Chapter 26
GINA
Once I dry myself off, I open my closet. Now what would a woman wear to a shooting range?
I look past Antoine’s dresses and to my meager stash of casual clothing I brought from Irvine. From that, I select my most comfortable wide-leg jeans.
But instead of matching it with a comfortable top, I choose a virginal white camisole with a million buttons.
Maybe when I take off my coat, it will give Dante ideas on finishing what he didn’t start last night by coming to my room.
And since I’ve gone this far, I choose high heels instead of gym shoes.
Dante being Dante, I suspect the combination of sexy heels and guns will turn him on.
And dressing like some gorgeous assassin in a James Bond flick might give me extra confidence.
Downstairs, I try not to show my nerves, or my surprise, when a new car and driver roll up to take us to the range.
“Where’s Thomas?” I ask.
“Just trying out a new service,” Dante says as he helps me into the town car.
Our driver weaves through congested city streets before eventually pulling over beside a squat concrete bunker on 20th Street.
It has no windows, just a metal door with peeling paint on its outer walls.
“This is the shooting range?” I ask.
Dante turns to me, his expression a mixture of amusement and impatience. “What were you expecting?”
I feel a little silly. “Did you ever see the TV series Downton Abbey? I was picturing one of those fancy shooting weekends—lords and ladies in tweed, fields with hunting dogs.”
“This is an urban range. No dogs, no tweed. Just targets and bullets. Come. Let’s start.”
The air inside smells of something that must be gun oil. The reception area is a small counter with bulletproof glass and a worn linoleum floor.
“Where’s the actual range?” I ask.
“Not so many questions, California Girl,” Dante says with that smirky half-smile of his.
A large man with forearms like tree trunks emerges from a back room. When he sees Dante, his face breaks into a wide grin.
“Kiko, I’d like you to meet my wife, Gina Ricci,” Dante says. “It’s her first time.”
Kiko nods and starts gathering equipment. He pulls out oversized protective glasses and bulky ear muffs.
“I’d start her with a .22,” he says. Dante nods, and Kiko slaps the small gun on the counter.
We crowd into a freight elevator.
A few minutes later, the doors open to reveal a long room with partitioned sections. The rhythmic pop-pop-pop hurts my ears and makes my stomach tighten.
I scan the firing line, surprised by the diversity.
There’s a gorgeous woman in a sleek black catsuit who looks like she stepped out of a spy movie. Next to her is an elderly lady calmly shouldering a rifle.
If Grandma can handle that cannon, I can do this.
“Lane Four,” Kiko announces, dropping our equipment with a thud.
Dante settles the earmuffs over my ears himself. The foam pads muffle the world into a distant hum.
Dante’s face is so close I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes as he concentrates. When he reaches for my shooting glasses, his fingertips brush my temples.
The sensation of his warm breath against my cheek helps relax me. For a moment, I forget the acrid smell of gunpowder.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod, though my palms are moist with sweat. Dante places the black handgun on the counter.
It looks smaller than I expected, but somehow more dangerous. “Watch,” he says, his voice all business.
I force myself to focus as his hands move over the weapon with practiced precision. This is as natural to him as breathing.
“Take it.”
I reach out and wrap my fingers around the gun. It’s way heavier than I expected.
“No,” Dante says immediately. “Higher.”
He steps behind me. I can feel the heat radiating from his chest against my back.
Dante’s hands come over mine, firm and dry, completely enveloping my smaller ones.
“Here,” he says quietly. “High grip. Lock it in. Don’t think. Feel.”
Dante adjusts my wrists, locking them in place. “Raise it,” he commands.
I lift the gun, the weight making my muscles tremble. “Lean forward. You’re not afraid of the gun. Remember this: it’s afraid of you.”
My finger instinctively slides toward the trigger.
“Finger off the trigger,” he snaps. I jerk my hand back. “Now try it again.”
We repeat the movements until my arms ache. Eventually, he backs away completely. “Now,” he says, crossing his arms. “You do it.”
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, lock my wrists, and find the perfect tension.
Dante gives a single nod. “Good. Memorize that feeling.”
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a box of brass-colored bullets. Live ammunition. My mouth goes dry. “You’re ready.”
The first shot surprises me. CRACK! My arms snap back, teeth rattling.
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Hold,” Dante says.
I do. Somehow.
Downrange, the paper target trembles. A clean hole is punched wide of center.
Not a bullseye, but not a disaster.
I exhale.
Dante steps behind me, his hand steadying my elbow. “Again.”
I adjust my stance and weight before firing. The second shot lands closer. More controlled.
Dante exhales. “Good.”
The compliment ignites a sense of pride within me.
I finish the magazine, and by the last round, my hands don’t shake.
When the gun clicks empty, Dante takes it and checks the target.
“You learn fast,” he says. Pride flares again in my chest. “Do you feel ready to kill someone who dares attack you?”
I hesitate.
“You must shoot to kill, Gina,” he says, looking into my eyes. “No one can harm what’s mine. You must kill your attacker before he can lay his hands on you. Before he can defile what belongs to me alone.”
“You’re scaring me, Dante. Who’s trying to kill me?”
He looks at me a long moment, as if thinking how to best answer.
“My goal isn’t to worry you. It’s simply to prepare you. I never leave the house without my guns. From this moment on, see that you do not either. A simple precaution.”
“I understand,” I force myself to say. But I really don’t.
“Now, this gun I’m giving you,” he says, handing me his well-shined Beretta.
“It stays between you and me. No one must know you’ve taken these shooting lessons. No one must know you know how to shoot.”
“Is that why you didn’t have Thomas drive us today?” I ask. “You feel he’s an enemy? A spy?”
“Not at all. Thomas is young, but he’s one of my most trusted men. It’s just that no one is above being bribed or otherwise coerced into turning against me.”
“Thomas would kill you for money? A bribe?”
“Money is a powerful influence. And the Russians are ruthless. They can turn a member of my team disloyal by kidnapping a wife, parent, or child. Torturing them. I’ve seen it done. So the fewer people who know about this, even Thomas, the better. Promise me you’ll keep this our secret.”
“I promise, Dante.”
As I put on my coat, I can tell something is different now.
I’ve earned Dante’s respect, and maybe his trust. I just wonder how far I’ll have to go to keep it.