Chapter 4

Rain hammered the pier. The wind off the water was freezing, biting through my thin coat. My lips turned purple. My teeth knocked together so hard they ached.

He said nine. Ten came and went. The pier stayed empty. I called his line three times. Each time, it rang once before he sent it straight to voicemail.

On the fourth try, Camila picked up. "So sorry, Miss Vane. Matteo is busy right now. Do you mind waiting a little longer?"

"Let's go home, Sienna," Elena pleaded, pulling at my sleeve. "He's playing with you."

"Just a little longer, Mom." The world spun around me. Every bone in my body throbbed. I forced a small smile anyway. I didn't have much time left. This was one of the last chances I would ever get to see him. So I stood there until one in the afternoon.

A line of black SUVs splashed through the dirty puddles. The convoy pulled up in front of the rusted shipping container. A guard opened the door. Camila stepped down first. She hung off Matteo's arm, her glossed red lips curving into a smirk. She wanted me to see it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Miss Vane," Camila purred, resting a manicured hand over her belly. "The baby wasn't kicking this morning. Matteo was so worried he rushed me straight to the clinic. Tests took forever. You know how it is."

Matteo frowned and cut Camila off. "She was told beforehand. Why bother explaining?"

I wanted to say that no one ever told us not to wait. But he turned and strode toward the stairs leading below the pier. "Keep up."

A rusted iron gate screeched open. The stench of burnt powder and wet concrete hit my nose. A few naked light bulbs hummed along the underground shooting range. Three custom Browning handguns sat on a metal table, right beside two wooden crates of heavy Magnum rounds.

Camila's eyes darted with a sudden thought. "Matteo, just looking isn't enough. I want the ivory-grip one in the middle. But it's been in storage for five years. The action is too stiff. Before I shoot it, someone needs to load the magazines and break it in."

She leaned against Matteo's arm, whining softly. "Can Miss Vane test it for me? You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Seeing him offer no objection, she jerked her chin at me. "Eight extended mags. Fill them. Now."

Three hundred rounds. He knew I hated guns. Back when he worked for my father, he protected me from everything. I skipped every shooting drill because he promised I would never need a weapon. My hands were always soft. Now, chemo and organ rejection had stripped away every ounce of muscle. My fingers were paper-thin. They trembled under their own weight.

I didn't say a word. I picked up the first steel magazine. The metal was freezing. The moment I forced the first heavy round against the spring, my hands shook uncontrollably.

"Still a delicate princess, aren't you?" Matteo lit a cigarette. He watched the bullets coldly. "Load them. Every single one. If you drop a round, the interest on your debt doubles."

I locked my jaw. I forced my nails into my palms and kept loading. One. Ten. Fifty. The spring grew stiffer with every bullet. The tension pushing back felt sharp as a razor.

I clicked the final magazine into place. My fingers were locked in agony, completely numb.

"Pick it up," Matteo said, his voice flat as stone. "Test fire."

I lifted my head, my vision swimming. "I can't. I don't have the strength."

"You don't have to," Matteo glanced at his watch. "I'll just send a crew to burn down your family estate in Long Island. Then they'll bulldoze your father's grave into the dirt."

My chest seized. "Fine."

I wrapped my fingers around the grip. My legs shook as I pushed myself off the stool. I raised the heavy pistol with both hands. No ear protection. No safety glasses.

Years ago, he stood behind me in this very room. He wrapped his chest against my back, guiding my stance. His rough hands closed over mine to absorb every ounce of recoil. He would murmur in my ear, Don't flinch, sweetheart. I've got you.

Now, he stood six feet away with another woman on his arm. His face was a mask of stone.

I pulled the trigger. Thunder exploded between the concrete walls. Fire flashed from the muzzle. The brutal kickback ripped through my wrists and slammed me backward. My feet slipped on the loose brass. I crashed onto the floor. My skull cracked against the iron leg of the table.

A high-pitched squeal filled my head. My ribs felt crushed. A violent spasm racked my chest. Hot liquid flooded my mouth. I couldn't swallow it down this time. I retched, coughing up a thick spray of dark blood across the bare concrete.

Camila let out a theatrical gasp and pulled back behind him. "Jesus, Matteo, look at all that blood. Did she bring another packet of fake props? It looks disgusting."

Darkness rushed over my vision. A moment later, someone crouched down beside me. "What's wrong with you? Are you hurt?" It was Matteo.

I managed a faint, mocking smile. "Does the great Don care this much about ordinary enemies?"

His face hardened. He pulled his hand from my shoulder.

"Enough. There's a limit to playing the victim," he said. "I'll have my underboss take you to get patched up."

He extended a hand to pull me up. When I didn't move, a cold smirk touched his lips. "What? Did you think I'd rush over and scoop you into my arms like your faithful little guard dog?"

Black spots danced in my eyes. I pushed his hands away with what little strength I had left.

"I don't need your pity," I whispered through bloody lips. "Go back to your pregnant fiancée. She's the one who needs protection."

Something snapped behind his eyes. A flash of pure fury. "Right. My mistake."

He ripped the other loaded handgun off the bench. He turned toward the targets and squeezed the trigger frantically. Continuous flashes lit up his grim, cold face.

The slide locked back. Matteo slammed the smoking steel onto the metal table with a deafening crack. "Gun works fine. But your hands touched it. Now it's filthy." He didn't spare me another glance. "Thanks for the reminder, Sienna. I shouldn't be wasting my breath on garbage. I have a wedding to plan."

He grabbed Camila by the waist and walked out.

Silence fell over the range. The heavy iron door boomed shut.

I lay there in the cold dirt, tasting copper and ash. I brought a trembling hand to my shoulder, where his grip had lingered for just one second.

He hated me. He wanted to destroy me. But that meant he still felt something. Love, hatred, it didn't matter. If my slow death balanced the scales between us, I would take it.