Chapter3

The next afternoon at two, Dante's car pulled up in front of the building.

When I got in, he leaned over out of habit and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

I pulled back.

He went still. I caught the flash of hurt in his eyes, which struck me as almost funny. He was the one who had betrayed me first, and here he was—genuinely wounded.

"Nothing's wrong," I said. "Just a bit of a headache."

He relaxed.

"I want to show you something," he said. "You'll see when we get there."

He held my hand the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles across my knuckles—his habitual small gesture. I used to think it was intimacy. Now it just felt like irony.

The car turned into a warehouse, wound between rows of cargo containers, and stopped in front of a steel door. The door opened onto a staircase that led two flights down, and then the space opened up into something unexpected.

An underground shooting range.

Twenty or so people were already there—the core of the family. Luca. Cesare. A handful of district captains whose names I had never bothered to learn.

They all stopped talking when we walked in.

Dante led me forward by the hand—his grip warm and tight.

Cesare called out: "Boss, heard the delivery came in? Let's see it."

Dante ignored him and brought me to the long table in the center of the range.

A black metal case sat on the table. Solid craftsmanship, copper-banded at the corners.

He let go of my hand and entered the code.

A click. The lid opened.

Inside lay a gun.

Silver. Small and elegant. The grip inlaid with dark filigree that caught the light in tiny scattered glints.

Dante lifted it out and turned to face me.

"Come here."

I walked over. Every eye in the room was on me.

He placed the gun in my hands.

The curve of the grip settled perfectly against my palm. The weight was right too—a little lighter than what I'd trained with before.

I tested the trigger. The pull was just right. No need to force it.

He had memorized the size of my hands.

Remembered the grip I preferred.

Knew exactly how heavy I liked a gun to be.

He had brought me here many times over the past three years. Every session side by side, shot by shot, until we had built something like fluency in each other's habits. He kept a record of all of them.

"Custom-made to your specifications," he said. "Right-handed grip, barrel rifled one degree left. The best gunsmith in Italy. Handmade. Three months in the making. There isn't another one like it in the world."

I looked down. Along the grip, etched in fine flowing script, were two letters: V.R.

My initials.

The room erupted.

The boss never gave a woman a gun before!

And it's custom! I've been with him ten years—never got this treatment!

Vivian, do you know what this thing is worth? You could buy a Manhattan apartment with that money!

Dante smiled and raised one hand. The room quieted.

"That gun is yours," he said—not loud, but the whole range could hear him. "Nobody touches it without my permission. Are we clear?"

I looked up at him.

There was a smile in his eyes, but something else beneath it. That possessiveness of his. The pride of claiming ownership in front of everyone he commanded.

"Clear," I said.

He nodded, satisfied. Then he stepped behind me, closed his hands over mine, and we held the gun together.

His chest was against my back. Warm.

Three years ago, this would have made my pulse race.

Now all I can think about is the recording from last night.

Does he press himself against her the same way? Speak in that low, gentle voice into her ear?

Line up the sights. Aim for center.

Ten rings.

When the magazine ran dry, I turned to face him.

His eyes were full of pride—the kind that says I trained her myself.

He pulled me into him and bent his head to kiss my hair.

I breathed in the smell of him and could only think about how that same smell had clung to another woman last night.

The others were already clamoring to go drinking.

Dante walked out with his arm around me, the district captains trailing behind, still debating my last few shots.

We were at the warehouse entrance when his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen—and his expression shifted.

Just for a moment. But I saw it: that pleased, loosened look, instantly suppressed, replaced by something carefully arranged to look like concern.

"Yeah."

He listened for a few seconds. "Got it. I'm on my way."

He ended the call and looked at me. His face carried that specific blend of apology and urgency he wore so well.

"Vivian, there's a problem down at the port. I have to go handle it. Cesare will take you home."

I didn't tell him I'd heard Scarlett's voice in the background.

God, he was good.

Cesare stepped forward. "Come on, I'll drive you."

I followed him to the other car.

Before I got in, I glanced back.

At the corner, a red sports car was parked with its lights on. A Porsche, new model. I couldn't make out the face inside, but I could see the long blonde hair.

Scarlett's car.

I had seen it once before—last week on Dante's phone. Scarlett had sent him a photo of herself leaning against the hood, smiling, with a caption that read: Come pick me up.

He wasn't going to the port.

That shipment had arrived three days ago. Luca had reported last night that everything was fine.

He was going to her.

Three months ago, Scarlett had appeared in his life.

He had been commissioning custom gifts for me while texting her. Memorizing my shooting habits while figuring out how to get her into bed.

I almost laughed at that.

What was I laughing at? At how certain he was I didn't know? At how convincing his performance had been?

Or at myself—knowing everything perfectly, and still feeling it like a punch to the chest when I saw that red car.