I stare at the gun. It's a Beretta. I know that without thinking about it. Know the model, the caliber, how many rounds it holds.
How do I know that?
I take it slowly. The weight of it in my hand is... familiar. Natural. Like shaking hands with an old friend.
"Here’s a spare magazine," Ciro says quietly, handing it to me. "The safety is on. But I'm guessing you already knew that."
I did. My thumb found the safety automatically.
"If anything happens—anything that makes you feel unsafe—you use this. Don't hesitate." He meets my eyes. "You know how. Even if you don't remember learning. Trust your instincts and don’t be afraid to protect yourself. Hesitation could get you killed."
I nod, slipping the gun into my waistband at the small of my back. Hidden under my shirt. And my body knows exactly how to position it for quick access.
Ciro sees this and nods with satisfaction. "See? Muscle memory. It's all still there."
He gets in the car and they drive away. I stand in the parking lot, very aware of the weight of the gun against my spine.
Sal is watching from across the site, but he's too far away to have seen what Ciro gave me. I wave to him, try to look normal, then finish out the day.
But I can feel the gun with every movement. A presence. A reminder.
A weapon I apparently know how to use.
When Sal finally dismisses us, I walk home slowly, my mind still spinning. The gun feels heavier with each step. By the time I reach the farm, I've made a decision. I can't talk to Isabella with this thing on me. Can't have her see it and panic. Can't explain why a stranger just gave me a loaded weapon.
I go to the barn first. Hide the gun in the back corner of the workshop, wrapped in an old rag, tucked behind some tools where Elena would never find it. Then I stand there for a moment, staring at where I've hidden it.
I should check it. Make sure it's loaded properly, that the safety works, that it's ready if I need it.
The thought comes automatically. Like I've done this before. Many times. I unwrap it again. The weight feels perfect in my hand. Natural. I eject the magazine without thinking. Check it. Fifteen rounds. Full capacity. I slam it back in. Chamber a round. Thumb the safety on and off. On and off.
Every movement is automatic. Like I've done a thousand times before.
And with each movement, memories surface.
Standing at a range, teaching younger men to shoot. "Sight alignment. Trigger control. Breathe."
In a warehouse, gun raised, a man begging for his life. "You stole from me." The gun kicks in my hand. He drops.
In a car, checking my weapon before a meeting. Making sure it's ready. Just in case.
In an office, cleaning this exact gun while someone reports back on a job. "It's done, boss. No witnesses."
Boss.
The word echoes in my head.
My hands are shaking now. Not from fear or uncertainty. From recognition.
I know this weapon. I've used it. This is one of my guns. I've killed with it.
And my body remembers every single time.
I set the gun down on the workbench and stare at my hands. These hands that know how to field-strip a Beretta in thirty seconds. That know exactly where to aim for a kill shot. That have pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Ciro was telling the truth.
I'm not just someone who worked for an organization. I'm someone who led one. Who made decisions about life and death. Who held this gun and used it to protect my territory, my people, my power.
