Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAKSIM
A soft, persistent tug on my shoulder pulls me out of a heavy, dreamless sleep.
My eyes snap open, my lethal instincts flaring instantly as my hand reaches beneath the pillow for my piece—until the light scent of vanilla and jasmine fills my lungs, cutting through the instinct to kill.
Camilla is hovering over me.
She is fully dressed in cargo pants, a snug black tank top, and combat boots, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail. A bright, eager excitement dances in her eyes, completely contrasting the dim, quiet stillness of the early morning bedroom.
"Get up," she whispers, a wide, triumphant smile curving her lips as she shakes my shoulder again. "You're going to teach me how to shoot today."
I let out a low, gravelly groan, rolling onto my back and throwing a heavy forearm over my eyes to block out her blinding enthusiasm. "It's still so early in the morning, Camilla," I rumble, my voice rough and thick with sleep. "Go back to bed."
"No way, Maksim," she says, her hands coming down to grab my wrist, fruitlessly trying to haul my weight off the mattress. "You promised me, and after last night, I am not taking no for an answer. Get your lazy ass up."
“You handled the shot well last night,” I murmur.
“That was adrenaline and beginner’s luck. I still can’t believe I did that!”
I try to ignore her, shifting my body away and pulling the heavy duvet back over my shoulders, fully intending to drag her under the covers with me and sleep for another three hours.
But Camilla is relentless. She tugs the blanket down, straddling my waist over the covers, and begins lightly patting my cheeks to keep me awake.
"Maksim. Get up," she demands, her voice laced with that bossy, irresistible spark that drives me out of my mind.
I stare up at her from the pillow, taking in the radiant glow on her face and the sheer determination in her posture. A tired, rare smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I reach up, gripping her hip, and give her a stern look, though we both know she won this round before it even started.
"You are relentless," I growl softly, sitting up and swinging my bare legs over the edge of the bed with a long sigh. "Fine. Give me ten minutes."
Ten minutes later, fully dressed in black tactical gear and carrying a pair of customized handguns, I lead her down into the subterranean levels of the mansion.
The heavy, soundproofed steel door seals behind us as we step into my private shooting range.
The metallic tang of gun oil and cold concrete fills the air.
It’s a harsh, clinical space built for kill practice, not for leisure.
I fully expect her to show a flicker of hesitation—most people lose their nerve the second the stark reality of the weapons sets in.
Camilla doesn't even blink. She steps up to the primary shooting lane, her posture straight, her eyes bright with a sharp, stubborn focus.
"Rule number one," I say, stepping behind her and setting a sleek 9mm on the counter. "You respect the weapon. It is a tool, Camilla. It has no loyalty, no malice, and no mercy. If you fear it, you will fail with it."
"I don't fear it," she replies, her chin lifting slightly. "I just want to know how to use it properly."
"Then listen," I command, my voice shifting into the authoritative, sharp tone I use with my soldiers. "Square your shoulders. Feet shoulder-width apart. Lean into the shot, don't lean back like you're trying to dodge the recoil."
I step in close, wrapping my hands over hers to adjust her grip on the frame. "Higher on the splay. Bring your left hand around—no, lower your thumb. If you leave it there, the slide will rip your skin off."
"I'm adjusting, Maksim, give me a second," she snaps back quietly, throwing a sharp glance over her shoulder. "You don't need to bark like I'm one of your recruits."
A low chuckle escapes my chest at her refusal to be intimidated. "I'm not barking, princess. I'm keeping your hand intact. Now breathe out slow. Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it."
She takes a deep breath, her eyes locking onto the target down the lane, completely tuning out everything else as she prepares to fire.
I step up directly behind her, molding my chest flush against her back to adjust her stance.
My hands cover hers, guiding her arms up until the sights line up perfectly with the paper silhouette thirty feet away.
I slide one hand down to her hip, nudging her stance slightly wider, my thumb pressing through the fabric of her pants to root her center of gravity.
The physical closeness is instant and suffocatingly hot.
The scent of her hair, the subtle curve of her waist pressed into my front, and the heat rising between our bodies threaten to shatter my concentration.
My pulse spikes, but I force myself to keep my hands steady and my tone strict.
This isn't about pleasure—not down here. Her life depends on this.
Bang!
The gunshot echoes off the concrete walls. The bullet strays far to the left, tearing through the outer edge of the paper target.
"You flinched," I say quietly against her ear, my chest expanding against her back as I hold her steady. "You're anticipating the kickback from last time. Stop fighting the gun. Let the recoil happen, then bring it back."
Camilla clicks her tongue, her jaw setting in pure frustration. "Again," she demands.
She resets her stance, refusing my offer to step back and rest. We spend the next hour working through clip after clip. Every time she misses, her determination only sharpens. I coach her through the rhythm—breathe, sight, squeeze, reset.
By the fifth time, the change is undeniable.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three clean shots hit center-mass, punching jagged holes through the red bullseye.
