Shadow Reaper
Page 40
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
They wanted him to fail. Each time he took the tests, all the instructors were present. Ricco had been so determined to be fast and strong that he worked out from morning to night, doing every chore required, but doubling his practice time. He defeated every opponent in the trials, and his times in the shadow tubes were significantly faster than anyone else’s, but it didn’t matter.
The council members berated him, beat him, used canes and continually jerked him from his bed, throwing him on the floor, kicking and punching and telling him he should have been aware of their presence. None of the other trainees reported they’d been awakened from sleep, but it didn’t matter. He trained himself to sleep light, to be prepared for any attack, night or day.
They took his phone from him, had eyes on him at all times. When his family called, they were right there to listen in on every word. The threats against his family were continuous. If he talked, they would kill them all – wipe out the Ferraro family, and no one would ever know who did it.
He needed them. His family. Stefano. He had a poet’s soul and the grief-stricken fathers were ripping it to shreds. They had interrogated him for days. Asking the same questions over and over. Wanting the answers to be different. They had talked to little Mariko, and she gave the same answers over and over in spite of their directions to answer differently.
A well of rage inside of him began to form and grow deeper and deeper until it all but consumed him. When he knew he couldn’t stay quiet and he was about to erupt into a furious frenzy of anger, playing right into their hands, he went to the training room and spent hours beating on the heavy bag until his hands were bloody. The blows shocking his arms, his body, the pain smashing through his knuckles to his hands steadied him. Grounded him.
That was when Master Kin Akahoshi decided to intervene. He was the martial arts instructor as well as the hojojutsu instructor. He had seen the treatment of Ricco, as had all the instructors, but none wanted to go against the powerful council – especially after the “car accident” that had killed their children. Everyone knew they were grieving, but no one knew why they had singled out Ricco for the treatment they gave him.
Master Akahoshi came into the training hall to find Ricco pounding the bag, his knuckles, wrapped as they were supposed to be, bloody right through the wraps. He stood there for a long moment, just observing him, and then he stepped in close and ordered him off the bag. Ricco had whipped around, prepared to fight for his right to use the equipment in off hours, but Akahoshi had held up his hand and simply said, “Come with me.”
For some reason he never really understood, he followed the instructor to his home where his private training hall was located. Ricco had known he was the best in the class at hojojutsu. He was fascinated with the art and the knots. The tying. The way they looked on his opponent. He began to learn more and more intricate knots and how to lay them perfectly against skin. Immediately he had excelled in his anatomy class, because he needed to learn how to lay the ropes without hurting – or to cause the greatest discomfort possible.
They never talked about the three council members or why they were so hard on him, but his going to Akahoshi’s home and being accepted there sent a message to the three men that someone, at least, would hold them accountable. The beatings weren’t stopped, but they were fewer. In the meantime, Ricco continued learning the art of Shibari.
Each time he picked up a bundle of ropes, he felt completely grounded. When he tied, he was so utterly absorbed in his art, the anger and fear drained away, leaving him relaxed and at peace. It was the only time he felt that way.
Akahoshi had moved to the United States, specifically Chicago, following three other family members. He had contacted Ricco to see if he wanted to continue with his instructions and of course Ricco had. Now the rope was a part of him and he exceeded his master in training. Still, he returned to compare knots, to talk to the man he credited with saving his life. The council might have driven him to suicide had it not been for Akahoshi.
He’d been conditioned to believe the murders were his fault for being late, for getting turned around. The lives of his family depended on his silence and his skills. He continued to train daily, and at night he haunted the homes of his brothers and sister in order to protect them. He’d developed a thin razor-like strip to attach to the bottom of the door, blocking out all shadows, so no rider could slide through and surprise his family in their sleep. It was easy enough and fast to remove with a single touch, making it possible for them to escape if necessary via the doors.
