Page 17

I turn away from the display case and leave the room, locking it behind me. The headache hasn't improved. If anything, it's gotten worse.

Later, Gregory joins me for weapons training at one of the family compounds on the outskirts of the city. The facility is private, secured, used only by my most trusted men. We have a full gym, a shooting range, and a sparring area.

Gregory is already warming up when I arrive. He's stripped down to a tank top and training pants, his movements sharp and controlled as he works through a series of strikes against a heavy bag.

"You're early," I say, setting down my gear.

"Couldn't sleep." He doesn't look at me, just keeps hitting the bag with increasing force.

I watch him for a moment. There's an edge to his movements today, an aggression that goes beyond normal training intensity. Each strike lands harder than necessary, his breathing controlled but his jaw tight.

"You want to talk about it?" I strip off my jacket and start wrapping my hands.

"Nothing to talk about." Another brutal combination against the bag. "Just needed to work off some energy."

We move to the sparring mats after he's finished with the bag. The rubber surface is cool beneath my bare feet as I settle into a fighting stance. Gregory does the same, his chest still heaving from the heavy bag work, sweat already glistening across his shoulders and arms.

"Come on, then," I say, raising my hands.

He comes at me immediately, faster than usual. A jab, a cross, and a hook. The combinations are sharp and precise, but there's no finesse to them. Just raw power and frustration. I slip the first two punches and block the hook, feeling the force of it reverberate through my forearm.

"Easy," I say, but he's already moving again.

A roundhouse kick comes at my ribs. I pivot and catch it on my hip, the impact solid enough to make me grunt. Gregory follows through with a spinning backfist that I duck under, then counters with a low kick aimed at my thigh. He checks it but not cleanly. I can see him wince slightly.

"What the fuck is eating at you?" I ask, circling him.

"Nothing." He's breathing harder now, his jaw clenched tight. "Just training."

We exchange another series of strikes. He's good. I trained him well, but today, he's fighting like he's got something to prove. His movements are aggressive, almost reckless. A skilled opponent would exploit that. I do.

When he throws a sloppy jab, I slip inside his guard and grab his wrist, using his own momentum to pull him forward. I pivot my hip and execute a clean throw. He hits the mat hard, the air knocked from his lungs with an audible grunt.

For a second, he just lies there. Then he's rolling, coming back up to his feet with a speed that shows his training. But I catch the flash of something in his eyes. It's not frustration. I can't tell exactly what it is, but it's bothering the hell out of him. Which means it bothers me too, especially since he won't talk to me about whatever it is.

"Again," he says, breathing hard.

We go another round. This time, I let him dictate the pace. His combinations are getting sloppier as fatigue sets in, but his intensity hasn't diminished. If anything, it's increased. There's a desperation to his movements now, like he's trying to beat something out of himself.

I block a high kick and counter with a knee strike aimed at his midsection. He twists, taking most of it on his hip, but I feel him absorb the impact. We clinch, and for a moment we're locked together, both breathing hard and covered in sweat.

"Talk to me," I say quietly.

"There's nothing to say." But his voice cracks slightly, and I know he's lying.

I release him and step back. He comes at me again, but this time, I'm ready. I slip his punch, pivot behind him, and lock my forearm across his throat from behind. Not hard enough to cut off his air completely, but enough to make a point. Enough to stop him.

He struggles for a moment, then goes still. His breathing is ragged, his heart pounding so hard I can feel it against my chest.

"Talk," I say quietly.

He taps out twice, and I release him immediately. He stumbles forward a few steps, hands on his knees, breathing like he's just run a marathon.

"It's just business pressures." He straightens up, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

I study him carefully. His shoulders are tense, his jaw still clenched. There's something he's not telling me, but I also know that pushing too hard will only make him shut down completely.

"All right," I finally say. "We're done for today."