Page 4 of Shadows of Steel
The gym where I work lies just ahead, discreetly tucked away from the relentless pulse of the main streets. I stumbled upon it three months ago while searching for a place to train, whether out of necessity or sheer desperation, I’m still uncertain.
Enzo, the owner, must have seen something in me that day. Perhaps he glimpsed the fractures I pretend don’t exist. Or the quiet desolation of someone clinging to anything that might keep them from being consumed entirely.
Because without this, I would be left alone with my thoughts.
And that is a battle I am not certain I would win.
Inside the gym, the scent of eucalyptus and polished wood greets me, a stark contrast to the disorder of the world outside. This place has become a kind of refuge—thin, fragile, always on the verge of splintering.
Because dark thoughts don’t disappear.
They wait.
Patient as a predator.
Andrea mans the front desk, lean and sharp-jawed, his five o’clock shadow a permanent fixture. He glances up as I walk in, a slow grin pulling at his lips.
“Late again, Hart. That’s three times this week,” he remarks, his voice an easy mix of amusement and feigned reprimand. “What is it, moonlighting as an assassin these days?” He smirks, exaggerating my borrowed last name.
“Perhaps.” My own smirk is slow. “And if I were, you’d be the first on my list for asking stupid questions.”
Andrea leans back, crossing his arms with a grin that almost hides his unease.
“All talk. I’d wager I could outrun you before you even raised a fist.”
My smirk sharpens, turns colder. “Outrun? Maybe. Outlive? Unlikely.”
His chuckle is lower now, edged with uncertainty, as though he’s not entirely sure whether I’m joking. “See, it’s the subtle threats like that which keep me sharp. You’re the ray of sunshine in this place, Hart.”
I arch a brow, plucking the clipboard from the counter. “Keep talking, Andrea. Sunshine burns.”
His laugh follows me, light but tinged with appreciation.
“And that’s why we love you. Nothing but warmth and cheer.”
Chapter 2
Harlow
The locker room is steeped in silence, broken only by the faint hum of distant music threading through the walls, an unwelcome reminder of the world outside. I move to my usual corner, as I set my bag down on the bench. Slipping off my silk blouse, my movements falter slightly as the familiar weight of the gun pressed against my side. It anchors me.
My constant companion.
My reassurance in a chaotic world.
It wasn’t always like this. Once, I didn’t feel the need to carry a gun everywhere I went. But some events, moments I’d rather not relive, changed that. Trouble seems to find me, uninvited, like a bad omen I can’t shake, leaving me no choice but to protect myself.
With care, I remove it, the cold metal biting into my palm as though reluctant to part from me. I place it inside the locker, my fingers lingering longer than they should. Without it, I feel the first prickle of vulnerability, like an itch just beneath my skin I can’t scratch. Unarmed, there’s a rawness I despise, a quiet hum of unease.
The gun is safety, and safety is a luxury I’ve learned not to trust.
I strip away the remnants of my armour, changing into black leggings that cling to my legs like a shadow and a white top that feels almost too clean, too bright against the darkness I carry. My hair, jet black and impossibly sleek, is gathered into a high ponytail with a single fluid motion, the strands whipping against my neck before settling in a straight line down my back. I tie my sneakers next. Exhaling sharply, I slam the locker shut with enough force to make the sound reverberate through the quiet room. I roll my shoulders, shaking off the tension that lingers, and step out of the dressing room.
The chaos of the gym floor rushes in to greet me, the noise of movement and voices colliding like waves, drowning the silence I left behind. Here, the buzz of activity offers distraction, if not solace.
As I step onto the gym floor, my eyes are immediately drawn to Enzo Ricci, effortlessly commanding the space with his quiet intensity. His tall, muscular frame moves with grace, every step and gesture exuding control. Tattoos snake across his olive toned arms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his black tank, while his sharp hazel eyes, flecked with gold, carry an edge that seems to cut through the air around him. His dark hair is tied back into a man bun, a few strands rebelliously framing his rugged, angular features.
Enzo Ricci isn’t just any gym owner, he’s one of the sons of Giovanni Ricci, a Sicilian Don whose name carries weight like a storm cloud over Italy. Enzo works alongside his family, deeply embedded in their world, but this gym is his escape, or so I’ve gathered from my time spent here. A professional boxer by trade, he’s not just known for his clean victories but also for his reputation in the underground scene. Illegal boxing matches, brutal and unrelenting, are where he thrives, and he’s one of the best, a fighter whose name alone makes men fear.
