Chapter 6 - The Training Begins
The sun was barely painting the Manhattan skyline in shades of bruised purple and gold when the heavy iron doors of the Ashford Estate’s private subterranean gym slid open.
I stood in the center of the padded training floor, wearing simple black athletic gear. My hair was tied back in a tight braid.
Alexander walked in a few minutes later, wearing gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. For a man in his late thirties who controlled a multi-billion-dollar empire, his physique was lean, corded with muscle, and marked by faint scars from old knife wounds and street brawls.
“I expected you to sleep in,” Alexander said, grabbing a water bottle from the rack. “Housekeepers don't usually wake up at 5:00 AM by choice.”
“Housekeepers don't, but martial artists do,” I replied evenly, taking a wide stance in the center of the mat. “My father woke me up before sunrise every single day in our Queens alleyway. Rain, snow, or heatwaves. If you want to learn the Quiet Current, Mr. Ashford, you don't start with punches. You start with breathing.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow, stepping onto the mat barefoot. “Breathing? I thought we were going to spar.”
“If you try to spar with me right now, I will put you on your back in two seconds,” I said without a trace of arrogance. “Because your mind is rigid. You move like a man who expects a knife coming from every corner. The Quiet Current isn't about fighting your opponent—it’s about becoming the current that lets their attack wash right past you.”
Alexander studied my face for a moment, then slowly exhaled, dropping his shoulders. He walked over and sat cross-legged on the mat opposite me.
“Show me,” he said.
For the next two hours, the subterranean gym echoed only with the sound of deep, measured inhales and exhales. I taught him how to anchor his center of gravity, how to drop his weight into the earth, and how to quiet the hyper-vigilant adrenaline spikes that came with running a criminal syndicate.
Marcus Vance stood by the glass observation door, watching in silent astonishment as the most feared mafia boss in America sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to a 26-year-old former housekeeper instruct him on posture and breath control.
“Boss has never let anyone get that close,” Marcus muttered to himself, crossing his arms with a knowing smile.
As the clock hit 7:30 AM, our training session was interrupted by the sharp chime of the gym intercom.
“Boss,” Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker. “You have an urgent secure call on line one. It’s Victor Moretti.”
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Alexander’s eyes flashed with cold steel. The relaxed student vanished instantly, replaced once again by Il Lupo.
“Moretti,” Alexander muttered, standing up and dusting off his knees. “The Chicago syndicate.”
