“The TV is there.” I wave my hand in the correct direction, swallowing to rid the lump in my throat. “Pretend I’m not here, and I’ll return the favor.”
He rounds the bar to grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. All of Dante’s men usually wear suits, but tonight Luca’s in skinny jeans, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up, showing off the many colorful tattoos marking his body. I make out roses on both palms, letters on his knuckles, a diamond, a serpent, and a forest on his arm. My favorite one, the Phoenix on his neck with wings spreading to his ears, is exposed by the V-neckline.
He eyes me up, thin lips part as if to voice a snarky comment, but his expression changes in a blink of an eye. His jaw clenches, eyes narrow. He closes the distance between us, leans over the bar, and grips my face, his eyes on my lips. “Who the fuck did that to you?”
I jerk away. “That’s none of your business.”
He fists his palms, closing his eyes briefly. When he looks at me again, my body feels cold. He breathes out through his nose as if doing all in his power to keep it together. He doesn’t... he lands his fist on the wall to his left. “Did Dante hit you?” He glares at the wall. “Layla! Was it Dante?”
“No! of course not.”
“Then who was it? Who the fuck hit you, Layla?” He runs his hand through his short hair, still shaken.
“Frankie,” I say, too stunned by the anger in his eyes to argue. “Daddy hit me. Happy?”
“Do I look happy? Get dressed.”
No, he doesn’t look happy. Ever. But he does relax a bit.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why?”
“Have you ever held a gun?”
It seems that not all wires are connected to the right places in his head.
“A gun? You do remember who my father is, don’t you? of course, I’ve held a gun. What’s your point?”
“But you can’t shoot, can you?”
The sudden change in his behavior takes me aback. He’s no longer furious but not an ass either. He prods at me on purpose as if he wants me to use him as a punching bag.
“I can shut your face.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “You will be a self-serving bitch your whole life. Take a day off and get dressed. I’ll teach you how to fire a gun.”
If he’s trying to lift my spirits, then good job. I asked Frank to take me to a shooting range a thousand times, but he always answered with a harshnobut wouldn’t explain why. I dreamt of shooting paper targets since I found a gun in his desk drawer when I was eight. It wasn’t loaded, but I played with it for an hour, pretending to shoot different objects until Frank came home and locked me in my room.
“Aren’t you scared I’llaccidentallyshoot you?” The delight in my voice is almost tangible.
“I bet you won’t hit the target the first time around. Fuck that, the firsttentimes.”
I stop on the stairs, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Not waiting for a change of heart, I rush upstairs to change my outfit in record time. Three minutes later, with boots in hand and a hair tie in my mouth, I stop in the living room. Luca hands me a full glass of wine, waiting until I drink half before he takes me outside to his Dodge.
The shooting range looks like nothing much from the outside. An old building not far from the port, in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods. I’d think the building was abandoned if not for the modern reception desk inside. The paint peels off the walls, dirt marks the concrete floor, and most windows are boarded-up. An older gentleman sits behind the tall, metal countertop, motioning his head in greeting at Luca, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Luca shoves big, black earmuffs over my head. Once he makes sure they’re on correctly, he opens the door to a large, long room.
The wall on my right is covered with different kinds of guns. Hundreds of pistols, revolvers, and rifles hang on large hooks with ammunition littering a metal table. To my left, in the distance, are the paper cut-outs of people. The smell of gunpowder irritates my nose, but a smile tugs at my lips when every shot fired by various men at the stations vibrates through me.
Luca points me toward a distant station, grabbing a medium-sized pistol along with the clip. “Think, Layla,” he hisses when I try to load the gun. “You said you held a gun before. No one told you to aim it at the floor when you’re not shooting? Guns like to fire on their own. If you keep looking into the barrel, you’ll shoot yourself.” He waits until I put the clip in before standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Outstretch your hands.” He explains how to stand and corrects me a few times. “Now, for the most important part.” His knee digs into the back of mine, and I bend my legs, almost kneeling on the dirty floor.
I turn to face him, remembering to aim down so he can’t scold me. “Are you nuts?”
“You’re petite. You have to stand firm, or the recoil will hurt you. If I give you a more powerful gun, you’ll dislocate your shoulder, and Dante will disembowel me.” He turns me toward the target, helping me stand properly. He grips me in a few places, showing me where to tense up, then moves his hands to my arms to see if I’ll bend my elbows. “Here,” he pats my shoulders. “This is where you have to be tense. Your arms and shoulders are the most critical part of your stance.”
I nod, eyeing the center of the target. “May I?”
Butterflies swarm in my stomach, making me feverish. Trying to remember everything Luca said, I slide my finger to the trigger. The recoil shakes my body, and the bullet hits the wall next to the target. I don’t care that I missed. Adrenaline throbs in my veins, erasing my problems.