Page 68 of Shadows of Steel
Perfect. Precisely as it should be.
My gaze drifts to the watch, confirming it’s still early morning. With a quiet sigh, I push back the covers, running a hand through my tousled hair before slipping out of bed. I move through my morning routine, the motions automatic, before changing into a sports bra and high-waisted leggings.
As I step beyond the confines of my room, the house remains steeped in silence. Soft footsteps whisper against the marble floors as I move through the quiet hallways, the stillness almost sacred at this hour.
Outside, the morning air greets me, cool, invigorating, infused with the delicate fragrance of jasmine and freshly cut grass. The world hums with tranquillity, the gentle rustling ofleaves blending with the crash of waves against the shore, a soothing melody of nature’s design.
I settle onto my mat, easing into my pilates routine, letting my body wake up with each movement. The rhythm is familiar, grounding, but something feels different today. As I glance around, my gaze drifts over the guards stationed around the property. They’re all here, positioned as always, yet there’s a noticeable shift in their stance.
They’re not watching me.
Or rather, they’re purposely avoiding it. Their backs are rigid. Gazes averted. As if looking in my direction would be some kind of offense. A strange feeling coils in my stomach, but I shake it off, forcing myself to refocus. As I sink deeper into the stretch, eyes burn into my skin, searing through the morning calm. Not the ominous, skin prickling kind that sets me on edge. This is different. Familiar.
A gaze I know all too well.
Something I’m used to.
My gaze sweeps toward the house, landing on the large window that overlooks the garden.
And there he stands. Again.
Dante.
His gaze fixed upon me with an intensity that coils a slow shiver down my spine. It has become almost ritualistic, this silent observation, this quiet scrutiny. His expression remains an impenetrable mask, but his gaze is anything but indifferent. It’s heavy. Intentional. I hold his stare for a moment longer before turning away.
After finishing my stretches, I head back inside, stopping in the kitchen to make myself a smoothie. Bianca is already at the counter, humming softly as she prepares something.
“Buongiorno, Mrs. Salvatore,” she greets, her voice warm. “I have your drink ready for you.” She hands me the glass, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Good morning,” I reply, accepting it with gratitude, and offering her a smile in return. “Grazie.”
She inclines her head. “Prego.” As I take my first sip, I catch the knowing look in her eyes.
“The men have been very disciplined today,” she remarks, a glimmer of amusement lacing her tone. “Must be under strict orders.”
My lips curve into a wry smile. “Yeah, I noticed. Any idea why?”
She simply shrugs, though the mischief in her gaze doesn’t go unnoticed. “Perhaps Don Salvatore made his expectations very clear.”
I shake my head, unwilling to push further. Instead, I take another sip. “I’ve been meaning to make use of the gym downstairs but haven’t had the opportunity,” I muse, setting the empty glass down. “I suppose now is as good a time as any, I could certainly use it.”
With that, I make my way toward the door, already anticipating the distraction a workout might bring.
Bianca nods approvingly. “Good. You’ll have it all to yourself.”
As I step inside, the room unfolds before me, spacious and impeccably designed, outfitted with state of the art equipment and sleek, mirrored walls. I begin with strength training, the weight in my hands grounding me, before shifting into a steady rhythm on the cardio machines.
After an hour, sweat drips down my back, my muscles burning in the best way. But before I wrap up, my eyes catch the boxing bag in the corner. I grab a pair of gloves, slipping them on before stepping toward it. The moment my fist collides with thebag, something shifts deep inside me, unravelling the tight coils of tension that have been wound for far too long.
This is exactly what I need.
I miss Enzo’s gym, the familiar scent of leather and sweat, the controlled chaos of bodies moving in perfect rhythm. I miss the sharp crack of gloves against pads, the disciplined repetition of my training, the way I could lose myself in teaching self-defence, showing others how to fight, how to protect themselves, how to never feel powerless. That ache settles somewhere deep, but I push through it. I channel everything into the bag, each punch carrying the weight of my frustration, my stress, the thoughts I refuse to entertain. Strike after strike, my body moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over, the rhythm both punishing and cathartic.
By the time I finally still, my breath is ragged, my pulse thrumming, my skin damp with exertion, but for the first time all morning, my mind is quiet. I peel off the gloves, heading back upstairs for a well needed shower.
The cool water cascades over my skin, soothing the ache in my muscles, washing away the sweat and the lingering tension. By the time I step out, my body feels refreshed. I wrap myself in a plush towel, patting my skin dry before running another through my damp hair. Once within the confines of my walk-in closet, I slip into a delicate floral summer dress, its fitted bodice accentuating my waist before flowing into a soft, billowing skirt. The fabric is weightless, effortlessly elegant, the muted hues of blush and cream evoking quiet luxury. I reach for a wide-brimmed straw hat, sliding it into place. I fasten the delicate straps of my heels, retrieve my bag, and stride toward the door. As I step into the corridor, my gaze drifts toward Mattia’s room.
Pausing briefly, I knock before pushing the door open. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I murmur, amusement lacing my tone. “Feel like going shopping with me today?”
