Manners with the Devil

7

"Is this all you could get for a training room? Have you seen your house?" I ask.

"This isn't the training room, Malady, it's the torture room."

My insides turned a little. What. The. Fuck. 

Why has he taken me here? I feel sick. 

"You may sometimes be in here, to torture others for information." he explains, "This is a key part of the French Mafia. Torturing. And by next week we will have some Italians to interrogate."

Italians. Fuck. 

He expects me to torture people from my home country.

"I'll teach you that when they arrive." he smirks and walks over to the door.

"In here is where we will be spending our hours." He opens the door and I follow inside.

It was so different to the room I was just in. It was bright. Gym equipment everywhere. A gun shooting practise area. And a boxing ring.

I usually would love this sort of place, to let out all my anger, but doing it with his distracting arse doesn't sound the best.

His mouth carries on yappering, "This is your training place, this is where we meet every day. 6am. I'll let you off breaks when you deserve it." 

We walk over to the black punching bags at the side of the room. Easy.

"Put these on" he passes me a pair of black gloves, which were a massive on my hands, but oh well. Can't complain, it smelt of him. 

"Right now yo-" he begins but doesn't finish. 

Please. He doesn't need to teach me how to fucking punch a bag.

Surprise bitch.

I'm in my zone. My head is down, my hands naturally hitting the bag. I'm grunting. I feel on fire.

As I said, my dad taught me to fight when I was little. I don't need training from a French Mafia Man. 

His palms latch onto my wrists and pulls my arms down. 

"Where the fuck did you learn to punch like that?"

"My parents."

"Right, should have known." He mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing." He replies.

I roll my eyes and carry-on punching at the bag. Of course, he knows my father is in the Italian Mafia.

After a couple of minutes, he stops me again.

"What?" 

"Youre going fucking mental, the bag is nearly ripped apart."  

I look at the bag, which is now basically broken.

I gasp. 

"Fuck, sorry." 

"Just get to the weights." he rolls his eyes and points over to the other side of the room.

Straight away, I picked up a 30kg weight. I started to pulse the weights up and down, Sebastien stood there watching me.

"You're a strong woman. Got it off your mo- father."

"My parents taught me to fight."

I carry on pulsing the weights up to my shoulders, starting at myself in the mirror. I looked mentally drained out of alcohol. I really need it right now.

A couple more seconds go by, and Sebastien tells to go on the barbells.

I dropped the weights and followed him to a craft. A barbell was on the floor. He put on 30kg weights on both sides and sets it up on the bar for me to grab.

"Spot me." I say and lift the barbell over my shoulders.

Sebastien comes from behind, grabs my waist for a second, keeping me in position. I spot him smirk.

We glared at each other in the mirrors. Then, I began squatting.

 I felt him through his shorts. Getting hard from this? Really?  

He chuckles and looks away, like he knows what I'm doing. I'm just excising. 

I carry on squatting against him.

"You have beautiful technique, where did you learn it from?"

Why does he keep asking me this darn question?

"My parents."

"Your father?"

"Mhm."

"What about your mother?"

"Her too."