Codename: Blackheart

Contact

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

“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.

“f**k off,” I mumble tiredly. I just want to go back to sleep.

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

“ALINA ISTRATI GET THE f**k OUT OF THAT BED RIGHT NOW!” My dad yells in a deadly voice. If we had neighbours that would have woken them up. I still 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 f**k? 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 s**t again? 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 his hold to loosen. Once it does, 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 f*****g 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. f**k 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 and his fist is coming in for another punch. I block out the pain in my stomach and focus on catching his arm and 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. Busted, cut or broken knuckles and wrists, or sprained or broken ankles from a kick. 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 knew they couldn’t protect me from everything all the time. So, they taught me to protect myself and it came in very useful.

Dad pins me against the wall and puts pressure on my windpipe with his forearm. His stupid muscles are bigger than my neck and instantly I feel lightheaded. I slow down my breathing to conserve oxygen and 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 and 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 wake up. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen and the delicious smell of bacon, eggs and toast greets me. I walk over and kiss my mum’s cheek and she smiles 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 and 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 and pulls him close wrapping her arms around his neck, “Then touch I shall,” she says with a teasing smile. Dad smirks while 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?” She asks.

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

“Alina, how’s 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 left you alone for three weeks since you came home. 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, so I think I’m still in good shape,” I say grinning at dad, and he just smiles back at me proudly while grandpa laughs again. It’s nice hearing him do so much laughing. Dad has beaten me plenty of times, after all, he’s bigger and stronger. But I’m faster and have quicker reflexes. We never hold back, so when I do manage to take him down he never shows me anything but pride. I’m really fortunate to be surrounded by so many loving people.

After we all sit down and have breakfast, I head back up to my room to have a quick shower before doing some training with mum. I may whine and act like a baby when it comes to them pushing me to train while I’m home, but they’re not wrong for wanting to make sure I’m at my best. I can’t shake the feeling that this year things aren’t going to be as smooth as the last few years, and that’s saying a lot because the last few have been savage.

Walking back into my room I give myself a quick stretch, trying to loosen up all the muscles I worked out fighting with my dad. Just looking at me this is not what you’d expect my room to look like. I won’t lie, opulent is a good word to describe my bedroom. It’s massive.

A wall sections off a third of the room and the floor is mostly tan wood, but under the bed is a gorgeous champagne-coloured carpet. A king-size bed against the sectioning wall with sheets of gold and beige facing two full-length windows. Brown nightstands flank the bed adorned with touch lamps and a large white storage ottoman sits at the foot of the bed. I have all the basics one would need. Chest of drawers, a sofa, coffee table, mirror, and 52” plasma TV. In the corner by the door I even have a small office area. A stunning desk and chair face the centre of the room, but the part of the room that truly screams opulence is the stunning crystal blue and gold chandelier. On the left side of the sectioning wall is my open walk-in closet with the bathroom through the door on the left-hand side of the room. I’d tell you how much all of this cost, but then I’d just be bragging.

Don’t let the tattoos, blood and violence fool you. My taste is very eclectic. Should see my apartment in Italy, vastly different. That place is all blacks and purples; more of a gothic feel to it. Having so many places is fun, it means I can live out all my different tastes and styles and never commit to one.

I walk over and begin opening the cream-coloured curtains of my many windows when I hear my phone start to ring. I guess my holiday is officially over. I walk over to my desk and pick up the Bluetooth and put it in my ear while I check the caller ID. Pushing on my Bluetooth I answer my phone.

“Miss Heart?” Asks the familiar American voice. I smile. I never speak first when my phone rings, since I never know what language the conversation will be in, so I wait till I hear who is on the other end of the line.

“Victor, I do believe it’s after midnight where you are. Do you not sleep?” I ask teasingly, hearing a soft chuckle on the other line.

“No rest for the wicked, as you well know,” he says in an amused voice. We are definitely wicked people, no question about that.

“That I do. What do you have for me?”

“A potential client wishes to have a sit-down meeting.”

“Name?”

“Peyton Grigoras.”

I raise an eyebrow at the name. “The shipping magnate?” I inquire as I sit at my desk and open my laptop. Once it fires up I start searching ‘Peyton Grigoras’ online.

“The very same, ma’am,” he confirms. Hmm, interesting.

According to a brief search, Peyton Grigoras is fifty-five and is the fourth richest and most successful shipping magnate in the United States and is based out of New York City. Never married with no children. If he’s reaching out to me chances are that most of his millions did not come from legal shipping operations. A wealthy man doesn’t wake up one morning and decide to become a criminal or hire an assassin. No, they’ve been immersed in the criminal underworld for a while. After all, reaching out to me is no small feat. Either you have the connections to do so or you’re desperate, like in Mrs Allard’s case.

“Prepare my private dining room at Il Segreto in New York. Schedule the meeting for seven pm two days from now and follow my usual protocols,” I instruct.

“Everything will be ready for your arrival, ma’am. I look forward to seeing you. Have a good day,” he says pleasantly.

“Get some rest, I’ll see you in two days,” I tell him and then disconnect the call. Well at least now I don’t have to do more training today, so that’s a bonus.

Looking at pictures of Mr Grigoras online my brain is nagging at me that something about him is very familiar to me. Due to my line of work, I never forget a face. So while I’ve never met or dealt with this man, there’s something about him I can’t put my finger on. Hopefully, I’ll figure it out soon enough otherwise it’s going to really piss me off. Before I have a chance to dwell on it too much I speed-dial Marcel.

“Sweet pea?” Marcel answers in Romanian. You think I’d go crazy from bouncing between so many languages, but the switching is rather effortless.

“Hi Uncle Marcel, I’ve been called to New York for a meeting. Now you know I’m more than happy to travel on my own, but I know you’d end up all grumpy if I didn’t run it by you first,” I tell him with a smile.

“I don’t have a grumpy bone in my body you cheeky little thing. When are you planning to leave?” He asks.

I chuckle. “I called you first, then I’ll call and have the jet prepped. So I’ll be leaving in the next couple of hours.”

“I’ll let Vivienne know and meet you at the jet.”

“Marcel, you’re more than welcome to stay and spend time with your wife. You don’t have to join me every single time.” It’s always the same routine. Truth be told I love Marcel travelling with me, but I know how much Vivienne misses him, so I feel for her sake I have to at least attempt to persuade him to stay behind.

“Vivienne understands. I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” he says with finality and hangs up before I have a chance to protest. I smile and take off my Bluetooth. After I call and instruct the jet to be prepped I have a quick shower and then pack my suitcase.

I have no complaints about my lifestyle, but I do miss my family when I’m gone. Time with them always seems to be on fast forward, whereas being out on jobs always seems to go slowly. But would I trade my life for anything else? Not a fat chance. This is who I am, it’s in my blood. I wasn’t just born into his life, I chose it. No one forced it upon me, I made the conscious decision to take after my parents and grandparents and so on. My life is more blessed than most because no matter where I go or what I do, I know that I will always have a home to come back to.