Sighing, he sat up. When he was like this, restless and unable to sleep, he often visited Akahoshi. His former master always had rope models available to work with and he could lose himself that way. He didn’t want to bring trouble to Akahoshi’s door, suspecting that because he took Ricco’s side and protected him all those years ago, the council members had made it difficult for the instructor to remain in Tokyo.
He could insist that Mariko join him in the studio. He was not 100 percent yet when it came to working out, and his head was still giving him trouble, but although he was paying her, he would never ask her to join him. Not when he was so edgy and moody. His sister Emmanuelle always called this side of him his “dark, scary and very dangerous.” No one wanted to be around him when he was like that. If he went to Akahoshi, he usually was brutal in his ties, laying rope in the more traditional punishing knots.
He would never take a chance of accidentally hurting one of the female rope models, let alone Mariko. She needed care. It wasn’t that she was fragile, far from it, but she’d obviously never known kindness. She still wasn’t opening up to him and he’d practically shoved his entire history down her throat.
He groaned as he sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. The room spun for a moment and then righted itself, letting him know he was a mess. Of course, he’d have to be at his worst when he met Mariko. He prided himself on his abilities, and already she’d had to save the day.
He stripped, tossing his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. He had bad habits from living alone so long. Emmanuelle told him he was a slob every chance she got – although he knew he wasn’t. He just never picked up his dirty clothes until it came time to wash them – something he’d have to get over if he could ever convince Mariko to forgive him and to take a chance on him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he stepped into the double shower. His chest was scarred and he touched one of the long streaks the tip of the sword had left behind in his flesh. His shame was carved into his skin for everyone to see. The number-one question always asked by any woman he was with was how he got those distinctive scars. He made up outrageous stories, turning the moment to laughter when that well of rage always opened up inside of him at the question.
He’d been unarmed and all four boys had extremely sharp swords. The scars should have been badges of courage, but they represented failure to him. He stepped under the pouring hot water and let it ease the pain in his tight muscles. What he wouldn’t give for a decent massage. He never could relax enough to get one. He was too busy looking over his shoulder. Even in the shower he felt vulnerable and always faced out toward the room. It was an insane way to live, but he’d been doing it for so many years, he wasn’t certain he could live any other way.
The council members berated him, beat him, used canes and continually jerked him from his bed, throwing him on the floor, kicking and punching and telling him he should have been aware of their presence. None of the other trainees reported they’d been awakened from sleep, but it didn’t matter. He trained himself to sleep light, to be prepared for any attack, night or day.
They took his phone from him, had eyes on him at all times. When his family called, they were right there to listen in on every word. The threats against his family were continuous. If he talked, they would kill them all – wipe out the Ferraro family, and no one would ever know who did it.
He needed them. His family. Stefano. He had a poet’s soul and the grief-stricken fathers were ripping it to shreds. They had interrogated him for days. Asking the same questions over and over. Wanting the answers to be different. They had talked to little Mariko, and she gave the same answers over and over in spite of their directions to answer differently.
A well of rage inside of him began to form and grow deeper and deeper until it all but consumed him. When he knew he couldn’t stay quiet and he was about to erupt into a furious frenzy of anger, playing right into their hands, he went to the training room and spent hours beating on the heavy bag until his hands were bloody. The blows shocking his arms, his body, the pain smashing through his knuckles to his hands steadied him. Grounded him.
That was when Master Kin Akahoshi decided to intervene. He was the martial arts instructor as well as the hojojutsu instructor. He had seen the treatment of Ricco, as had all the instructors, but none wanted to go against the powerful council – especially after the “car accident” that had killed their children. Everyone knew they were grieving, but no one knew why they had singled out Ricco for the treatment they gave him.
Master Akahoshi came into the training hall to find Ricco pounding the bag, his knuckles, wrapped as they were supposed to be, bloody right through the wraps. He stood there for a long moment, just observing him, and then he stepped in close and ordered him off the bag. Ricco had whipped around, prepared to fight for his right to use the equipment in off hours, but Akahoshi had held up his hand and simply said, “Come with me.”
