Eros: A Game Of Wits (A Mafia Novel)

36. Anonymous Tricksters

His fist battered the punching bag, the loud sound of the two connecting emanated throughout the entire room. Didn't let that stop him from doing it again, not caring there was now a dip in the bag from the force. He punched, then kicked. Punched, kicked... again and again. His feet moved back and forth with ease, the pressure lifting from his one foot and returning to the other in a rhythmic fighting bounce.

His breathing became ragged, panting as he whirled around the training bag, brown eyes determined to tear the boxing equipment apart from its hanging place.

A groan left the slugger's lips as he recoiled his shoulder, gathering strength before thrusting his fist forward again. The bag was thrown up high from the force and he kicked it away with the ball of his foot. He looked at his target satisfied with his work, catching a drop of sweat on his forehead with his wrist.

Suddenly, hearing idle but very loud clapping the man, bored, yet determined turned around to see an indistinct figure approach from the shadows. His alarm diminished fast when he noticed the familiar tattoos on the person's hands illuminate in the darkness.

He grunted, turning his focus on his training again. "Adam," he acknowledged starting his pummeling session again, slower and more strategically this time. His fists connected with a rhythm.

Adam smirked. He approached a small table on the side where they kept all tools for their physically demanding workout. He began bandaging his knuckles, when, turning sideways he said, "is it just me or are you frustrated about something, big brother?" It was almost three in the morning after all.

Tristan stopped, glancing at him and brushing his fingers through his hair. "What makes you say that?" his dark eyes squinted at his lifeless yet heavy 'opponent'.

"You don't frequent this place in the middle of the night," he said bluntly.

"Neither do you." The man gave his brother a once-over, continuing to bounce on the ball of his feet.

"Hmm..."

Tristan noticed him stare at the ceiling, noting his absence with arms crossed. He wanted to say something so as a decent brother, he waited, until, suddenly, Adam snapped his head down, smacking his lips. "We're close," he said simply.

"Meaning..." the older Mafioso raised an eyebrow.

The tattooed fellow mirrored his image. "Claiming all that Jason owns, of course. Isn't that what we've been all about lately?"

Tristan grunted, completely unfazed by the remark, fixating at his training target in front of him. "I wouldn't be too sure about that. That brat has many aces up his amateur sleeve. A good team too." His jaw clenched, gazing at the ground. "But I admit we've been far more inept than him so far. I think father has also been quite tactless lately. And... I don't trust that cretin that supposedly sold out the brat."

Adam steadied his elbow on Tristan's equipment, getting a better look of him. He knew exactly who he was referring to. "Since when do we trust anyone but the family, huh?"

The older Mafioso 'hmph-ed' at him. "That bastard of a cop is only loyal out of fear, by the way. Fear for his family, fear for his chair." He pressed his lips, rubbing his chin in thought, turning to the side. "Marcus, on the other hand..." his pause expressed ambivalence. "He's not here because he's afraid," he said shaking his head. He lowered his gaze for a mere second before facing the younger man. His teeth could be seen gritting.

"I presume you have a substantial line of reasoning then?"

Tristan shook his head. "I don't have any. Only suspicions. Suspicions I cannot yet confirm, not unless he has a slip-up." He let go of a soft huff. This obscurity was killing him. "I suppose my mistrust is connected to his philosophical speeches every time he opens his mouth." He said matter-of-factly, curling his upper lip. "It seems off-putting to me."