“Focus on keeping the gun steady. You’re shaking too much,” I say. It’s just loud enough for him to hear. “You have to create stability in your arms and hands. Keep your shoulders straight…That’s it.”
Alessio’s grip loosens but becomes more stable. “Now, don’t just exhale when you pull the trigger, imagine the air going from your chest down to your feet. Keep your eyes a few inches above where you want to hit.”
I press my hand a bit firmer against his lower back, and I feel him shift just a little under my touch. His back is warm, warmer than expected. His shirt soft under my rough hands.
As he takes another breath, he shoots, and hits the center of the target at the end of his exhale. I feel his warm breath waft against my hand that’s under his elbow.
“Good boy,” I say under my breath. I realize what I’d said a second too late, my eyes go wide for a moment and I look awake. Alessio doesn’t seem to react, perhaps it was too quiet for him to hear.
Thank fuck.
“Good job,” I say louder. “Keep that up and you’ll protect yourself no problem.”
“I do just fine, thank you,” Alessio snaps at me, his eyes narrowed but then he smiles slightly. “It did help though.”
“Told you,” I point at him, and then head back over to my own side.
My hands are twitching. My breath is shaky.
I struggle to focus on my own gun after that. I miss the mark more times than normal, and I know it’s because I’m too focused on Alessio.
Alessio…who is hitting the mark better than before by at least fifty percent. I watch the way his body moves with each recoil of the gun. The way his hair bounces slightly. The subtle shift of his biceps as they flex and relax underneath the fabric of his shirt.
After another hour, I finally tuck my gun back into its holster and roll my sleeves up. Sweat is dripping down my forehead.
“Leaving so soon?” Alessio asks, moving his headgear away from his left ear.
I’ve already taken mine off.
“Got a job to do.” I continue rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, revealing my heavily tattooed forearms, colorful but dark in tone. I swear Alessio watches me.
I need to pull it together…
So I do. I get my coat on, I check out of the shooting range and I head back to the Fiorelli estate. Prepared to spend the day keeping an eye on Rosalie.
“I’m not sure how I feel about the skirt,” Rosalie says as she stands on a footstool in the center of the parlor room, where several mirrors have been set up around her. A woman in her late sixties, early seventies perhaps, stands to the side and purses her lips.
Patricia, Rosalie’s Aunt, sits on the nearby couch drinking a mug of tea. Nikolas, Eivor and Patricia’s only son, sits near the fireplace poking at the fire with an iron.
“What don’t you like about it?” the older woman asks. “What’s the problem? Is it too full, too sparse, too narrow, too wide? I can pin this part back like this.” She steps over and starts messing with the skirt of the dress. An overly large and ornate gown that looks difficult to do anything but stand in.
“Yes, what’s wrong with it, Dear?” Patricia asks. “We’ve only a week until the wedding, there’s not much time to fix these things.”
“I can get much done in a week, don’t doubt me,” the older woman insists with a point of her finger. “I’ll have your alterations done in three days! Three!”
I stand next to the entrance of the room, just to the side of the wooden archway. Keeping an eye on the hallway to the left, the right, and the room where Rosalie looks…not very happy.
“It’s just not me,” she replies with a sigh. “I didn’t have much time to decide on a dress; I’ve only known I was getting married for a couple weeks.”
“Back in my country, some brides don’t know until their wedding day,” the woman states. “You’re lucky to even get an option!”
I can’t help but raise a brow as I eavesdrop on their conversation.
A couple weeks… The wedding is happening very quick.
One week until the wedding. That doesn’t leave much time for me to gather information.
I’d hardly remembered I was meant to earlier this morning at the shooting range.
