Page 8 of Marcello DeLuca

“I know,” I replied softly, my trembling voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let anyone ruin my life. You must trust that, after all that I’ve been through, I will make good decisions and be a good judge of character.”

He looked at me with those familiar, worried eyes. “You are a smart and obedient young lady. I’m proud of your strength and wisdom beyond your age,” he said, his tone gentle but laced with concern. “I just don’t want you to fall for the wrong person because you’re feeling lonely.”

“I… I sometimes feel lonely,” I admitted, my voice faltering. I turned away, my gaze drifting to the ceiling. The truth was, even though I had my uncle in my life, the longing for my family clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t escape. “I miss them every day,” I continued, the words heavy as they left my lips.

He let out a deep sigh, the sound filled with his own sorrow and frustration. “Me too, Safie,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish we could at least contact some of our other family. But if your mother were here, she would know what to tell you in times like this.”

His words pierced through the haze of my thoughts, bringing a fresh wave of pain. The absence of my mother was a void that nothing could fill. I could see the same sadness mirrored in his eyes, a silent understanding that we shared the same heartache. The longing for her voice, her guidance, was a constant ache that never quite went away.

I wrapped my arms around myself, as if trying to hold together the pieces of my shattered world. “Momma always knew what to say,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. The memories of her wisdom and warmth felt like a distant dream, just out of reach.

“Yeah, she did, didn’t she? My sister was a gem.” He stood up and walked around the table to wrap an arm around me. “I wish we could call your grandmother. She is also a master of knowing the right things to say.”

A tear slipped from my eye as I remembered the last hug I gave my grandparents, their warm embrace now a bittersweet memory. Because someone potentially wanted me dead, I had been separated from my entire family.

“I just wish there was more we could do to find out who did this to us,” I lamented, the frustration and helplessness clear in my voice.

Uncle James’s gaze was reassuringly steady. “They will get what’s coming to them one day, Safia,” he said, his voice firm. “But for now, we need to focus on staying safe. That means no unnecessary risks, no getting involved with anyone who could put you in danger.”

Marcello's face flashed through my mind. The person I trusted most in the world thought he was dangerous and warned me to resist this temptation.

Though conflict gnawed at me, I replied, “I understand.” The idea of being careful, of constantly watching my back, had become second nature. “I'll be careful,” I said finally.

Uncle James squeezed my hand gently. “Good,” he said, his tone softening. “Be ready to spar in thirty minutes. It’ll be a good way to direct our sad energy.”

I nodded, appreciating his way of gently steering me back to the present. Sparring had become our routine, a methodical way of gaining mental clarity while building my strength and preparing me for whatever threats might come our way.

Thirty minutes later, I stood in our makeshift sparring room—a spacious area in the basement, outfitted with padded mats, punching bags, and an assortment of training equipment. It was a practical space, devoid of the warmth that characterized the rest of the house we had made into our home.

Uncle James was already there, adjusting his gloves. He looked up as I entered, giving me a nod of encouragement. “Ready?” he asked, his eyes assessing me.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, trying to inject some lightness into my voice. I moved to the center of the room, shaking out my hands and trying to clear my mind.

Once gloved, we began our routine, moving through a series of basic drills—jabs, crosses, kicks. Uncle James was relentless but patient, pushing me to my limits while always keeping a close eye on my form and my stamina. Each strike and block was designed to teach me precision and control, to build the kind of strength that would not only protect me but also fortify my spirit.

“You’re getting faster,” he remarked, stepping back to give me space to practice a series of combinations. “Good. Keep your guard up.”

I focused on his instructions, the rhythm of the movements gradually overtaking the chaos in my mind. The physical exertion was cathartic, a way to channel all the grief and anger into something tangible, something I could control.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Uncle James reminded me, stepping in to correct my stance. His presence was a steadying force, guiding me through each move with the kind of patience that came from deep love and concern.

As we continued, I could feel my muscles burning, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But with every punch and kick, I felt a little bit stronger, a little bit more in control. This room, with its stark walls and simple purpose, had become a sanctuary. Here, under Uncle James’s watchful eye, I was learning not just to defend myself but to reclaim my strength and confidence, piece by piece.

Eventually, we paused, both of us panting and glistening with sweat. Uncle James looked at me with a proud but weary smile. “You’re getting stronger, Safia. Every day.”

I nodded, too out of breath to speak.

“Let’s call it for today,” Uncle James said, offering me a towel. “You did good. We’ll keep working on this, keep building your strength. The goal is for you to be able to defend yourself if someone ever attacks you.”

I took the towel, wiping the sweat from my face. “Thanks, Uncle James. For everything.”

He just nodded, his eyes softening. “Go rest. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

As I walked back upstairs, my muscles aching and my heart still heavy, I couldn’t help but think of how my uncle was teaching me to defend myself when I really wanted to go on the hunt and attack whoever hurt my family.

As I lay in bed that night, rehearsing lines of Romeo and Juliet to bring a sense of calm to my mind, an image of Marcello’s handsome face fought its way into my thoughts. I owed it to my uncle to honor his wishes and stay away from Marcello.

I really hoped I had enough restraint to do it.

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