Page 4 of Kiss of the Cartel

"Meet me in the gym," he says shortly and walks swiftly away.

The command to meet Manuel in the gym is not an unusual one. Nights seem to be when he prefers working off some steam, and I'm usually up. I disarm and change into a pair of bike shorts and a tank top. I run down the stairs and down the hall on the main floor, entering the gym first. Over the years I've learned that Manuel despises waiting, so I make sure I'm quick and always ready to go when he is.

I take my place on the mat and wait. Manuel arrives moments later wearing a pair of loose sweatpants and a T-shirt. He kicks his shoes off and stands opposite me. He nods and I take my stance, legs spread, slightly apart, hands up, fists clenched. Manuel will expect full effort; if I hold back, he'll pummel me into the ground. I've learned this the hard way.

Without warning, Manuel launches himself at me, aiming a fist at my head and a sweeping kick toward my knees. I dance backward, blocking the fist with my forearm. Before he can launch another attack, I dance to the side and aim a fist at his side. He absorbs the impact with a grunt but moves quickly away before I can follow my first hit with a second.

We spar for 45 minutes, Manuel taking the brunt of my attacks. Although, when I lose attention for a single second, he does get one solid hit to my chest, throwing me on my back. I move quickly, rolling away from the kick he aims at my ribs. I grip him around the ankles and fling my leg up, wrapping it around his and causing his knees to buckle.

He hits the mat hard beside me. I quickly roll on top of him, sending an elbow into his throat, then pulling his arm between my legs, twisting it into an arm bar. He struggles for a few seconds and then slams his hand into the mat.

I release him immediately, rolling back and up onto my knees. I concentrate on my breathing while watching Manuel. He'll let me know if he wants to keep going. After a moment, when we've both caught our breath, he shakes his head, indicating our sparring session has reached an end. I climb to my feet and offer him a hand.

"You need someone who can match you," Manuel grunts, climbing heavily to his knees. "Not an old man."

I rub the middle of my chest where he managed to connect a solid hit. "You punch pretty hard for an old man."

He smirks. "You wouldn't have stood a chance if we'd done this twenty years ago."

Manuel wouldn't have taken on a woman twenty years ago. I don't say it out loud, but it's the truth. Manuel has told me himself that women are meant for one thing only. The defection of his wife doesn't help his opinion. Though, his views on women seem to have mellowed with age.

"You should spar with Luis." Manuel reaches for his water bottle and chugs half of it in one go. "It would be interesting to see who comes out on top."

I remain silent, quietly waiting for my dismissal. A sparring session between Luis and myself will never happen.

"You don't agree," Manuel says bluntly, reading me as well as he always does when I don't reply to his comments.

I let out a small sigh and shake my head. "Luis doesn't spar with women."

"He would make an exception if I ordered him."

I lift alarmed eyes, silently asking Manuel to drop the idea. If he orders Luis to spar with me, I will get hurt. Luis won't pull his punches, he'll allow his anger to override the point of the exercise and destroy me. Even if I am a match or better than Luis, I won't be able to fight back the way I need to if he comes after me with murderous intent. He is my boss’s son.

"One day you'll have to learn to work with my son. Find a way past his anger and you'll discover a fair and loyal man."

I remain silent, looking down at my feet. Seconds pass, ticking by with painful slowness.

Finally, Manuel releases me. "You may go." Before I reach the door, his soft voice calls out, "Sleep well, Lena."

I frown as I climb the stairs up to my bedroom. Manuel doesn't cross the line with me. Ever. Not even to wish me well, or a good night. His small moment of affection feels strangely significant.

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