Dave stays in the corridor and tests the intercom, but he doesn’t leave. I wait for an explanation.
“Let me see how you do a couple of rounds,” he offers, giving me a flick of his chin.
I suspect Dave is one of those sorts of people with a heart of gold under his prickly veneer, or Dante has threatened the shit out of him. Either way, I turn to focus on the target. As soon as I face it, the procedures and steps on what to do flow like water.
I use my dominant hand first and fire, then I step over to the second target and try that side. I’m definitely rusty. I pull the targets back in and see the proof of my years of experience—thanks, Dad—and the areas I need to focus on. Specifically, I need to work on stopping the drop on my less dominant side.
Loading up again, I hit the button for new targets and set them back a few extra yards. The result is pretty much the same. It’s frustrating, and I crack my neck to alleviate the bunching of my muscles.
Dave’s voice comes through on the intercom. “Under the bench is a handset, makes it easier to hear.”
Picking it up, I look at Dave, but it’s not him who speaks. “Spread your legs wider. Your balance is off because you’re tensing before you pull the trigger and overcompensating because you know you have a weakness.”
Dante is all serious and focused. And hearing him being distant in his assessment is like a glass of cold water on a summer's day—refreshing.
“Ask Dave to grab you a smaller caliber if your arm is fatiguing. Using mine would be good for stamina building.”
“I like yours. I didn’t think I would like feeling something so big and heavy…”
I hear him drop the phone, followed by a muffled groan, and it takes me less than a minute to realize what I just said. Though I squeeze my eyes shut in mild embarrassment, there’s no stopping the small smile lifting the edges of my lips. I can appreciate a good double entendre.
Dante coughs, but when he speaks, he’s back to being focused, more emotionally detached than I have ever seen—or, in this case, heard—him. “I want you to feel comfortable. Try a couple of rounds with the adjustment I suggested while Dave gets the other gun for you to try. I’ll leave you, since I have my own adjustment to deal with now.”
I scrunch my face up at the camera I finally spot tucked in the corner, knowing he’s watching.
“Hey, Layne, I’m not surprised you’re a fucking gunslinger. You’re one of those people who can do whatever they set their mind on. I just hope you see that, but also let me see more of it too. The fucking world is your oyster, don’t you forget that or let being scared rob you of the ability for you to see how strong you are.”
He hangs up before I can get a word in. And I keep staring, because I know he’s still watching. I can feel Dante’s attention so physically, it manifests like a touch on my shoulder while his Amaretto scent curls around my soul, warming me from the inside out.
And I accept that I think I like it.
19
Matteo
I’ve filled my day with distractions, promising myself I would let Layne do whatever it is she needs to do today alone. Considering it’s now close to six, and neither Dante nor Valentine has snuck off, I think we’ve all done really fucking well, leaving her be this long. But seeing her photo on my phone, those fucking tears in her eyes, I’m done, and I’m going to get my girl.
Racing out of my room, one arm in my suit jacket, I plough into Valentine, who, judging by the look on his face, has been looking at the photo one of our contacts sent over. I’m relieved we’ve been working behind the scenes, rebuilding alliances that Vitale all but destroyed. The smaller people on the streets were hard to win over after the way he turned up the threats and increased the tithes, but the past few years, we have earned their trust.
“She’s fucking crying, Matteo. In Carlos’s coffee shop by her goddamn self!” Valentine barks. His mood is ugly, but it’s his worry talking, and I know that.
“Val, calm down. She’s okay.”
Valentine digs his phone out of his pocket again, and the two of us lean in and look at the photo.
“I can deal with ripping toenails from traitors, but I can’t deal with her tears? What kind of Boss am I going to be?” He smiles, but it’s forced and shows way too many of his teeth.
“You’ll be a good Boss. And you being affected by your wife’s tears would have both your mother and your nonna beaming with pride.”
We get to the front door, waiting for the elevator to arrive, the echo of Dante’s bad singing in the shower floating down the hallway.
“He’ll be angry he’s not coming,” Valentine mumbles, his fingers flying over his cell as he texts Dante where we are.
“But you’re not coming with me, either, Val. You’ll be too much for her. She needs space, and you have that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“You want to start building a fortress around her before you fill the moat with the blood of her enemies.”
