I’ve not eaten breakfast. All I’ve had is a tall black coffee with a few sugars. It’s all I need in the morning. I get dressed in the guest room that Eivor has provided me on the estate, and while Rosalie is getting fitted in her dress in the parlor room, I head to the chosen shooting range that rests in a middle ground between the Fiorelli and Dresvanni estates. Nestled into the ground in a cement block that’s padded for noise suppression.
My gun of choice is on my hip, and I find myself wondering what Alessio’s is. I have yet to see him carrying.
The security here is lacking, but that’s not my problem. If I need to be the security while Alessio’s here, so be it. Though, protecting him isn’t explicitly in my job description. For a moment I wonder what Eivor would do if something happened to Alessio. Who would he have Rosalie marry then?
That thought leaves me immediately when I see Alessio standing in one of the boxes, sandwiches between glass and wood, a gun pointed at several white and red targets in front of him.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him wearing jeans, but even then, they’re perfectly pressed and dark wash, matching his silk navy button up shirt expertly. His long hair is pulled back and curled into a bun at the back of his neck. My eyes trail down his back to his ass, to his calves and booted feet.
“Are you going to shoot or just stare at me?” Alessio asks without even looking behind his shoulder. Due to the ear protection he’s wearing, his voice is louder than he likely intends.
I swallow hard and narrow my eyes before heading over to the space next to him. I shrug off my black winter coat and toss it to the side.
“What gun are you shooting?” I ask him as I slide the protection over my own ears. It’s still possible to hear each other talking.
He looks over at me with a disinterested look on his face. “Like it matters,” he scoffs.
He’s in a bad mood. This much is clear.
I load my gun, line it up with the target and shoot, once, twice, three times. Each time I meet the dead center of the target, only differing by a centimeter or two. I look over at Alessio’s target, and I see he’s only hit the center of the target once out of a dozen shots.
“I can help you with that you know,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes and shoots again, missing his mark. “I don’t need your help.”
I shrug and continue shooting, missing my mark once or twice out of a dozen shots. The polar opposite of Alessio.
“You can at least tell me what made you decide to practice today,” I insist. “Besides being a terrible shot.”
Alessio refills his ammo, and lifts his arms to shoot again. I can see exactly where he’s going wrong. My eyes follow the line of his biceps, strong but shaky, and down to his elbows and forearms. His hands… He has long, lithe fingers, but they’re not as steady as they need to be.
“You don’t have to show off,” he tells me and shoots twice more. Making the middle of the target once, and he exhales. It’s clear he’s frustrated.
I set my gun down, despite knowing that I shouldn’t leave it there, much less loaded. I can’t help but step over to him and tilt my head to the side.
“Is this about the other night?” I ask him curiously.
“When I got shitfaced drunk?” he asks sarcastically, and smirks at me a little. “No, this is about a different night.”
“I don’t hold it against you,” I insist.
He looks at me again, lowering the gun. “Why would you? Anyone would be lucky to have me,” he croons at me. I know he’s just trying to mess with my head by being defensive, but something in the tone of his voice still makes me feel hot under the collar.
“Anyone doesn’t have you,” I remind him. “Ms. Fiorelli does.”
Alessio’s jaw tightens but then he smiles. “Yes, she does. Is that a problem?”
I lift my hand and tap it on the wooden panel ahead of him. “No. I’m here to do a job,” I remind him again. I lean in a bit closer. “Let me help you. I know what you’re doing wrong.”
Something shifts in his eyes. Uncertainty. He eyes my face.
“With the gun,” I add.
Alessio blinks. “Right. Sure, you do. You’re going to tell me I’m not breathing correctly?” he raises a brow.
“Just raise the gun like you normally would,” I direct him.
Alessio looks away from me slowly back to the target and does as I say. He raises the gun, but this time I place one hand on the small of his back and just under his elbows.
