“She’s better than more than half,” I correct him. “And better than you were at her first session.”
Enzo scoffs. “You trained me when I was sixteen.”
“And she’s grieving,” I counter. “Grief destroys most people. Makes them sloppy. But her? I think it sharpens her instincts.”
Enzo shakes his head, still staring at the holes clustered dead center. “She looks so delicate. Like someone who should be painting in a garden or arranging flowers, not lighting up bullseyes like a damn sniper.”
“Firefly.”
The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Enzo turns. “What?”
I clear my throat, annoyed I said it out loud. “She just reminds me of a firefly. They may be small and fragile, but they light up to remind predators that they’re also fucking toxic.”
Enzo grins slow. “Firefly, huh? Didn’t know we were giving each other pet names now.”
“We’re not,” I snap.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest.
The name fits her. The contained fury. The light pressed behind her grief. The way she sparks when pushed like a warning and a promise.
Firefly.
The name roots itself in my mind like it’s been waiting there forever.
Enzo leans against the wall, crossing his arms and looking way too smug about this conversation. “You talk about her like a proud papa.”
My jaw tightens, but the answer pulses through me anyway.
I am proud, impressed, hell, intrigued by her.
“She listens,” I say instead of admitting any of that. “She adapts. She doesn’t flinch when someone points a gun at her head. That could make her useful.”
Enzo snorts. “Useful. Sure.”
His smirk tells me he hears every word I’m not saying.
I ignore him and begin stripping the gun down, cleaning it with more precision than necessary.
“She believes getting revenge will fix what’s been broken,” I remark.
“And you envy that?” Enzo asks.
I shouldn’t have said that to her earlier. But it doesn’t make it untrue.
“I guess I envy the clarity,” I admit. “Before you learn what vengeance actually costs.”
Enzo nods his agreement, then quietly studies me for a long moment. “What do you think her pet name for you will be?” he asks, changing the subject and trying to get under my skin at the same time. “Son of a bitch is a bit of a mouthful. Maybe SOB?”
“Watch it,” I warn him. But he’s not wrong. The derogatory slur is the only name I can see her ever giving me. Although I don’t think she’ll risk saying it aloud again where I can hear it.
“She hates you, Maximo. Don’t forget that.”
“She should hate me,” I agree.
And after all this is over, she’ll probably hate me even more.
