Page 31 of Pietro
Just before lunch, he appears at my desk. "Come on."
"Where?"
"If you're going to be around here, you need to know how to shoot. Properly."
The range is in the building's basement, which shouldn't surprise me but does. Of course the Sartoris have a private gun range in their legitimate business headquarters.
Pietro unlocks a cabinet, revealing an arsenal that would make law enforcement weep. He selects a Glock 19, checking it with practiced efficiency.
"You've shot before." Not a question.
"Target shooting. Years ago." True enough. Dad started teaching me at ten, said a woman should never depend on a man for protection.
Pietro loads the magazine, movements efficient and precise. "This isn't target shooting. This is survival."
He hands me the weapon. The metal feels heavier than memory, weighted with implications.
"Safety." He indicates the switch. "Sight picture." He stands behind me, arms coming around to guide my hands. "Trigger discipline."
His chest presses against my back. I forget how to breathe.
"The key is not to pull." His voice drops low, intimate in the enclosed space. "You squeeze. Like you're pressing something delicate."
His hands cover mine, warm and steady.
Oh shit, I’m shivering.
"Breathe in." His instruction whispers past my ear. "Hold." A pause that lasts forever. "Now."
I squeeze.
The paper rips, a perfect bullseye.
"Again."
I empty the magazine, each shot finding its mark. Pietro's approval radiates from behind me, his hands never leaving mine.
"Good girl."
The praise shoots straight through me, pooling heat between my thighs. I'm grateful he can't see my face, the flush spreading down my chest.
He steps back, taking his warmth, leaving me cold and aching.
"Natural talent." He reloads the magazine with swift efficiency. "Or more practice than you're admitting."
I turn to face him, finding him closer than expected. "Does it matter?"
"Everything matters." His eyes search mine. "Every secret, every lie, every truth you're not telling me. It all matters."
Time slows. He knows I'm hiding something. Maybe multiple somethings. But he's keeping me close anyway.
"Again." He nods toward the target. "This time on your own."
I shoot until my arms ache, until my ears ring despite protection, until the target is nothing but shredded paper. Pietro watches in silence, occasionally correcting my stance, fingers grazing my hip or shoulder.
Each touch burns through clothes, leaving invisible marks.
When we're done, when I've proven I can protect myself if needed, he locks the weapons away and leads me back upstairs. But instead of returning to the office, he stops at his door.