I step back, crossing my arms over my chest as I inspect the paper target sliding back along the track toward us. It isn't top-tier sniper precision, but it is lethal, tight, and effective.
Looking at her standing there with smoke rising from the barrel, her hair messily spilling out of her ponytail and her eyes blazing with accomplishment, something shifts heavily inside me.
Camilla isn't just accepting this life, nor is she content sitting behind heavy iron doors relying on me or a dozen armed guards to keep her breathing. She wants to survive. She wants the power to defend her own life, to stand beside me in the mud rather than hide in the shadows.
A dark, lethal pride swells in my chest.
"Not bad, princess," I murmur, stepping in to take the empty firearm from her hands and setting it safely on the bench. "Not bad at all."
She smiles at me, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth that hits me harder than any bullet ever could. It’s flushed with victory, completely devoid of the lingering shadow from last night’s ambush.
"Again," she says, her fingers already reaching for a fresh magazine on the silver tray.
We go through a few more drills, the steady, rhythmic bang-bang-bang echoing off the concrete walls as she dials in her accuracy. She takes a dozen more shots, each grouping tighter and more lethal than the last, her focus unbroken until the slide locks back on an empty chamber.
"That’s it for today," I declare, taking the hot firearm from her grip and dropping the magazine onto the bench. "Training is over."
"What? No, I’m just getting into the groove," she protests instantly, wiping a stray lock of hair from her sweat-sheened forehead and trying to reach for the loaded piece on the counter. "I want to try moving while firing this time. Give me ten more minutes."
I step into her space, towering over her and firmly blocking her access to the weapon counter. I stand my ground, my eyes cutting through her stubborn protest with absolute finality.
"Your muscles are already tight, and your grip is starting to fatigue, Camilla," I say, my voice smooth but unyielding. "Fatigue creates bad habits, and bad habits get you killed. You rest now. That’s an order."
She rolls her eyes with a dramatic, exasperated sigh, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips tells me she knows I’m right. "Fine. But we’re coming back down here tomorrow."
"We’ll see," I rumble, guiding her toward the exit with a hand resting comfortably at the small of her back.
We head back upstairs, leaving the cold, clinical air of the subterranean armory behind. After a quick wash to clean the gunpowder residue off our hands and arms, we make our way to the dining room for breakfast.
The long mahogany table is already fully laid out—bowls of fresh fruit, hot espresso, eggs, pastries, and cured meats filling the center. Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, deceptive normal calm over the room.
I pull out a chair for Camilla before taking my place at the head of the table beside her. As we sit down to eat, the weight of the morning settles into a quiet, electric harmony between us—two survivors breaking bread together before the next storm inevitably hits.
The quiet calm is shattered halfway through our meal when the sharp, buzzing chime of Camilla’s phone rings against the mahogany table. She glances down at the screen, her relaxed expression instantly hardening into a mask of pure steel. She presses the phone to her ear.
"Hello, Dad," she says calmly.
My ears perk up instantly, my jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitches in my cheek.
Massimo Caruso. The mere sound of his name makes my blood heat with an ugly, burning rage.
The arrogant bastard who treated his own daughter like a bargaining chip, putting her up for bid to strengthen his empire.
I force myself to pick up my coffee cup, keeping my eyes fixed on her as I listen intently.
The conversation takes a fascinating turn.
Massimo’s muffled, demanding voice filters through the receiver, and Camilla answers him with smooth, unbothered precision.
She begins laying out details regarding our syndicate's regional logistics—specifically pointing out key shipping lanes and financing routes.
Except every single detail spilling from her lips is dead wrong.
She feeds him false locations, scrambled timelines, and completely fictitious shell accounts with the flawless composure of a seasoned operative.
I watch her quietly, taking a slow sip of black coffee as the scene unfolds right in front of me.
"I'll keep you updated if I hear anything else," she says coldly, cutting off his response before tapping the screen to end the call. She sets the phone face-down on the linen tablecloth.
I wait a long beat, letting the heavy silence stretch across the table, before setting my cup down with a sharp clink.
"What the hell was that about?" I ask, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Camilla doesn't flinch. She picked up her glass, taking a casual, unhurried sip of her orange juice before looking directly into my eyes.
"My father wants me to spy on you," she says plainly, as if discussing the morning weather. "He was asking what you’ve told me about your financing routes."
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers beneath my chin as I study her face. "And you gave him completely false information," I say, probing deeper. "Why?"
Camilla sets her glass down, her dark eyes flashing with a sharp, lethal conviction that makes my chest tighten.
"Maksim, I told you," she says softly, her voice carrying an unwavering weight, "I owe no loyalty to the man who sold me at an auction and treated me like property."
A sudden, intense hit of dark pride hits my chest. She didn't just reject her father; she actively handed him a trap, firmly aligning herself with me. I am thoroughly impressed, but I keep my persona locked in place, masking the satisfaction warming my chest behind a neutral nod.
"Eat your breakfast, Camilla," I say smoothly, gesturing toward her plate.
It’s only a matter of time before Massimo takes the bait.