Page 127 of Auctioned Innocence
“Marco,” Dante starts.
“Don’t.” My brother’s voice is pure ice. “Just…don’t.”
I step between them, not missing how both men tense. “If you’re going to hit someone, hit me. I started this.”
“Did you?” Marco’s laugh is harsh. “Because from where I’m standing, my best friend—the man I trusted to protect my little sister—took advantage?—”
“Don’t you dare.” My voice drops dangerously. “Don’t you dare make this cheap and tawdry. Dante has never taken advantage of me.”
“You’re twenty-two!” Marco says loudly.
“I stopped being a child a long time ago!” The words explode out of me. “How about when I tricked Matteo DeLuca when I busted Elena out of the hospital? How about when I helped take down Anthony Calabrese? When I broke into his financial systems to help save Elena and Stella! When I learned exactly how dark our world really is and decided I wanted to be part of the solution instead of hiding from it!”
Marco flinches. “That was different?—”
“Was it? Because I sure as hell remember you being proud then. Proud of how I helped save them. Proud of my skills.” I gesture at the dead men around us. “Or is it only okay for me to be dangerous when I’m doing it foryou?”
Marco’s face crumples. “Sofia?—”
“Test me.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You taught me to fight. You and Dante both.” I move to the center of the room, stepping over spent shell casings, assuming the stance he drilled into me countless times. “So test me. See what I’ve become.”
For a moment, I think he’ll agree. Then Marco shakes his head. “I’m not fighting my little sister to prove some point about?—”
“There it is.” I drop my stance, hands on my hips. “Little sister. That’s all you see, isn’t it? Even standing here surrounded by men I killed to protect myself and Dante.”
“Sofia—”
“What are you so afraid of, Marco? That you might actually have to acknowledge I’m not a child anymore?” I step closer, my voice turning sharp. “Or are you scared you might lose?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. “That’s not?—”
“Prove it then.” I circle him slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. “Unless the great Marco Renaldi is too scared to fight a twenty-two-year-old girl.”
“Stop,” he snaps.
“Why? Afraid I might embarrass you in front of your best friend?” I can see the anger building in his eyes, exactly what I need. “Afraid Dante might see that his precious mentor couldn’t even?—”
“Enough!” Marco’s control finally snaps, and he moves.
He’s stronger, more experienced, and his reach is longer than mine. But I’m faster. Unpredictable. I slip his first jab, counter with an elbow strike that he barely blocks. He grunts, surprised by the force behind it.
I use everything Dante taught me—the dirty moves, the psychological warfare, the way to turn an opponent’s strength against them.
“Remember when you used to let me win at sparring?” I taunt as I circle him. “When you’d pull your punches because you thought I was too fragile?”
The words hit their mark. Marco’s face flashes with guilt, and I exploit the hesitation. When he throws a hook, I don’t just dodge; I catch his wrist, use his momentum to spin him around, drive my knee toward his ribs.
“You’re still holding back,” I hiss in his ear as he blocks. “Just like you held back the truth about what this life really costs.”
He pivots, triying to grab me in a hold that would have worked on the little girl he remembers. But I’m not her anymore. I drop low, sweep his legs?—
His elbow catches me across the jaw as I come up, a sharp crack that sends stars exploding across my vision. The blow sends me staggering backward, tasting blood. Dante yells something I can’t hear.
“Sofia!” The horror in Marco’s voice is immediate, his hands already reaching for me. “Christ, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
