The sun dipped lower over the huge mansion, painting the trees gold and shadowing the worn stones of the deep estate, bruised purple.
A shot cracked through the still air. Then another. Then another.
A now fourteen year old Isabela steadied her hands around the heavy steel of the pistol, the kick back jarring through her wrists as she fired again.
The target, a roughly painted outline of a man on a plywood stood thirty feet away, its chest and body riddled with bullet holes. Sweat covered her brow, her hair clinging to her temple. she adjusted her stance, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger once more.
This is what she has been doing for the past two years.
Two years since she tried to rob him.
She didn't trust him then, she didn't know if she did now.
But he had taken her in. Gave her a room. A bed. Good that wasn't stolen. He gave her a roof over her head.
The training started at dawn. It was her everyday routine. 5am was the time her alarm would ring.
Five minutes, five minutes was how much time she had to get ready and get downstairs.
It started with the basics: how to throw a punch that mattered, how to move without being heard, how to aim for the soft spots that ends the fight quickly.
The physical training ended at 9am. She would then take her bath and come down for breakfast.
Followed by two hour nap. Her tutor would then come in the afternoon where she would have a five hour intense class with breaks in between.
She could now speak Russian and Italian fluently. German, not so much but she was getting better.
Then the training with weapons would come in— pistols, rifles, knives, even strategies. Every morning started before the sun, and every night ended with bruises and burning muscles.
But what haunted Isabela more than the drills, more than the silence of the house, more than the secret meeting she saw Don Emilio, who she now called grandfather have, more than the long stares from his men, was the one thing she couldn't get out of him.
Why?
Why was he training her like this?
She had asked more than once. He always deflected.
"A warrior doesn't question the sword she sharpens," he would say, or sometimes it was just silence. The kind that felt heavier than words.
"If you keep losing focus like this, you'd be dead sooner or later," Don Emilio's voice broke her chain of thoughts, causing to almost miss a shot.
"Geez, you scared me grandfather," she whined, taking in a deep breath. The old man didn't answer, instead he moved to stand closer to her, his eyes fixed on her target.
"Shoot," he said calmly, without looking at her.
Isabela frowned but slowly raised her hands to do as she was told. A shot blasted through the air, another bullet hitting the target in the chest.
"Again," he said, but this time he voice came from behind her. Isabela pulled the trigger, not having time to wonder when he moved from beside her.
"Again," he said, his voice carrying across the training ground like distant thunder.
Isabela didn't look back. She simple reloaded, her movement, clean, crisp, practiced.
"You're pulling to the left." He said after another shot. "You're rushing it."
She lowered her gun a bit, her shoulders tensing. "I'm not rushing," she muttered.
"You're always rushing, picciridda, patience kills more enemies than bullets."
She scowled and adjusted her stance again, this time slower. Calmer. Her next three shots, hit the target in the head.
Don Emilio nodded approvingly when Isabela turned to him with a smile. "Better."
Behind him, footsteps approached— Mira, his consigliere, ever his shadow.
"She's improving," Mira said.
"She has to," Son Emilio said. "Time waits for no one. And neither will my enemies."
Turning his gaze back to a confused looking Isabela he said, " Training is over for the day. Freshen up and meet me at the dining table."
Isabela nodded and disappeared into the house.
"Thank you," she smiled at the maid who always offered her a glass of water after her training session.
After finishing the water, she went up to her room where she removed her sweaty clothes and slipped into the bathtub that had already been filled with warm water.
The water embraced her sore body, the muscles unwound. She tipped her head back and let out a deep breath, and for a moment, she let herself go still.
The pistol training had left her forearms stiff, her back sore from the recoil. Her mind was heavy with Don Emilio's words but at that moment she decided to let it all go and enjoy her bath.
She closed her eyes. The ceiling above blurred behind a thin veil of steam.
But she knew she couldn't stay in there forever. Letting out a sigh, she drained the water and wrapped a white towel around her body before stepping out.
She quickly dried off and pulled on a black T-shirt and a pair of grey joggers. She tied her hair into a messy bun and checked herself in the mirror. It was enough.
"Grandpa doesn't care about appearances anyway," she mumbled to herself.
He did care about appearance but not in the house.
By the time she padded to the dining room, the table had already been set and Don Emilio was eating.
"You're late," he said, not looking away from his plate.
"Sorry grandpa. The water was so relaxing I got carried away," she responded, dragging a chair and taking her seat.
"Eat," he said, his voice firm yet soft.
Isabela proceeded to fill her plate with food.
They both ate in silence for a few minutes before Don Emilio spoke.
"How's lessons going with your ?"
Isabela lifted her head to look at him. His tone was casual as usual, but layered, just like everything he said.
"Which ones?" She raised a brow.
"The ones that don't involve guns."
Isabela smirked a little. "Tiring."
Don Emilio gave a small chuckle. "That's not an answer."
"I'm fluent in Russian and Italian now. Latin makes me want to stab something," she took a sip of her juice and added. "And French is just Italian with attitude."
Don Emilio just shook his head.
"I don't get it. I'm learning all these manners as if I'm going to be married off to a Prince Charming and move into a castle. I am also learning all how to shoot, stab, fight, like there's some sort of war ahead of me. Besides I don't need all this private tutoring. I mean, no one's gonna care how well I conjugate verbs when I'm burying a knife in their ribs."
"Ah," he said, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "But they'll care if you sit across from a diplomat and make him underestimate you. You can read his mind if you can speak his language. Make him feel safe. Then gut him with a smile."
Isabela raised a brow. "Was that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you think."
She leaned back, chewing in his words for a second. " I guess it's going fine. I'm not flunking anything."
"That's good," he said. Then after a pause, " You don't have to enjoy every lesson Isa," he said, using the pet name he had developed for her. "Just don't forget why you're learning them."
"And why am I learning them?" She asked, meeting his gaze.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her, long and steady.
"You're not just learning how to survive," he finally said— " you're learning how to walk in any room, any world and own it."
Isabela looked down into her glass, silent.
Part of her wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to believe him.
The diner returned back to silence and after eating, Isabela got up to leave.
She stretched lightly, the fatigue of the day seeping into her bones.
"I'm going to bed," she said quietly.
Don Emilio nodded, not looking at her. "Don't forget your French verbs."
She gave a faint, tired grin.
"Je vais les oublier exprès." — I'll forget them on purpose.
Don Emilio chuckled and shook his head.
She walked off without another word, feet barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. As she passed through the living room, she caught a glimpse of her old self in one of the pictures she had taken with Don Emilio few weeks after she had moved in with him.
She smiled softly, shaking her head at the small malnourished girl with greasy hair who was looking at her.
When she reached her room, she closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it for a second, just breathing. The warmth of the bath still clung to her skin but it was slowly fading.
She crossed the room,pulled back the covers, and slid into the bed. The soft sheets a stark contrast to the harshness of her daily routine.
Outside, the mansion had gone still as Isabela allowed sleep to embrace her.