Chapter 29
The Paris softness wore off the second we returned. No more silk dresses, no more stolen smiles. Only the mafia. And the business.
The life I had escaped for two days.
The drive back from Paris had been quiet. Too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that lingers between me and Aurelio, that gentle silence filled with unspoken warmth.
No.
This was sharp. Jagged. Silence that felt like it was waiting for something to unravel.
That morning, Zorian had texted without a question, without explanation:"Shooting range. Be ready."
No choice. No pleading. Only a command.
I scoffed internally. Awed by his unwavering audacity. I didn't ask why.
The range was a fortress buried deep in the hills: Matte black walls, reinforced steel, silence thick enough to choke on. Only the elite of the Midnight Dynasty Club ever saw it.
I arrived late. On purpose.
Zorian was already there, loading a Glock with mechanical precision. Asvika stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable, a small smirk playing at her lips.
My boots echoed coldly on the concrete floor as I walked in, sunglasses still on, hair pulled back. I didn't owe anyone softness anymore.
"Thought you were skipping," Zorian muttered without looking up. Bastard.
"Thought you knew me better."
No smile from either of us.
"Come on," Asvika said, tossing me the keys to the armoury with a smirk. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one that says if someone breathes wrong, you'll end them."
"Cute. Let's go."
We each picked a lane.
Zorian went for accuracy, methodical and cold.
Asvika went for speed, every shot sharp and precise.
I went for silence.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots, dead centre.
The tension crackled in the air like static electricity. We weren't here to practice. We were here because no one knew how to talk anymore.
Asvika slid in beside me, loading a custom pistol with casual grace.
"You seem quieter," she observed quietly. "Paris didn't fix you?"
I raised the gun. "Paris showed me something soft. That's all. Doesn't mean it stuck."
She nodded but didn't press. Never did.
"I'm going to shoot in the open space," I said, turning away from them.
I walked alone to the vast shooting area, a stark contrast to the claustrophobic lanes.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I emptied a magazine, letting the noise drown out the chaos in my head. I set the gun down and stretched my wrists, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen ever so slightly.
The air smelled faintly of gunpowder and metal—intoxicating and suffocating at once.
My memory flashed back to a time Sanaa, and I had a shooting date.
"You always shoot with so much spite, it's scary," she had said, amused.
"And the worst part?" I asked, grinning.
"You always did have a good aim," she replied, playfully hitting the gun on my head.
Then I heard it.
That voice.
Low. Rough. Stupidly familiar.
"You always did have good aim."
My heart stuttered, then froze. I spun around.
That wasn't the voice from my memories. That wasn't Sanaa.
Dominic Moretti was walking through the door like some ghost I didn't know I still feared.
I hadn't heard from him since the shipment problems and the ear incident.
There he was, all polished arrogance and smirking calm, like he owned this world.
I said nothing, still shooting, letting my hands move mechanically, counting the seconds like a metronome.
The moment I turned to reload, he stepped into my lane like he belonged.
The only place he belonged was in fucking hell.
"Ara," he said softly.
I tilted my head. "Wrong move."
"I just want to talk—"
"I have a gun," I interrupted, raising it steadily, making sure he could see it was loaded. "Get out."
He didn't flinch.
Those maddeningly calm hazel eyes locked on mine, the ones that used to make me feel seen, now making me want to pull the trigger again.
To think they were the last eyes I saw before I collapsed from escaping my attempted rapists.
"I didn't come to fight," he said, stepping closer. "I came to explain—"
"I don't care."
"You do."
"Don't pretend to know me."
"I do know you, Ara."
Wrong answer.
He'd been a liar from the start, from impersonating my professor to the club dare. He ALWAYS lied.
I adjusted my aim. A little.
"Take one more step," I said low, deadly, "and I swear I'll paint this concrete with your blood."
He took the step. "If that's what you want, Ara," he said quietly, pain flashing in his eyes, "if a bullet in my chest is the only way to get you close to me, then shoot."
My hands trembled. That name. That fucking name. THAT GODDAMN NAME!
"Ara—"
BANG.
The sound of Dominic collapsing on the concrete with a loud thud resonated in my ears.
I had pulled the fucking trigger.
My breath caught, eyes wide in shock. Goosebumps erupted like a rash on my skin.
Asvika screamed, running over. Someone hit the alarm. Other members of the mafia who were using the range ran in.
I stood frozen, unmoving, not blinking.
Thirty seconds later, Zorian stormed in, fury in every step.
"What the hell happened?"
I didn't look away from Dominic.
"He ignored a warning," I said, more like I was trying to justify my actions to myself.
"He's bleeding, Versace—"
"He's lucky," I muttered, dazed. He could have ended up like Sanaa.
Zorian grabbed my wrist. "Have you lost it?"
I ripped away, glaring as if he had burned me. "Don't touch me."
Tears glistened in my eyes like glass, but they didn't fall. They wouldn't dare.
Zorian looked at me, not like I was dangerous. More like I was broken. I hated it.
"You shot him."
"He deserved it."
"He's a Moretti and a Kashani. He's your fiancée's fucking cousin."
Silence.
Just a breath. And then it all came rushing back.
Flashback:
Sanaa's laughter, sunlight warm on the balcony.
"Why do you shoot with so much spite?" she'd asked in Tehran, offering me a stolen cookie.
"Because maybe if I knew how to use a gun, I could have saved my useless parents."
We were ten. It was the first time we held a gun. Inseparable.
Until we weren't.
Until she was gone. Just like my parents.***
The ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed out to attend to him.
Dominic was hoisted onto a stretcher, grimacing, pressing a towel against his bleeding shoulder.
"I'll go with the ambulance," Asvika said, slipping past me.
Zorian leaned against the wall, torn between rage and concern.
I wanted neither.
My chest felt tight, a hurricane of adrenaline, fury, and something I didn't want to name.
My hands shook. My mind spun with every memory, every lie, every touch, every word that had once made me fall, every betrayal.
But the fortune teller's words echoed cold in my mind:
"One will destroy you. One will set you free. One will stay."
I didn't know who was which anymore.
But this I knew:
Dominic Moretti bled because of me.
And I wasn't sure if it was hate—or heartbreak.