"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay, I'll try."
Relief floods his features, and he pulls me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. "Thank you. I know it's not easy for you, but I need to know you can protect yourself when I'm not there."
I swallow hard, nodding. “I’ll try,” I repeat.
We start after breakfast. Elio cooks us omelets, and I try not to think about what we’re going to be doing after, or else I wouldn’t be able to eat. Even so, I only manage a few mouthfuls despite how delicious it is.
“Maybe, if you ever decide to stop being a mafia boss, you could open a restaurant.” I spear a forkful of eggs coated in cheese, with chunks of ham and bell pepper and soft onion inside, and dip it in a pool of salsa at the edge of my plate. “Your grandmother would be so proud.”
“She would, wouldn’t she?” Elio smiles, polishing off his own omelet. “I’ll clean up, and then we can go outside.”
“I can help clean.” I need something to do with my hands, something to work off the nerves. Elio tries to wave me away,but while he’s going to find a gun, I start washing the dishes. It feels strangely domestic—the two of us here in this cabin, him cooking and me cleaning, and I like it more than I know I should. It’s a million times more rustic than the life I’m used to living and the life he’s inherited, but I haven’t really missed all the small comforts that come with my life. Not even the fancy food, given how good of a cook Elio is.
I could almost imagine us staying like this, here. Him and I. Sharing a bed, sharing meals, going about our days…
Doing what?
The question brings me up short, reminding me just how much of a fantasy that is. Whatwouldwe do, in a place like this, day to day? Die of boredom once we’d fucked so many times that we needed to find something else to do with our time?
I’m an accountant that manages a mafia’s finances. Elio is a mafia don.
Neither of us is meant to hide away in a cabin in the woods forever.
Elio emerges just as I’m putting the last of the dishes in the rack with a fairly small, silver, and wood revolver in his hand. I follow him outside, and for the next hour, he walks me through the mechanics of loading, aiming, and firing.
The weapon feels alien in my hands, heavier than I expected, and cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Every instinct I have rebels against holding it, against learning to use it, but I force myself to listen and follow his instructions.
"Keep both eyes open," he says, adjusting my grip for the dozenth time. "You lose peripheral vision when you close one eye, and that could get you killed."
"This feels wrong," I mutter, trying to steady my hands as I aim at the tree Elio designated as my target.
"Wrong how?" he asks patiently.
"Like I'm betraying everything I believe in. Like I'm becoming someone I don't want to be."
"You're becoming someone who can protect herself." His voice is patient but firm. "There's nothing wrong with that."
By the time the sun is high, my hands are steady and my grip is sure, and I’ve shot the gun a dozen times, hitting my mark a handful of them. I'm nowhere near expert level—that would take months or years of practice—but I understand the basics. I know how to load the weapon, how to aim it, how to fire it if my life depends on it.
"You did well," Elio says when he sees that I’ve had enough. "Better than I expected for your first time."
"Gee, thanks." I set the unloaded pistol down on a nearby stump with more force than necessary. "Your confidence in me is overwhelming."
He catches the sarcasm in my voice and turns to face me. "I didn't mean it like that."
I blow out a breath, suddenly wanting to fight. To get all of the tension inside of me out one way or another. Elio wants to keep physical distance between us, but he can’t keep me from arguing with him. "How did you mean it?"
His expression is more patient than I deserve, right now. "I meant that you pushed through your discomfort and focused on learning. That's admirable."
The praise should make me feel better, but it doesn't. If anything, it makes me feel worse—like I've crossed some invisible line and become someone I don't recognize.
"I need coffee," I say, turning back and striding toward the cabin to avoid his searching gaze.
He follows me, because of course he does. Elio is as bad at letting things go as I am, and that, combined with his worry for me, means he’s not going to let me go off alone. Even if there’snot enough space here for him to truly be far enough away that he couldn’t get to me if need be.
"Talk to me," he says calmly as I fumble with the coffee maker, leaning against the counter. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking that I hate this." The words come out sharper than I intended. "I hate that I have to learn to use a weapon. I hate that I can't feel safe without one. I hate that some bastard tried to rape me, and now I have to completely change who I am just to feel secure."
