Page 7 of Gunner

I’m half lost in the past, half still thinking so hard about last night—the creep in the yard, and the fact that the cameras on the house picked up nothing—that I’m not watching where I’m going.

My right foot wedges in the cobblestone street. I don’t realize the spike heel is trapped until I go to step and my foot jerks painfully. The snap is clear, though thankfully, it’s not from my feet or ankles.

The shoe is so stuck that I have to hobble around, one foot bare, and turn and yank it out of the crack.

Merda.

The shoe is ruined beyond repair. I could find a way to snap the heel off the other shoe so that I can walk home, but I’d likely be at it for a while out here with people staring at me. There are plenty of shoe stores down this way. I glance up and spot one at the end of the block.

I hobble to it. I should have just worn sneakers like everyone else. But anything with a flat sole just doesn’t do it for me. I even wear heels to school most days, although I tone it down to kitten height. Very few days have I ever worn flats. What can I say? I was raised like a princess. My mom passed her love of fashion on to me. Also? We’re Italians.

Was Italian. What am I now?

I literally limp into the shoe store. It’s definitely a family place, with no high-end designer brands. There are basketball shoes and some truly god-awful sandals in the window. This is the kind of place that for sure has plain black flats.

As I walk past the displays and rows of boxes, sneakers, more sandals, rubber boots, things that look like hard soled slippers, and sliders, a pair of plain flats definitely seem like the best option.

The women’s section is right at the back, past all the kids’ shoes.

There’s a woman with a little girl in that section. She’s sitting down on a stool while her mom bends over her feet, trying to stick on a pair of rainbow shoes that probably light up. The girl giggles, her auburn curls bouncing, striking green eyes flashing.

My chest aches with that burst of laughter. I love kids. I work with them all day long. I truly do enjoy what I do, even if my life was never supposed to go this direction, but some days are hard.

Having a normal family isn’t in the cards for me.

What would I do? Meet a regular man and explain to him that I’m in hiding because the fucking Italian mafia once kidnapped me and oh, by the way, my father is also one of Italy’s most notorious drug lords? Sure, they’d be lining up by my door.

“Stand up, Penny. Try those out.” The mother straightens. She’s tiny and adorable, with long hair and soft, dark eyes.

The girl bounces up off the seat like she’s spring loaded. She rushes around the shop, putting miles on those shoes, right to the front door.

A beast of a man steps in front of her, so big that he literally blocks out the sunlight coming in through the windows. I freeze on the outside, but inside, everything goes still. Lungs. Heart. Molecules and fucking cells. Breath? What breath?

It’s his eyes that I notice first. Ice blue. Cold and hard. Empty and dead. The kind of eyes that are like mirrors, but not into the soul. When you look into them, all you see is your own reflection.

His head is shaved on the sides, taken right down to the scalp and long on the top, intricate black and gray tattoos twisting over his bald scalp.

His appearance matches the leather vest, which I notice next. There are patches all over it, the one on the front that denotes him to be a one percenter, the most glaring. His shirt sleeves are pushed up and his arms are inked, but the ink foldsand swirls wrong, like it’s been hammered into and over scarred skin. I don’t want to be caught staring, but it’s so hard to look away.

He’s utterly captivating. Frightening, with his hard, expressionless face, so beautifully cut and chiseled all the same. He reminds me of my father’s soldiers—a man who immediately strikes fear into the hearts of others. An enforcer or someone who is exceptionally good at extracting information.

I wonder what he does for that biker club he’s a part of.

I wonder if he’s a bad man. There are parts of me that don’t care.

I watch him for another few seconds. He doesn’t seem like an evil man. I’m pretty good at reading people and picking out their aura.

The little girl stops short of the giant. She’s clearly familiar with him and shows no fear. She doesn’t run away screaming, like a grown man and most sane people would be tempted to do. She smilesup at him before she circles around the store and returns to her mom.

Is that man the girl’s father? The way the woman looks at him and smiles slightly, like she’s relieved that he blocked her daughter from racing out the door and sprinting down the street to test out her new shoes, speaks of familiarity, but not necessarily romance. She could be reserved, though. A couple who doesn’t believe in PDA.

A wild, white hot spark of jealousy flares in my chest, stealing my breath for a second time.

The giant hasn’t noticed me. I step closer to the women’s shoes for cover and peek at the glorious warrior again. I knowwhat I’m doing is illicit and irrational, but I can’t stop my eyes from tracing that same path.

He grunts low in his throat before turning his head to the window to scan the street outside. Like a guard. I’m familiar enough with my father’s men to recognize the gesture. I don’t think this man is Penny’s father and the woman doesn’t belong to him either. The tight chokehold squeezing my throat relaxes slightly, which disgusts me.

There is no way in hell I should be attracted to a man who clearly represents trouble. My father always promised me he’d marry me to someone normal and get me as far away from his life as he could. An accountant or a businessman. Someone who could look the other way about his father-in-law but would still appreciate the old-fashioned dowry I’d bring to the marriage.

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