The Mafia's Mistress

Blades and Barrels

Bella's heart was still racing from the encounter with Vincent Leoni. His grip on her wrist, the flash of violence in his eyes, the taste of victory as her fist connected with his jaw—these moments lingered, leaving her adrenaline pumping long after the deal had been completed. She had held her own that night, but the message was clear: this world demanded more than just confidence and quick reflexes. She needed to become lethal.

The next morning, Bella found herself back at the private gym where Rocco waited for her. She had been training with him for weeks now, sharpening her hand-to-hand combat skills, but today, there was a new intensity in the air. Luca had given her a new task—one that required more than just fists.

"Today, we're moving past the basics," Rocco said, tossing a duffel bag onto the gym floor. It hit the ground with a metallic thud. "If you're going to survive in Luca's world, you need to learn how to use these."

Bella's eyes narrowed as she watched him unzip the bag. Inside, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, were knives and guns of various sizes. The sight of the weapons sent a jolt of both excitement and fear through her. She had never handled anything like this before, but deep down, she knew it was inevitable.

Rocco pulled out a sleek, black knife with a serrated edge, twirling it in his fingers as if it were an extension of his hand. "The knife is an intimate weapon," he said, his voice low and serious. "Up close and personal. If someone gets within arm's reach, you need to be able to end them before they end you."

Bella took a deep breath, her fingers itching to hold the blade. Rocco handed it to her without hesitation, the cold steel heavy in her palm. She turned it over, feeling the balance, the sharpness of the edge. It felt foreign, dangerous, but also... powerful.

Rocco stood behind her, his large frame looming as he guided her grip on the knife. "First thing you need to know: control. Don't swing wildly. A knife is about precision." He moved her hand in slow, deliberate motions. "You aim for weak points—throat, stomach, kidneys. You get in, strike fast, and get out."

Bella nodded, absorbing his every word. She felt the weight of the knife differently now, knowing it wasn't just a tool but an extension of her survival.

"Now," Rocco said, stepping back. "Let's see how you handle it."

For the next hour, Bella worked with Rocco, learning how to wield the blade with both speed and precision. He set up targets—human-shaped mannequins with vital areas marked—and Bella struck them again and again, honing her accuracy. She learned how to block an attack, how to disarm an opponent, and how to defend herself in close-quarters combat.

At first, her movements were stiff, awkward. But as Rocco drilled her, the knife began to feel like an extension of her arm. With every strike, every slash, she could feel herself gaining confidence. She wasn't just reacting anymore—she was anticipating.

After the grueling knife training, Rocco stood back, watching her with a critical eye. "You're a quick learner, Bella. But knives aren't always going to be enough. Sometimes, you need to reach out and touch someone from a distance."

He walked over to the duffel bag and pulled out a sleek, matte-black handgun. It was compact but deadly, its design elegant in a way that made Bella uneasy. Guns were different. They were cold, impersonal. But she knew there was no avoiding them in Luca's world.

Rocco handed her the gun, his eyes never leaving hers. "This isn't like a knife. You don't get the luxury of hesitation. When you pull this trigger, someone dies. Make sure you're ready for that."

Bella's grip tightened on the gun as his words sank in. This wasn't just about power or survival. It was about crossing a line she could never uncross. But she had made her choice the moment she had walked into Luca's life, and she wasn't going to turn back now.

Rocco led her over to a shooting range set up at the back of the gym, complete with paper targets shaped like human silhouettes. He spent the next hour teaching her the fundamentals—how to hold the gun properly, how to aim, how to control her breathing and steady her hand before pulling the trigger.

"Grip it firmly, but don't tense up too much," Rocco instructed. "If you're too stiff, your aim will be off. And remember, your eyes are just as important as your hands. You focus on the target. Don't think about anything else."

Bella nodded, aligning her stance with the target. Her heart pounded in her chest as she raised the gun, her finger hovering over the trigger. The weight of the weapon felt strange in her hand, but she steadied herself, breathing deeply.

"Now," Rocco said, his voice calm and measured. "Squeeze, don't pull."

Bella exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked in her hand, sending a sharp crack through the air. She flinched, but kept her grip steady. The bullet tore through the paper target, hitting the shoulder instead of the center.

"Not bad for a first shot," Rocco said with a nod, but there was no smile on his face. "But in a real fight, that's a miss."

Bella gritted her teeth, determined to do better. She reset her stance, focused her breathing, and tried again. Each shot was an improvement—slightly closer to the center, slightly more controlled. The gun's recoil became more manageable with each pull of the trigger, and soon she was landing shots within the vital zones of the targets.

Rocco watched her, his arms crossed as he nodded in approval. "Good. Now, let's see how you handle moving targets."

He pressed a button on the wall, and the targets began to shift, sliding back and forth across the range. Bella adjusted quickly, her instincts kicking in as she tracked the movement, her finger steady on the trigger. This time, the shots were harder—hitting a moving target wasn't easy—but she adapted, her muscles reacting faster than her mind could process.

By the end of the session, Bella was drenched in sweat, her hands aching from the force of the gun's recoil. But she felt stronger. Rocco had drilled her not only in technique but in mindset. Using a knife was intimate, deadly in close quarters. A gun was cold and detached, requiring precision at a distance.

As she packed up, Rocco approached her, his face serious. "You've come a long way, Bella. But remember, these are tools. Weapons don't make you strong—knowing how to use them does. And more importantly, knowing when not to use them."

Bella nodded, the weight of his words settling over her. She had learned to fight, to kill if necessary, but she wasn't reckless. She wasn't Luca or Vincent. She had to navigate this world carefully, with her own code.

"I'm ready," she said quietly, meeting Rocco's gaze. There was no hesitation in her voice.

Rocco studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Good. Because this won't be theoretical for long."

Bella swallowed hard, but didn't flinch. She knew what he meant. The real test wasn't just about her skill with knives or guns—it was about surviving the war that was brewing between Luca and Vincent. And she had no doubt she'd be on the front line when the time came.

As she left the gym that night, the weight of the knife at her side and the gun tucked into her jacket felt strangely comforting. She wasn't just a pawn in Luca's world anymore. She was becoming something else. Someone else.

Someone who could protect herself—and those she cared about.