Three hundred guests watched the fiancée of New York's most feared mafia boss swing her jeweled heel toward my leg, trying to send me crashing into a tower of champagne glasses. But before she could touch me, I caught her ankle with one hand—and when an elderly man near the orchestra whispered, "That style is impossible," the mafia boss himself went pale, as though he'd just seen a dead man come back to life.

The next morning, the sun broke through the heavy clouds, illuminating the marble training courtyard behind the estate.

I stood near the center of the ring, dressed in a simple dark athletic top and pants. My father's wooden practice sticks rested in my hands—their smooth mahogany polished by years of sweat and discipline.

Alexander stepped into the courtyard wearing a dark gray training shirt. His physical presence was intimidating; he was tall, muscular, and moved with the dangerous grace of a seasoned street fighter.

"I've been trained by military instructors and professional assassins since I was fifteen," Alexander said, raising his fists into a standard guard position. "Show me what makes your father's style different."

I didn't raise my sticks. I let my hands hang loose at my sides, taking a deep, slow breath.

"You're using force to fight force," I said quietly. "That works against ordinary men. But against someone who understands energy, your strength is your biggest weakness."

"Prove it," he said.

Alexander lunged forward, executing a lightning-fast jab aimed directly at my chest.

I didn't move until his fist was inches from my clothes. Then, with a smooth, sweeping motion of my left forearm, I brushed his wrist aside, stepping inside his guard and tapping his chest lightly with the tip of my wooden stick.

Alexander stumbled backward, his gray eyes widening in surprise.

"You rushed," I said softly, mimicking my father's calm tone. "You fought the air before you even reached me. Speed comes after control, Alexander."

He reset his stance, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Again."

For the next two hours, we moved across the courtyard. He attacked; I redirected. But with every pass, I noticed something unexpected. Alexander wasn't just a brute force fighter—he was an incredibly fast learner. He began adjusting his weight, slowing his breath, and watching my eyes instead of my hands.

By noon, we stood breathing heavily under the midday sun.

"You're good," I admitted, wiping sweat from my forehead.