For as long as I could remember, the training arena of the Marcello estate had been my place of comfort. A place more home than home itself. Maybe it was the lingering scents of sweat and leather, softening the crisp fall air into almost summer comfort.
Maybe it was that, surrounded by an arsenal of weapons I’d mastered long ago, this was the one place I felt safe.
Right now, perhaps, it was because I stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, watching my son work the bag with the dedicated focus of a true warrior.
Eli was nine years old, but he seemed so much older. That much was no mystery; this life aged you. Forced you to grow up and be a man, sometimes far faster than you wanted.
Might have made me sad. But the way his small fists, wrapped tightly in cloth, pattered the bag
