Alpha Incorporated

II - iii TO SIN IN LOVING VIRTUE

Angelo picks up the towel next to him and wipes his brow. It is wet with his sweat, and slides greasily across his forehead. He throws the towel on the floor next to him and lies back down on the bench. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and reaches up to the bar, the grip glistening with perspiration. He likes the feel of the cold, wet bar on his hands. He clenches, grimaces, grunts, and with a squeeze of his core, presses the barbell towards the ceiling, the weights on the end of the bar teetering, then coming to balance on his outstretched arms. He lowers the barbell to rest on the supports, and exhales.

He wonders how much of the perspiration on the towel came from his workout and how much was from a nervous sweat, caused by the email from Isabella. His usual Sunday evening weight training, something that he values and treasures as his sacred time, was interrupted by her. He would not normally let business intrude with his workout, but Meghan had let him know that the girl from the theatre stage would be contacting him about something important. Angelo had already had security look into her, so he knew, before the email train started, what she was hoping to achieve. In his mind, it was worth interrupting his workout routine. Now, his chest presses are easier, his vigor renewed.

As Angelo moves to the free weights, he reaches for his phone. He can't help but checking to see if she sent another message. Though, really, he knows she won't. Still, it is worth looking. He scrolls through their conversation, rereading their discourse. He is amazed that she dared approach him this way at all, dared to challenge his authority, question his judgement. Maybe that is why he feels intrigued by her, because she is a girl who needs to learn her place. But there is more to it than that, he knows. There is something about her innocence that he finds attractive.

Returning to his workout, Angelo straddles the bench and begins his bicep curls. He looks ahead, into the mirror of his gym and watches the muscles in his arms ripple, contacting with each upward thrust of the weight. He likes what he sees: a man at the peak of his physical condition, a perfectly toned physique. A strong body, a strong will, a strong mind—they are all connected. His rise to power didn't come from being weak. You can't lead if you are not strong. He needs to stay strong. These are the mantras he repeats in his mind with each arm curl.

When Angelo was a child, he remembers, he had to learn to fight. There was no big brother to protect him from the packs of older kids who roamed the streets behind PS 152, looking to intimidate, then initiate. His neighborhood in Brooklyn was an asphalt wilderness where rival gangs fought for control of the streets. Thanks to his mother, Angelo looked Italian enough that after he was roughed up by the Ginos, he fell under their protection. But only for a while. His father, Angelo believed, was of Austrian descent, but he was never told much about him. His mother left that part of the story to his imagination, but Angelo doesn't see the point of using his imagination to create things he can't change. But he can bulk up, learn to fight, direct his anger to instil fear in his enemies, change his name. And he did, dropping the Italian surname that connected him to the old neighbourhood, when he wrote his first LSAT test, as Angelo Lord.

Angelo watches his biceps bulge and his tight pectoral muscles squeeze with each lift of the barbell. He likes to work out without a shirt. It is not so much that he enjoys the sight of his body, but, to him, it is testimony to his hard work. He can see the results of his discipline with each rep and each new exercise. His dark, Mediterranean skin accentuates the toning of his flesh, and he is pleased.

He glances over again to his phone, hoping to see a message notification flashing, and is not pleased. How is it that this girl can take control of his thoughts like this? He is strong, he is in control, yet, he can't stop himself from interrupting his workout to look at his phone. That isn't like him. Focus, he needs to focus. He quickly drops the barbell, dives to the floor and begins a rapid series of pushups. As fast as he can. Until he can go no longer. It is his penance, his contrition.

He focuses on the count, shouting out every tenth push up, like he did when he trained with the Navy Seals. It isn't that Angelo was ever in the military, but he does admire the value of military training and discipline. That is why his only vacation from work each year is to attend the Seal's boot camp, a high intensity program designed to push participants, mainly elite athletes and a few entrepreneurs, to what they previously believed to be their physical and psychological limit, then reprogram them to ignore pain, grief and empathy. As Angelo shouts "seventy", he accepts that he is due for another week of boot camp soon. He can't even focus on his training without thinking of her.

He is lying prone on the floor, panting and recovering, trying to understand his attraction for her:

What is it about her that is so captivating? 

Is it her innocence? 

She seems so pure, so young. Can it be her modesty that is so tempting? 

Yet, she didn't tempt, not intentionally at least, and even if she did, then is it her fault?

Who sins the most, the tempter or the tempted? 

What does it mean when all that matters is the desire to hear her speak, to meet with her?

Sure, bait a hook with a saint to catch a saint. Is it dangerous when it is temptation that stimulates us to sin, while we tell ourselves that it is loving virtue?

Is it love? 

"Shit," he says out loud as he sits up. He reaches for his phone and reads the email train again.