For some reason he never really understood, he followed the instructor to his home where his private training hall was located. Ricco had known he was the best in the class at hojojutsu. He was fascinated with the art and the knots. The tying. The way they looked on his opponent. He began to learn more and more intricate knots and how to lay them perfectly against skin. Immediately he had excelled in his anatomy class, because he needed to learn how to lay the ropes without hurting – or to cause the greatest discomfort possible.
They never talked about the three council members or why they were so hard on him, but his going to Akahoshi’s home and being accepted there sent a message to the three men that someone, at least, would hold them accountable. The beatings weren’t stopped, but they were fewer. In the meantime, Ricco continued learning the art of Shibari.
Each time he picked up a bundle of ropes, he felt completely grounded. When he tied, he was so utterly absorbed in his art, the anger and fear drained away, leaving him relaxed and at peace. It was the only time he felt that way.
Akahoshi had moved to the United States, specifically Chicago, following three other family members. He had contacted Ricco to see if he wanted to continue with his instructions and of course Ricco had. Now the rope was a part of him and he exceeded his master in training. Still, he returned to compare knots, to talk to the man he credited with saving his life. The council might have driven him to suicide had it not been for Akahoshi.
He’d been conditioned to believe the murders were his fault for being late, for getting turned around. The lives of his family depended on his silence and his skills. He continued to train daily, and at night he haunted the homes of his brothers and sister in order to protect them. He’d developed a thin razor-like strip to attach to the bottom of the door, blocking out all shadows, so no rider could slide through and surprise his family in their sleep. It was easy enough and fast to remove with a single touch, making it possible for them to escape if necessary via the doors.
Sighing, he sat up. When he was like this, restless and unable to sleep, he often visited Akahoshi. His former master always had rope models available to work with and he could lose himself that way. He didn’t want to bring trouble to Akahoshi’s door, suspecting that because he took Ricco’s side and protected him all those years ago, the council members had made it difficult for the instructor to remain in Tokyo.
He could insist that Mariko join him in the studio. He was not 100 percent yet when it came to working out, and his head was still giving him trouble, but although he was paying her, he would never ask her to join him. Not when he was so edgy and moody. His sister Emmanuelle always called this side of him his “dark, scary and very dangerous.” No one wanted to be around him when he was like that. If he went to Akahoshi, he usually was brutal in his ties, laying rope in the more traditional punishing knots.
He would never take a chance of accidentally hurting one of the female rope models, let alone Mariko. She needed care. It wasn’t that she was fragile, far from it, but she’d obviously never known kindness. She still wasn’t opening up to him and he’d practically shoved his entire history down her throat.
He groaned as he sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. The room spun for a moment and then righted itself, letting him know he was a mess. Of course, he’d have to be at his worst when he met Mariko. He prided himself on his abilities, and already she’d had to save the day.
He stripped, tossing his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. He had bad habits from living alone so long. Emmanuelle told him he was a slob every chance she got – although he knew he wasn’t. He just never picked up his dirty clothes until it came time to wash them – something he’d have to get over if he could ever convince Mariko to forgive him and to take a chance on him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he stepped into the double shower. His chest was scarred and he touched one of the long streaks the tip of the sword had left behind in his flesh. His shame was carved into his skin for everyone to see. The number-one question always asked by any woman he was with was how he got those distinctive scars. He made up outrageous stories, turning the moment to laughter when that well of rage always opened up inside of him at the question.
He’d been unarmed and all four boys had extremely sharp swords. The scars should have been badges of courage, but they represented failure to him. He stepped under the pouring hot water and let it ease the pain in his tight muscles. What he wouldn’t give for a decent massage. He never could relax enough to get one. He was too busy looking over his shoulder. Even in the shower he felt vulnerable and always faced out toward the room. It was an insane way to live, but he’d been doing it for so many years, he wasn’t certain he could live any other way.
