Page 76 of Bloody Vows
I load the magazine with practiced efficiency, my movements sure and confident despite the fact that Tristan is watching my every move. When I'm satisfied with the weapon, I turn to face him.
"You want proof that I can hold my own? That I'm not some delicate flower who needs to be protected from the harsh realities of this world?" I gesture toward the targets set up at the far end of the range. "There's your proof."
Tristan crosses his arms over his chest, a smirk playing over his lips. He’s still not taking me seriously, but at least he’s here and not trying to take the gun from me. Given my recent plot on his life, I wondered if we’d get this far. "Show me."
I take my position, feet shoulder-width apart, arms extended, the gun steady in my grip. I take a breath, let it out slowly, and squeeze the trigger.
The first shot hits dead center.
The second and third follow in quick succession, both finding their mark within inches of the first. I empty the entire magazine, each shot precise and controlled, before setting the weapon down and turning to face my husband.
Tristan is staring at the target, then at me, his expression unreadable. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
I shrug. “I practiced a lot, once I convinced my father. It was a good outlet. And if we ever were attacked, I liked thinking I could protect myself.” I press my lips together. “Especially with a man like Sal so close to my father. He made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to always rely on someone else to protect me. I knew he’d never touch me—he’d never risk my father finding out, but still… it made me feel better.”
Tristan nods, looking at the gun in my hand warily. I smile sweetly at him, enjoying how unsettled he is now. There’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes, and that pleases me, too.
He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see something shifting in his expression. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked." I raise the gun again, sighting down the barrel. "You assumed I was helpless. Useless. A liability."
"I never said?—"
“You’ve made it clear that I’m only good for giving you the keys to the kingdom, getting you off, and eventually giving you heirs.” I set the gun down, facing him. “But I’m not an idiot or incapable, Tristan. I’ve been sheltered from a lot of the mafia world, but I’m not blind to what happens. And I don’t want to be shut out. If you’re going to make decisions that affect me, then I want to be a part of them.”
Tristan’s eyebrows rise. “Like you consulted me when you plotted with Enzo?”
“Are you never going to let that go?” I glare at him, and he laughs bitterly.
“It’s been days, Simone. No, I’m not letting it go. You discussedkillingme. And you’ve never apologized. Never told me anything other than that I have toearnyou. But you’re not trying to earn anything yourself.” He looks down at me, frustration in every line of his handsome face. “You think you deserve respect, Simone, because of who you are. But you have to earn it, too.”
I press my lips together. “So you’re admitting you need to earn me.”
His jaw tightens, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, you’re frustrating,célie.”
“So are you,” I reply evenly, and he looks at me, letting out a long breath.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, shaking his head. I bite my lip.
“What don’t you know?”
“Any of it. What to do next. Whatwe’regoing to do.” He takes a step back, looking at me for another long moment. “I’m glad Iknow this about you, Simone. I’m glad you showed me this. But I… I need to think. I need space. Maybe all of this was a mistake, from the start.”
And then, once again, before I can say anything, he walks away from me. Out of the range, out of the door, and into the twilight, leaving me there.
This time, I don’t go after him.
Because I don’t know what we’re going to do either.
20
SIMONE
The next afternoon, I find a package on my bed.
It's wrapped in expensive black paper with a silver ribbon, the kind of packaging that screams luxury boutique. For a moment, I just stare at it, until I see the small card tucked under the ribbon with my name written in Tristan's bold handwriting.
My hands shake slightly as I untie the ribbon and peel back the paper. Inside is a dress—a stunning red cocktail dress that probably cost a fortune and is exactly my style—sleek, elegant, and simple. The fabric is silk, cut in a way that will hug my curves while still maintaining an air of sophistication. Beneath it are matching heels—a pair of delicate, strappy nude Louboutins that will make my legs look endless—and a small black velvet box containing a set of diamond earrings and a waterfall necklace that takes my breath away.
