Chapter 8: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Eight

My peaceful sleep is disrupted by a sharp sting across my backside and the sound of skin meeting skin. What the fuck?

“Up you get,” comes my dad’s voice. Is he freaking kidding me? I’m on holiday! Since I’m lying face down I ignore him and pull my pillow over my head and attempt to go back to sleep. “It’s time to get up and train, let’s go,” he commands.

“Fuck off,” I mumble tiredly. I just want to go back to sleep.

“What did you just say to me?” Dad asks in a menacing tone, but I don’t even flinch. I just shift my hand to rest on the pillow on top of my head and give him the finger.

“ALINA ISTRATI! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THAT BED RIGHT NOW!” Dad yells in a deadly voice. If we had neighbours that would have woken them up. I continue to ignore him hoping he’ll go away, but no such luck. 

Suddenly, I feel air and the wind is knocked out of me a little when my body connects with something solid. I open my eyes and they lock with my dad’s back. He has me slung over his shoulder like a bundle of hay. 

“What the fuck? Dad, put me down!” I demand, but I don’t bother to struggle.

“You will come down to the gym and start morning training. We need to ensure you’re in top shape before The Tournament comes,” he announces. 

This shit again? It’s been three weeks of them hounding me about this. The Tournament isn’t something you can necessarily train for since it’s different every year, but he wants to train? Fine. I straighten my body and bring my elbows down hard on his head which causes him to loosen his hold. Taking advantage of this, I free one leg, and while holding his head, jam my knee into his face. He lets out a loud groan and lets me go in reflex. I land on my feet and steady myself while he clutches his nose and examines the blood pouring out of it. He’s dressed and ready to fight, I notice. He’s in a black tank top, black sweatpants, and black sneakers, whereas I am in a champagne camisole with matching shorts, also known as my pyjamas, because I was in bed, fucking sleeping until someone dragged me out of bed for a round of fisticuffs!

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask with a smirk. 

He grins at me, “There’s my Little Warrior. Elbow move was a bit weak though.” 

I roll my eyes. “I literally just woke up and you’re expecting full strength,” I scoff.

“You have to be ready for anything, Alina, you know this,” he says as he takes a swing at me, but I dodge it. We’re both now in a dance of shifting back and forth assessing each other’s next move. Mum walks down the hallway heading for the stairs, but I don’t take my eyes off Dad.

“Do you want coffee or juice with your breakfast?” she asks me.

“Smoothie please,” I say as I take a swing at my dad, but he blocks it.

“Sure thing. Your usual?”

“That would be great,” I tell her just as Dad feigns two rapid punches which I attempt to block leaving my midsection open. He takes full advantage and lands a hard punch to my gut causing me to groan as a rush of air escapes my lungs and I hunch forward. Fuck his punches are brutal, that’s definitely going to leave a bruise. 

As Mum makes her way down the stairs, Dad’s not giving me time to catch my breath before his fist comes in for another punch. I block out the pain in my stomach and focus on catching his arm, landing a hard kick to his chest. This makes him stumble back as the wind is knocked out of him. 

Training in my family is brutal, to say the least. We don’t use padding or tape because you need to know what throwing a real punch at someone feels like. We fight for real because when you’re out in a life-or-death situation you need to understand what’s going to happen. You don’t have the safety of padded gloves or tape or helmets. When you punch someone you’re just as likely to get hurt. Anything is possible, so when we train, we put it all on the line. It hurts, but it’s effective. 

I threw my first punch when I was five. Mum had me practice hitting her palms, telling me to punch as hard as I could. Then she told me to punch her in the face. I was scared because I didn’t want to hurt her, but she said it was alright. So I did as she told me and punched her face. She barely flinched. I on the other hand started crying because I’d sprained my wrist. It freakin’ hurt! That was how I learned to throw a proper punch; by understanding that while my fists are weapons they are also at risk of injury, and every move has to be calculated because, in a life-or-death situation where your body is your only weapon, you can’t afford to have one of those weapons damaged. 

I know, I know. You’re thinking it’s wrong for parents to do this to a kid, but it wasn’t. We live very dangerous lives and we’re never at a shortage of enemies. My family would give their lives for me. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, but they know they can’t protect me from everything. So, they taught me to protect myself and it came in very useful. 

Dad pins me against the wall, putting pressure on my windpipe with his forearm. His stupid muscles are bigger than my neck and I instantly feel lightheaded. I slow down my breathing to conserve oxygen before I grip his forearm and slam my knee into his groin. He drops to his knees, clutching the family jewels as a rush of air leaves his lungs and his face contorts while he tries to breathe. I ignore the dizziness in my head as I land a solid back kick to the side of his head, and he drops to the ground semi-unconscious. 

I catch my breath and smirk in victory. “That’s what you get for pulling me out of bed,” I tell him smugly. 

My feet are sore, my gut is aching, and my knuckles are red and starting to swell. Not how I wanted to start my morning. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, following the delicious smell of bacon, eggs, and toast.

I walk over and kiss my mum’s cheek. She smiles back, kissing my cheek in return. She’s cooking at the stove and Grandpa is sitting on a stool at the kitchen island reading something on his phone. Mum’s dressed for the day already even though it’s only seven in the morning. She’s in a red, V-neck spaghetti strap top with white trousers and red pumps, with her hair braided and tied up in a bun. Grandpa, however, is still in his pyjamas, blue flannel shirt with matching pants and grey slippers. It’s the least deadly he’s ever looked. 

“Where’s your Dad?” he asks, looking up from his phone.

“Trying to gain consciousness, probably,” I say as I grab two ice packs from the freezer. 

Grandpa laughs. “My boy is losing his touch,” he says in mock disappointment. At that moment, Dad walks in still cupping his neither region. I smirk. Can never go wrong with a crotch shot, even if the opponent is a woman.

“I am not losing my touch, Dad. I just taught my daughter well, is all,” he says defensively. My mum walks over and kisses the redness forming on the side of his face from where I kicked him.

“My poor husband. Will I need to tend to your wounds later?” she asks rubbing his biceps.

“Well, there is one body part she damaged that could use your touch,” he says in a husky voice. Grandpa hears this and laughs. 

Mum smirks, pulling him close and wraps her arms around his neck, “Then touch I shall,” she says teasingly. Dad smirks, grabbing her ass and pulling her close; bloody horn dogs. 

“Dad? May want to clean up all the blood on your face before making out with Mum. Just a suggestion,” I say as I put one of the ice packs on my hand while handing him the other. He takes it graciously and places it against his head.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mum says. “Titus, will you take over breakfast please?” 

“On it.” Grandpa gets up and goes over to handle the food on the stove while Mum wets a paper towel to help clean up Dad’s face. The entire time, they’re just silent, gazing at each other lovingly. It seems like everyone in my family have these epic love stories. I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll get one though. 

“Alina, how about after breakfast, you go have a hot shower and then you and I will do some obstacle training together?” asks my mother. 

I groan. “Seriously? I’m on holiday, and I could be called for a contract at any time. Can’t you guys just let me enjoy my time off while I have it?” I whine.

Mum sighs, “Honey, we already let you rest for three weeks. It’s time you start preparing for–”

“If you mention The Tournament I’m going to be the one throwing knives,” I say in annoyance. Dad smirks. 

“Fine, I won’t mention it. But that aside, you still need to keep sharp. You never know when a job will go sideways,” she says with concern. 

“I just kicked Dad’s ass while half asleep. I think I’m still in good shape,” I say, grinning at Dad. He just smiles back at me proudly while Grandpa laughs again. It’s nice hearing him do so much laughing.