27. Audra
Holding a gun again after all these years is like…
handing an addict a fix after months of cold turkey.
The cold steel presses against my palm; the balance is perfect.
There's that sharp tang of metal, mingled with gun oil and danger.
It slides into my hand like an old lover, familiar and hungry. It remembers me.
Gabe's guns are different. They're not disposable tools. They're obviously treated like heirlooms, and the surfaces are gleaming. No dents. No corrosion. Every part shows deliberate care. It whispers exactly who he is: controlled, precise, lethal. As if I didn't already know that.
For a heartbeat, the rest of my life vanishes.
Pete. My mother's hawkish worry. The money we owe.
The fear that's been my constant companion.
All of it disappears as I hold the gun. There's something mystical about it, empowering, terrifyingly right.
I glance at the Desert Eagle, still in the case.
He said no, but it gleams at me. I can taste it already. Soon.
I don't even realize it at first. Not fully. But something inside me shifts. Slides into place. Like a door I thought was sealed shut… opening. The old me. She's back. Not the one who sits on the couch and watches the news. Not the one who smiles politely and keeps the peace.
No.
Her.
The girl who didn't scare easily. Who chased adrenaline instead of avoiding it.
Who learned early that fear could be swallowed if you just pushed hard enough.
A slow smile curls at my lips as I glance at Gabe.
It feels like I'd forgotten how to smile during the past few years.
The thrill that rushes through me is something I haven't felt in…
a very long time. He's staring at me. Like he doesn't quite know what to make of what he's seeing.
It feels like I'd also forgotten how to have fun.
Because that's what this is. Fun. An immense rush of pleasure and satisfaction to have surprised the big, bad mafia boss. I have a feeling not many people do. But His expression of disbelief, surprise, and something darker is priceless.
There's something else too. Something I haven't seen directed at me in a long, very long, time. Pride.
It hits me unexpectedly. Sharp. Warm. Unsettling.
Razor looked at me that way a few times, when I was fifteen and stupid enough to think I was invincible.
He was a biker, a mess of cigarettes and whiskey, and I stole his bike.
Of course, he caught me. But he also taught me how to make his bike jump over that ravine.
That's when he decided he wanted me more than he wanted retribution for taking one of his possessions.
One wild night, he handed me a gun and dared me to fire it.
I didn't miss. He called me trouble, and for a moment, I felt unstoppable.
Now, with the gun in my hand and Gabe's gaze burning into me, I feel that rush again. That fierce certainty. Maybe I didn't lose myself, maybe I only buried her deep down in the recesses of my brain with all the other dark things I did before… and vowed never to touch again.
The gun is still in my hand. I don't lower it.
Not yet. The recoil is gone, the sound faded, but the feeling…
it lingers. In my bones. In my chest. In the steady, terrifying calm settling over me.
I inhale slowly. Metal. Gun oil. Control.
For the first time since Pete was killed, my hands aren't shaking.
That realization hits harder than the shot.
I should feel sick. I should feel something breaking apart inside me. Instead, I feel… right.
God. What does that say about me? Gabe moves closer as if he can sense my inner turmoil. He's close. Too close.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
His voice slides over my skin in a way it shouldn't.
I finally lower the gun, but I don't look at him yet.
Because if I do, this moment changes. I'm not sure I'm ready for that.
No matter what my traitorous body seems to think.
No matter that I was about to leave Pete.
I wasn't leaving him for another man. I was going to leave him to change my life.
Rushing into another man's arms wouldn't be wise.
At least that's what I'm trying to tell myself even as my pulse picks up and butterflies spread their wings in my core.
"I didn't learn," I say quietly. "I remembered."
The truth lands between us, electric and alive. I turn, and our gazes lock. Before, he was danger incarnate. Now… I recognize it. And more dangerously, part of me leans in.
"Sei un guaio, tesoro. Di quelli che rovinano gli uomini…
e li fanno anche ringraziare per questo," he breathes the phrase, low enough that his lips nearly brush my ear.
