DANTE
The recoil of the Glock kicks against my palm, and the target downrange explodes with a satisfying cluster of holes right where the heart would be. Five shots, tight grouping, exactly the way my father taught me when I was barely tall enough to hold the weapon steady.
"Again," I tell Hannah, who stands beside me with her own weapon, her stance improving but still not quite right.
The private range in the estate's basement is one of my few indulgences. It’s a place where I can think clearly. Muscle memory takes over and gives my mind space to work through problems. These past few days, with the graze on my shoulder still healing from the ambush, I've had plenty to think about.
I woke up this morning and had a sudden realization. I had to show Hannah how to protect herself in case I couldn’t be there. The incident the other day was a reality check. No matter what I do, she’s vulnerable. If there is another breach, she might have to fight.
And selfishly, I’m thinking about Mila. I need her to be able to protect my daughter. She’s proven that she will. I need to make sure she has the tools and the training to do it.
Yes, I know my men think I’ve lost my shit. I’m training my captive how to kill. Kill me if she chooses. But they don’t know her like I do. I have to believe she is loyal to me. We’ve got some shit to work out with her father, but the fact I haven’t killed him yet should win me some points.
Hannah adjusts her grip, her brow furrowed in concentration. She squeezes the trigger, and the shot goes wide, hitting the target's shoulder instead of center mass.
"You're anticipating the recoil," I say, moving behind her to adjust her stance. "Relax your shoulders. Let the gun do its work."
"Easy for you to say," she mutters, but she follows my instructions.
This time, the shot is closer. Not perfect, but better.
"Why are you teaching me to shoot?" she asks, lowering the weapon and engaging the safety like I showed her.
"Because you need to know how to protect yourself."
"From who? You? My dad? Your enemies?"
"From anyone," I say instead.
She studies my face. I can see her weighing my words, trying to decide if this is about her safety or my control. Maybe it's both. Maybe I can't separate the two anymore.
"Your shoulder," she says, changing the subject. "How is it?"
"Fine." The graze is healing cleanly, just a pink line now where the bullet kissed skin. "I've had worse."
"That's not reassuring.
I almost smile. "It wasn't meant to be."
We practice for another thirty minutes, until Hannah's groupings are consistently hitting the target even if they're not perfect. She's a quick study, absorbing information and adjusting her technique with the same analytical mind she uses to tear apart financial documents.
That mind has been invaluable these past few days. She's found more inconsistencies in Bogdan's evidence. There are more timeline discrepancies that suggest Richard Quinn is exactly what he claims to be—an innocent man being framed.
But proving his innocence doesn't solve the larger problem. Someone stole five million dollars from us, and that someone is still out there, pulling strings and manipulating evidence.
And as much as I really, really want to believe her father is innocent, I have to be careful. Betrayal is a part of our lives. It happens all the time.
"You're thinking too hard," Hannah says. "I can see smoke coming out of your ears."
"Business concerns."
"My father?"
I hesitate, but she deserves honesty. "Among other things."
"Is he safe?"
"For now."
