Page 49 of Vicious Little Games

15

Cass

Ihobble around on my ankle for the next few days, wishing I could forget about how things went down in the gym. Wishing I wasn’t such a fucking idiot.

I should’ve kicked Saul’s ass. That’s what I should’ve done. And instead, I …panicked, which is not something I’m used to doing.

Ever since then, Cole has been watching me like a hawk as if trying to figure out what’s going on with me.

And each and every time, I tell him to fuck off. Then, I make a point of asking my father when Cole’s still in earshot about when he’s going to set me up on a date.

Cole needs to give up and leave me alone once and for all.

But it’s like the more hateful I am to him, the nicer he is to me. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

Today, I’ll have to beat him fair and square, and hurt his ego at the same time.

When we pull up at the shooting range just outside of town, Cole looks awfully smug. I couldn’t help but notice that he’s been wearing a gun underneath his clothes lately. Most likely it’s either Matt’s or Lowell’s firearm. Just because he carries a gun around doesn’t mean he can shoot it accurately.

Part of being a mob boss like my father means always being armed and ready to blow the heads off fuckers.

That’s why Daddy taught me and my sisters how to handle a gun when we were preteens. He told us that it was an important life skill for us to know, but that guns are not toys, and should be handled carefully.

I’ve always liked the way all that power felt in my hands when I pulled the trigger and the bullet exploded out, heading in the direction I pointed the muzzle.

Madison tried unsuccessfully to improve her shot, but Sophie hated touching a gun. She would rather just beat someone with her tennis racquet rather than shoot a hole in them.

The fact that Sophie apparently sliced up a man’s dick recently is crazy. I refuse to believe it was my baby sister and not her mobster husband who wielded the knife that ripped into Flynn Dunne’s manhood.

Anyway, Daddy keeps his guns locked in his safe, and apparently Madison even stole one when she left. He bought me my own for my eighteenth birthday since he still refused to let me get my driver’s license even once I was legally an adult.

“Finally ready to see if you’re any good with your piece?” I ask Cole when we climb out of the SUV and head to the outdoor shooting range.

“Oh, you know exactly how good I am with my piece,” he replies quietly. “I’m also a decent shot with my gun.”

“Your gun?”

“One of the two guns I confiscated from your fuck buddies.”

His comment somehow manages to make me horny and nauseous all at once. My bed has been lonely the past few weeks. I haven’t even felt like getting myself off, which means that the last time I had an orgasm was at Sophie’s wedding riding my stepbrother.

Whether or not Cole realized it that day, it was an angry fuck. I was furious at him, but unfortunately, still wanted to jump his bones.

Once we get set up to practice in our own shooting lanes, I realize that Cole is actually a decent shot. But still, he’s only average at best. He probably has no idea that since having my own gun I’ve set up a target and practiced on the roof near Sophie’s tennis court several times a month.

While hand-to-hand fighting is my preferred method of violence because you never have to worry about having a loaded weapon on you, I also know that a gun is more deadly than my hands will ever be, without needing to be face-to-face with the bad guy.

I refuse to ever let myself be taken and killed by one of my father’s enemies like supposedly happened to my mother.

“Before we begin,” my father says loudly, to get our attention. I remove my earmuffs and Cole does the same as we turn toward him. He’s standing and observing with Vanessa and his head of security, Titus. “Your accuracy with a handgun won’t prove to me if you’ll be a good leader or not, but it will help me feel more confident about your ability to protect yourself. If you can’t protect yourself, you’ll be dead fast. You can’t depend on the guards to always be around or armed. So, show Titus what you can do. He’ll be the judge of today’s challenge.”

The big man crosses his arms over his chest and says, “My decision will be easy. Whoever hits more bullseyes out of fifty shots wins. There will be ten targets positioned at various distances, five shots for each one. May the best marksman win.”

Markswoman is what he should have said. Because a few moments later, I’m the clear winner.

“Damn, Cass,” my father says as he and Titus examine each of the paper targets.

“She killed it,” Titus remarks. “Hands-down winner. Sorry, Cole.”

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