I don't understand a word. But the timbre of his voice sends goosebumps down my spine.
Igniting a heat in me I haven't felt in… forever.
I can't help it, but my voice, too, is just a touch too deep. Too breathless, "What does that mean?"
The edges of his lips curl, making him look irresistibly sexy.
Inciting a flutter in my lower body, even before he translates.
"It means," the knuckle of his thumb brushes against my chin, warm waves move under my skin, and it takes a lot of control not to lean into the slight touch.
"You're trouble, sweetheart. The kind that ruins men… and makes them thank you for it."
Those words awaken the ghost of a smile in me. "I've heard that before, but it's been a long time."
My skin tingles where his arm nearly brushes mine.
Not with fear. No, this is something else—something delicious and forbidden.
I hate that my breath hitches. I hate that I want him to close the last inch.
His fingers ghost along my wrist, guiding the barrel down.
The contact is deliberate, grounding my flaming nerves.
My heart thrums under his touch, and I don't pull away, though every part of me screams that I should.
He clears his throat, breaks the spell around us on purpose. His face closes up. "You didn't flinch."
Those words bring everything back. Because flinching got Pete killed. Because hesitation gets you buried. Because the woman I taught myself to be, she wouldn't survive this world. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she died with Pete.
It takes me a moment to control my voice again. "I don't think I can afford to, anymore."
His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind me he's there.
"You keep going down this road…" he murmurs, "there's no coming back."
He might be right. The problem is, I don't think I want to come back.
I stopped once and lived a life of lies.
Lived the life I was told would keep me safe.
I suppress a small laugh. Look where it got me.
I almost got killed, while I never really lived.
Razor might have had his flaws, and yes, let's be honest, he was a pedophile, but in the nearly two years I was with him, I had more fun than I had in the last six years.
There has to be a middle ground here somewhere, right? I just have to find it.
I tilt my head, study him. "You didn't come back. Do you regret it?"
I already know the answer. It's written all over him. Even before the word exits his mouth. "No."
Of course not.
"Then don't sell it like it's a warning," I chastise softly. "Sell it like it's the truth."
Something shifts in his eyes. Darkens. Tightens. His other hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. The touch is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. My breath catches. I hate that it does. I hate that I don't move. I hate that I want him to do it again.
"I should stop this," he says, looking thoughtful.
"Then stop." I give him the out.
I even mean it. Maybe.
He doesn't take it. Neither do I. The space between us disappears.
I can feel the heat of him now. The weight of his presence.
The pull. God, the pull. My lips part before I can stop them.
And for a second—just one—I forget everything.
Pete. Grief. Right and wrong. All of it.
There's only this. Him. Us. And how easy it would be to lean forward that last inch.
His breath shifts. So does mine. He pulls back.
Not far. Just enough to break it. The loss of that almost-contact hits harder than it should.
"Not like this," he mutters.
Confusion flares, sharp and immediate. "Like what?"
"While you're still bleeding," he states quietly. "Even if you don't see it."
The words land like a slap. My chest tightens. For a split second, something cracks. Something raw. Vulnerable. I hate it. I shut it down immediately. "You don't get to decide what I feel."
"No," he agrees. His thumb brushes once over my cheek before he drops it. The absence of his touch is immediate. Cold. "But I decide what I take."
Of course he does. Control. Power. That's who he is. A different silence stretches before he puts more distance between us and steps back. Like none of that just happened. Like I didn't almost…
I shove the thought down hard.
"Again," he commands, nodding toward the target.
Like this is just training. Like my world didn't just tilt on its axis—again.
Like I didn't just give in to some deeper animal impulse inside me.
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to understand him.
Trying to understand myself. Trying to figure out if he'd just been a gentleman or an ass.
I turn away. Because that's safer. Because if I keep looking at him, I might do something I can't take back. "Give me the Desert Eagle."
The words come out sharp. Not a request. A demand.