Page 79 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 39

Malia

I'm exhausted, physically and mentally. I can honestly say that these past few days have been the most challenging ones of my life.

But they've also been the most interesting, the most intense, the most exciting.

Nate didn't lie when he said that my training would reach a whole new level from now on. While the shooting practice at the safe house was nerve-racking and intimidating on its own, it is now joined by combat training that scares me as much as it fills me with confidence. He started with defensive moves, insisting they'd be the only ones I may potentially need to know. The thought of being attacked by one of the mafia fills me with deep-seeded terror, but at the same time, it's oddly reassuring that I may now be able to defend myself against them. That eye blink of confidence is fueled by the knowledge that Nate is not going easy on me. He was careful at first, displaying worry on his face every time I stumbled, yelled out, or held up my arms in fear when he simulated an attack on me. But it only made him pause when we first started – his assaults grew more violent and more real the longer we practiced.

He keeps assuring me that it's unlikely that I will actually be involved in any kind of physical fight, but he wants me to be ready in case something does go wrong. I try not to think about the what-if-scenarios, because every time I do, my chest tightens with the realization that I'm not cut out for this. None of this was ever meant to happen, and nothing I have experienced up until the kidnapping has prepared me in the slightest.

Next to the physical training, Nate also took it upon himself to finally let me in on all of the details that I've been craving to know about for so long. He tells me more about the Scivola family, about the men who I am most likely going to meet, about their ways and habits, and about their strengths and weaknesses. As it turns out, the Covey has been studying and researching these men for a long time, gathering as much intelligence as possible about them, despite only meeting them face to face on rare occasions. Once Lailah received her diagnosis and it became clear that she wouldn't be able to do what the Covey needed her to do, they reduced contact with the Scivolas, locking Lailah away for no one to see and only showing their faces in Rhode Island when they absolutely had to. I don't know what exactly it is that ties the Covey's work with the Scivola family, but apparently it involves the occasional dropping of a valuable package or sensitive information that cannot be delivered by any means beside personally, because it would make it too traceable and vulnerable to interception.

"The less you know about all of that, the better," Nate kept insisting every time I tried to gain a better understanding of these things. And he's probably right. If I manage to come out of this alive and am able to return to my old life, it's very likely that I'll be questioned by the police intensively. I've always been a bad liar, and I'm sure they could easily milk me for information about the Covey and the local mafia they've been trying to obtain for years. And the more I know, the more danger I'll be in when it comes to both of these crime syndicates—it will put a target on my back that I'd rather avoid.

"You don't need to know about the Scivola family's business, but you do need to know about them, about their habits, their preferences, and their everyday life," Nate says.

We're sitting in the backyard of the mansion, the warm afternoon sun kissing the skin on my cheeks as I bring a cup of tea up to my lips. It has been another long day that started with combat exercises in the morning and a lengthy repetition and lesson about the Scivola men and the home I will be escorted to in just a few days. It still seems surreal to me, and when Nate talked about them, it felt like he was summarizing a Netflix show, or as if he was talking about the characters of a thriller novel he just read. I can't wrap my head around the fact that these are actual people, dangerous people, criminals. Criminals who I will have to face, betray, and eventually kill, pretty much all on my own.

I can't think about it too much.

I don't want to think about it.

"A glass carafe with a thick lid, placed on top of the bar table, at the far end of the living room, next to a smaller one in the seating area with black leather furniture," I repeat the details like a mantra. "Luca serves the whisky to his men every evening, including to Flavio. It's always served after dinner, and with no women around. My only chance to mess with the drinks is right before dinner when everyone's focus is somewhere else, away from that room."

Nate nods as I speak, taking a sip from his own cup of tea, as his gaze trails off to the horizon where the colors are starting to change, announcing the impending sunset.

"You know a lot more about them than they know about you," he says. "That puts you at a great advantage, despite your limitations."

I can feel a knot forming in my throat at his last words, suddenly feeling just as small and weak as I did when I first woke up in that dark and moldy room. I value honesty, but I still don't like it when he keeps reminding me of how dangerous and improbable this whole endeavor will be for me to accomplish successfully.

We sit in silence for a few moments, curled up on a cushioned bench next to each other. He draped a blanket around me without saying a word, gently tucking it in almost affectionately, yet evading my eyes when I looked at him. We have been sleeping in the same bed ever since we got here, ending every day with passionate sex, a ritual that seems to wash over us without us ever actively deciding to proceed this way. We don't speak much once the door is closed behind us, but just launch at each other with a need that seems desperate, us pulled closer like magnets—and never letting go of one another until morning.

These nights have become my greatest solace. His arms have become the one place where I feel truly safe and calm, where I get to rest and rebuild myself after the massive shock that this abduction has sent through my system.

An abduction that was orchestrated by him.

"What's wrong?" I hear him ask.

I didn't even notice that my head was shaking as I chased down that confusing stream of thoughts.

"Nothing," I lie, throwing him a short smile. "I'm just… tired."

His gaze rests on me for a moment, questioning what I'm hiding from him.

"We're done for today," he says, placing his hand on my upper thigh and squeezing it. The gesture is intimate and affectionate, as if we've known each other for a very long time.

Yet, the truth is that we barely know each other. He doesn't know anything about me, and he has only shared bits and pieces of his story with me—a story that's so different than my own. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'm intrigued to know more. There are questions waiting to be asked, and every time an answer reveals itself, it rarely satisfies me, instead multiplying the urge to know more.

But it's my fear that's the worst. The fear to ask, the fear to know more about him.

What if I don't like what he tells me? What if it destroys everything that I'm starting to feel for him? What if it robs me of this newfound comfort, security, confidence? What if it kills the trust I've started to develop toward him?

But what's even worse? What if it has the opposite effect on me?

What if I like what he tells me? What if it only makes me feel even closer to him?

What if I start falling in love?

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