The Marvelous Revenge Of Delia Jones

Chapter 6 - Training

 "Make sure you remember your form, because without it, you won't have enough power to throw the knife," Gustav, my personal trainer, says.

It's been a few weeks and I have recovered tremendously. I don't need a wheelchair anymore, and I can walk perfectly fine now. My womb still hurts on occasion, but Dr. Harvey has been helping me through it.

This is my third day of training, and I've learned some hand-to-hand combat and the basics of knife throwing. Gustav says if I keep it up, I'll be a professional in no time.

When I'm not in physical therapy or training I'm with Kathleen. She's Francesco's grandmother and my teacher. She teaches me about the mob and different rival families and the history of the Fentocceski's. And sometimes, if I do good enough, she'll bake cookies and give me the whole batch!

Her baking is the best. Not even a great French-speaking baker can outbest her. I told her she should be a baker, but she told me that ship sailed when she joined the mafia.

"Now draw back your arm," Gustav says guiding my hand past my cheek. "And then spring forward and let go!"

I do as he says, almost hitting the bullseye.

"That's the closest you've been in the past two days!" Gustav says, patting my shoulder.

I go to grab the knife from the target, but Gustav stops me.

"Don't worry about it," he says, "You've worked hard enough, go get a snack before your history lesson."

"Really?!" I ask.

He nods his head. "But tomorrow we start something new."

"Okay," I leave the training area that is located in the basement and walk up the stairs to the main floor. I walk into the kitchen and enter it not surprised to see it full of people.

"I wanted that soup hours ago!" Yells the Chef in his deep French accent. "Ah, Delia," he crosses the kitchen and hugs me. "Did Gustav let you leave early?"

"He did," I say.

"Good thing I just made tiramisu. Come, sit. I'll get you a slice."

I sit down at the little table by the window and take in the bustling kitchen.

It's made of stone walls that seemed as if they were taken from a little cottage and coppery wooden floors that seemed worn down from so many people walking over them. The windows brought in plenty of light, but there were still plenty of lights around the kitchen to fill in every dark corner.

There were two doors on either side of the kitchen. One led out to the dining room and the other led out to a hall which eventually led out to the entrance hall.

The kitchen had plenty of counters and more stoves and ovens than one could count. There was also a pantry in the far back of the kitchen that held all of the produce and food, and somewhere was a large fridge and freezer that held all of the meat and items that needed to stay cold.

The clinking of pots and pans, the voices of the cooks, and the shuffling of their feet could be heard throughout the whole kitchen. Although it wasn't quiet, it was most certainly peaceful.

"Here you are," Chef places down a slice of tiramisu and a spoon. He then sits down in the chair across from me.

"So, how is your training?" He asks.

"It's good," I say taking a bite of the tiramisu. "I got close to the bullseye today."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yeah. How is dinner prep coming along?"

"Eh, those fools are lucky I'm here to watch them, or else Francesco would have their heads on sticks a long time ago."