Page 43 of Rosetti Family New York
I brought her here to teach her to use a gun, and to see if she can hold one and mean it. Spoiler: She can.
The past few days have been filled with tangled sheets, hot nights, and my wife’s dripping pussy. I can almost forget the rest of the world exists when we’re together. But then I remember the Albanians, how they’ve clocked my weakness, and that she is it. She needs to learn to protect herself.
The air is thick with gunpowder, leather, and sweat. Most ranges are lit up like shopping malls, fluorescent light bouncing off every surface, but we keep it dim. Most firefights don’t happen under perfect conditions, and it pays to be prepared.
It’s usually empty this time of day, which is why I chose it. This is where I come to train and clear my mind.
Right now, though, it's Eleanor's stage. The space is nothing like the elegant places she’s meant to belong, but she owns it like she was born here.
Eleanor surveys the line of guns, her fingers grazing over them with confidence. It's a side of her most people never glimpse, and I can't look away. She inspects a handgun, lifting it with deliberate care.
“You think I can’t do this, don’t you?” she challenges, her voice steady as her hands. She surprises me, more than I’d like to admit. I watch as she slides the magazine in place, the motion smooth and practiced, her eyes fixed on the task. “Watch me,” she adds, meeting my gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin.
She stands at the line, looking like she owns the whole world and I’m just a trespasser. Her movements are quick and agile, her focus unwavering. She racks the slide with ease before turning and raising the gun to aim. She handles the weapon like she's done it a thousand times, which rattles me as much as it impresses me. Her precision is unsettling and impressive, a reminder that I’ve misjudged her.
The set of her shoulders is elegant, defiant. I remember thinking she was a glass princess, fragile and breakable. Man, was I wrong.
I expected hesitation. Fear. I thought she’d flinch at the noise, blink away the smoke. But each pull of the trigger is more precise than the last. More determined. Eleanor doesn’t hesitate; she makes her own space and fills it. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Not the skill—the surprise. I don’t like not knowing what to expect. The daughter of a gem dealer, wrapped in diamonds, the trade-off for his precious Juliet. She wasn’t supposed to be a fighter.
But the fire in her eyes says otherwise.
Her shots hit clean, sharp. She reloads like she’s been doing this all her life. Like she’s not just learned but mastered. I shake my head in admiration.
My voice cuts through the next round. “Didn’t take you for a gun girl, wife.”
She barely glances at me. Her fingers work the ammunition with a quiet, fierce precision. “Didn’t take you for a man who underestimates people.” Her tone is smooth, a touch of mockery in it.
It’s a challenge. A game.
I’m at her side before she fires again, watching the sure way she aims. I expected someone who needs teaching. Correction. Not this. Not someone who doesn’t wait for my approval, who already knows what she’s doing.
Eleanor keeps shooting, but I see the tension in her neck. She’s aware of me. More than she lets on.
“Want some help with that?” I ask, my voice casual, knowing it will needle her.
“I can handle it.” She doesn’t even pause.
I let the air settle around us, let the heat between us rise. Then I’m behind her, closing the space. The way her back stiffens tells me she’s ready for the fight but not the heat of my body against hers. My hand closes over hers, adjusting her grip. I hear the quickness of her breath. Feel it.
“You’re stiff,” I say, close to her ear.
She inhales sharply, but her hands stay steady under mine. “I’m fine.”
I don’t move. My voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “Fine doesn’t keep you alive.”
She shudders, and I know it’s not fear. It twists something inside me, the way her body reacts even when her mind resists. The gun goes off again, a perfect shot.
I pull back slightly, just enough to watch her. The tightness in my chest is new, unfamiliar. “Who taught you to shoot?”
A pause. It stretches between us like a dare.
“No one,” she finally says. “I teach myself things.”
My jaw sets. She’s defiant, unyielding. I shouldn’t like it, but I do. “You shouldn’t have had to.” My voice is flat, but the air between us shifts.
She squeezes off another shot, her body absorbing the recoil. “If father learns that I enjoy something, he can use it as leverage.” Eleanor puts the gun down. Her movements are slow, deliberate. She doesn’t turn to face me. “Everything I love gets taken away. My mother. My freedom. My goddamn cat.” A dry laugh escapes her, brittle at the edges. “So I stopped loving things.”
The way she says it cuts deeper than it should. Like she’s already accepted loss as inevitable.
