Page 113 of Knot Made to Break: Part One

Wait… Theyownedthe building?

I gaped, probably looking like a fish out of water.

“I’ve lovingly dubbed this room ‘The Man Cave.’” He swept an arm to motion to the room at large.

I spotted a small bar along one wall, and not one, but two pool tables, an air hockey table, and foosball. Leading me past a leather sectional sitting before the largest TV I’d ever seen; he stopped outside a steel door.

Tapping his fingers rapidly over a security panel, he unlocked it and tugged me inside. Automatic lights flicked on, revealing a full-fledged armory, and beyond that…

Tommas grinned like a kid in a candy store at Christmas time. “Welcome to the range.”

“Are you positive this is necessary?” I winced at the sight of the gun Tommas held out for me to take.

I’d never been a big fan of weapons. Not that I minded other people owning or using them, but if I were being honest, they always kind of frightened me.

I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of having something so powerful, so dangerous, solethal, in my hands. Then again, after having been shot myself, a part of me argued that it would be nice to know how to defend myself, which was exactly the point Tommy had been trying to make while convincing me to let him teach me how to shoot.

“Of course it’s necessary,” Tommas said, losing some of his usual playfulness. “Kit, you need to be able to protect yourself if, for some reason, we’re not around or we’re incapacitated ourselves. Just think of it as another form of insurance.”

I looked at the gun, then at Tommy. His eyes were serious, almost pleading. He didn’t want to force this on me, but hebelieved it was important. With a deep breath, I reluctantly accepted the handgun. It was heavier than I’d expected, the metal cold and smooth. Memories of that night at the theater flashed in my mind—the loud crack of the shot, the searing pain in my arm, the fear that had devoured me whole.

Tommas must have seen the hesitation in my eyes because he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ll take it slow. You don’t even have to fire it today if you’re not ready.”

His reassurance eased some of the tension coiled in my chest. “Okay,” I said, though not entirely convinced.

He stepped behind me, his body close but not touching, and guided my hands to hold the weapon correctly. “First things first: always assume it’s loaded.”

For the next hour, he ran me through all the gun safety rules and taught me more than I’d ever wanted to know about firearms. To my surprise, I found the information fascinating. Knowing how the mechanisms worked, understanding the different parts and their functions—it all made the gun seem less like a magical object of death and more like a tool. A dangerous tool, but one that could be mastered with enough knowledge and practice.

Tommas was patient, never rushing me, and I relaxed. Just a little. Enough to appreciate the way he taught, the way he balanced his natural charm with the seriousness of the subject.

“Ready to give it a try?” he asked with a hint of hope. “Remember, it’s unloaded. This is just to get you used to the weight and feel of it in your hands.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. Handing me the firearm, he stepped back, giving me space, but stayed close enough that I could feel his presence as a buffer against my fear. I raised the gun, steadfastly ignoring the dull ache of my injury. Aiming at the target downrange, I followed his directions, practicing my grip and how to stand properly.

It was exhilarating and…frustrating.

“Do you feel more comfortable?” Tommas asked, moving beside me.

“I think so,” I admitted. “But taking aim and not pulling the trigger is just so…anticlimactic.”

He chuckled, the sound of it as smooth as warm honey. “Trust me, the real thing is a lot more exciting. But you’re doing great. The hardest part is getting over the initial fear.” He paused, then added, “It sounds like you’re ready to load it and give it a try. What do you say?”

I bit my lip, torn. Part of me wanted to run back to the safety of the penthouse, to dive under a blanket and into the book Tommy had been reading to me. But another part of me—the part that remembered how powerless I’d felt when I’d been kidnapped, and again when the Valentinos had bought me, and again when I’d been shot—wanted to seize this opportunity. To take control, even if just a little.

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “Let’s do it.”

Tommas’s grin was infectious. He took the gun from me and expertly dropped the empty magazine with practiced ease.

“One round,” he stated, showing me a single bullet before slipping it into the mag and popping it back into place. He racked the slide, checked that the safety was on. “Take your time. Aim for the center.”

He handed the gun back to me with a reverence that made the moment feel almost ceremonial. After gently placing a pair of earmuffs on me that had a built-in mic so I could still hear him, he moved behind me. Concentrating, mentally running through all I’d learned, I mimicked his movements from earlier, adjusting my grip and stance before flipping the safety off. Even though the target was only technically ten feet away, emotionally it seemed a million miles.

“Remember to breathe,” he coached softly. “As Mel Gibson said in the Patriot movie, ‘Aim small, miss small.’”

Inhaling deeply, I held it, then exhaled slowly and lined up my aim. My hands were steadier than expected, my mind quieter. The world shrank away and grew quiet as that center dot became my sole focus. Suddenly, I wasn’t looking at a piece of paper. I was glaring at Rocco. At Vincent.

Squeeze, don’t pull, I reminded myself.

---