teaching again. She’d instructed the occasional course on the US military base, but that had been easier—requested by the base commander and readily supported by her supervisor, Angelo. This, by contrast, was her own initiative, and it had been difficult to work out with her schedule and duties as a Phoenix Seven liaison officer. Phoenix Seven was staffed by Italian security investigators and served as an interface between the US military and local law enforcement. They worked on shift schedules, and Angelo had seemed particularly unwilling to accommodate Nikki’s new teaching duties.
“Your work should come first,” he told her. “What you decide to do on your own time, and how you manage it is your responsibility.”
He seemed to deliberately plan her shifts during the times she was scheduled to teach. So, she stopped sharing her schedule requests with him. She bartered with the other members of the unit, trading shifts when necessary—more often than not taking the night shifts. She could have predicted Angelo’s obstinacy, but watching it play out, maneuvering around it, was exhausting.
—
The sounds of the city echoed on the stones and storefronts around her, the traffic noises somehow altered and amplified by the clarity of the rain. Rain spattered her face, dripped down her neck.
Nikki was almost to her Honda Hornet when the attack came—a rapid slap of sprinting feet. Before she had time to turn or brace, thick arms lashed suddenly around her from behind, gripping her in a bear hug. His body stank of sweat and cologne, his breath the stale acrid odor of coffee, beer, and cigarettes. He was taller than she, and stronger, and she felt almost like a child, upper arms pinned at her sides. He shook her like a rag doll, lifting her once, twice. Her feet came off the ground. She hammered down a fist, aiming for his groin. Then, gripping his hands with both of hers, secured them away from her chin so he couldn’t maneuver her into a headlock. But he was lifting, dragging her backwards and into the shadows of an alleyway.
No way. No fucking way.
She counted, waited until her feet were both on the ground again. Then, tucking her head to her left shoulder, she shoved her right hip out and, with the same motion, raised her right elbow, creating just enough space to pull herself out of his hold. She’d practiced the maneuver plenty of times in training, but this was different. Her attacker was motivated, and gripped harder, swearing and grunting, as she slithered from his grasp. She’d just gotten free when he caught hold of her bag strap and yanked her inward. The sudden impulse jolted her and she raised her elbow as he brought her into him, aimed it for his throat. But he was tall, and the strike glanced off his chest. And now he grabbed her wrist. She was off-balance. Leaning, she struggled to regain her center as she brought her knee up again and again.
lashed out hard with elbows and knees, then danced backwards, putting distance between them. To her surprise, he didn’t pursue.
Her attacker was frozen, breathing hard, hands raised. He stared at her with bulging eyes, and she recognized him: the rangy man who’d come into the studio tonight. She scanned the street for his companion. He was nowhere to be seen.
For a wild moment, Nikki thought he was surrendering to her. But the truth became evident when she saw the dark shape of a gun pressed to his head, and a low voice growled, “On your knees.”
The bulging-eyed man descended slowly to the hard wet stone, and behind him, Nikki saw the man with the gun more clearly.
He was short and compact, with a neatly trimmed beard and arched nose, his lips in the delicate shape of a crooked cupid’s bow. He held the Beretta with practiced ease, as if it were merely an extension of him. She had seen him only twice before, but knew him immediately.
“Signor De Rosa.”
He didn’t respond, only kept his attention, his gun turned on her attacker. He stepped around the man, facing him.
“You’ve made a poor decision,” said De Rosa to the kneeling man. “Do you know who I am?”
The man nodded, but De Rosa said with slow emphasis, “Use your words. Say who I am.”
“You’re Tito Calandra’s man.”
“Good boy. And do you know who this is?”
He lifted his chin towards Nikki. The man shook his head.
“You are not to touch her,” said De Rosa. “Tell your friends. Tell your friends to tell their friends. Do you understand?”
He nodded again.
“Say you understand,” said De Rosa.
“I understand.”
De Rosa gestured with his gun. “On your feet, and out of my sight.”
And just as rapidly as he had attacked moments ago, the man retreated into the darkness.
—
Nikki felt numb as the rain came down on her, as De Rosa’s eyes fixed on her.
“Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t sure if it was true. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving her sick and trembling. She wanted to scream at De Rosa, to tell him to leave her alone, to tell him that she could fight her own battles. But a hollow space had opened inside, and she stood paralyzed, as if any movement would tip her headlong into it.
Benedetto De Rosa was Tito’s man, a refined contrast to Calandra’s brutal reputation.
“Were you following me?” she demanded.
He stared back for a beat without expression.
“Shall I walk you to your motorcycle?” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Nikki forced her body to move. He kept pace beside her, gun vanishing into his jacket.
At her bike, Nikki shoved her hands into her pockets. They were shaking and she didn’t want to fumble the key—not while De Rosa
was looking.
“I’d prefer you not follow me,” she said.
“I understand,” said De Rosa. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”
She inhaled deeply and looked at him. He took a phone from his pocket, scrolled through the pictures, and held it out. Raindrops beaded on the screen, distorting the image.
“Do you recognize this man?” he asked.
Nikki didn’t look at the screen or take the phone as he so clearly intended. If she cooperated, she would be complicit in whatever Tito was up to. Instead, she stared back at De Rosa.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“If you meet him, or learn anything about him during your investigations,” said De Rosa, “we would consider it a favor if you tell us.”
“By ‘us’ you mean Tito.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t trade in favors,” she said.
He studied her for a beat, then retracted the phone, wiped the rain from the screen with a handkerchief, and pocketed it.
“Not a favor, then,” he said. “Consider it…a civic duty.”
Nikki raised an eyebrow. “You want me to report on a police investigation, and consider this a civic service?”
De Rosa’s expression remained unperturbed. “It’s unlikely the police understand how dangerous he is. They won’t know how to deal with him appropriately. What I’m asking from you…to look…to let me know…it isn’t illegal.”
Nikki clenched her teeth. She didn’t like this burden, this sense of Tito pushing his way into her life. If she agreed to this, if she let him take any portion of her integrity, no matter how small, she risked slipping into his gravity.
He seemed to consider. “You live in a battlefield. Can you really think your ignorance protects you?”
“Whatever it is,” Nikki said, “keep me out of it. I don’t want to be involved.”
He turned and began walking away.
Nikki pulled her key from her pocket. Her hands were still shaking as she put it in the ignition. She took her helmet from the duffel and was about to pull it on when she heard him speak her name.
Benedetto De Rosa had paused in the yellow light of a window.
“You should stop lying to yourself,” he said. “You are involved.” ...
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