Chapter 4 #2
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.
“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.
If I am to do as Eivor requests—no, demands—I need to get into the Dresvanni estate.
What information could he possibly want? Something to undermine the marriage—or something to make it less likely that the Dresvannis will pull out of the marriage?
I have a feeling the information Eivor Fiorelli wants is anything he can use against the Dresvannis. Anything to get and keep the upper-hand.
My attention is caught as Eivor walks into the room.
“My, my. You look beautiful, my precious niece,” he says with a big smile and walks over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
Rosalie’s body language changes completely. Before she stood with a straight back, head held high, and unafraid to say what she thought about the dress. Now her shoulders move up closer to her ears, she leans forward a bit, and I can tell she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“Thank you, Uncle,” she says with a small smile. Her voice is softer and more timid.
“What would you liked changed about the dress?” the seamstress asks. “What would make it feel more you?”
“Change? Are you kidding? This is a beautiful gown. I’ve never seen you look so good, you’re glowing, Rosalie baby.” Eivor rubs her bare shoulders and moves closer to her, looking at her in one of the mirrors.
“Well…” Rosalie clears her throat. “There’s one or two things I’d change.”
Eivor moves around to look at her from the front and takes a step back. “I can’t see what, but anything for my Princess.” He grins at her.
She smiles again and nods. “It’s not much, I promise.”
“I know you’ll do me proud,” he says while waving his hands around. “This is going to be the wedding that changes the family for good.”
Patricia coughs a little. “You’re forgetting our wedding, Dear, aren’t you?”
Eivor laughs. “Of course not! Of course. What a day that was; I could never forget,” he says as he walks over and sits down next to his wife. I watch him take her hand and kiss it.
The seamstress is picking and plucking at the dress with her pins.
Nikolas is looking incredibly disinterested in the conversation as a whole. His presence is completely unremarkable. Eivor seems far less interested in the young man’s life than he is with Rosalie’s…
It’s only one in the afternoon. I have a feeling it’s going to be a very long day.
“A drink, darling,” Eivor tells Patricia as he lets go of her hand.
I see the woman’s smile falter, but she keeps it up and nods. She gets up and gets him a glass of whiskey from the nearby cabinet.
“Bring the bottle over,” he insists.
Rosalie looks behind her shoulder. “How was Alessio this morning?” she asks me.
“Ah,” Eivor seems to scold her. “Don’t question the man, he’s working. Besides, we don’t need to hear about him right now. This is all about you.”
I start to zone out, though I shouldn’t. The conversation is dull and I could not care less. Besides there’s nothing dangerous to be on the look out for.
At least, I think.
Then again, things are too quiet. Too pleasant.
Since I’ve been here, there’s been very few things to actually protect Rosalie from. You’d think they’d have more enemies. I know of the conflict they had with the Dresvannis—this marriage is meant to solve it—but what of their allies who disagree with the marriage?
While I’m thinking about this, the ring of the doorbell catches my attention.
“I’ve got it,” Nikolas insists.
“Were you expecting a package?” Patricia asks. I’m not sure who she’s asking.
“I’m not,” Rosalie says simply.
Suddenly, as I hear the door open, there’s a sinking feeling in the bit of my stomach.
“I think it is a package,” Nikolas says, and everything happens in slow motion. “Should I check it f—”
I turn around and head directly for the door. My goal is not the door but the young man standing with the door halfway open, looking down at a small brown box with several labels on it.
“Shut the door,” I demand.
“What?” he asks, like he hasn’t processed what I’m saying.
There’s not enough time to repeat myself.
In a split second, I tackle Nikolas to the ground and shield him underneath my body. At the same time that we hit the ground, I kick the door closed, but it doesn’t close all the way. It’s stuck.
I hold the door closed with my feet, shoving down with my thighs and knees.
Nikolas underneath me has only the time for a single gasp before an explosion rattles the front of the estate and bursts through the door in a crack just big enough to send debris flying across my arms and the floor.
It’s not a huge explosion, a small and fairly contained one, but it lights the wreath on the door on fire, and chars the plant beside the inside of the door, along with the sleeve of my suit jacket.
I can feel my skin tingling along my left hand, but I ignore it.
“Oh my God!” Patricia’s voice is behind me.
“Everyone stay back! Call your guards to the front!” I demand Eivor. “Get your bombs expert in.”
“I’m calling him now,” Eivor tells me. I think he’s standing above me, but my head is a bit rattled.
After another two seconds, when another explosion hasn’t gone off, I slowly move up and off the poor kid underneath me.
“Are you alright?” I ask him.
He looks at me with wide eyes. “Y-Yes, I think so.”
“What was that? A bomb?” he asks me.
I shove off the tile floor and reach to help him up. “Yes. Go, it’s not safe to remain here. Go tell the staff to stay away from the doors and windows until this is cleared.”
He pushes up from the floor, and then disappears down the hallway quickly.
Suddenly, Rosalie is shuffling into the room, no longer in her wedding gown but in a thin slip.
“Who did this?” she asks. “Who would do this?”
I look toward her. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”