Not only that, I started to miss his banter, his laugh, his voice, and that wasn't good. He wasn't my boyfriend, colleague, or friend. He was my enemy, and I needed to treat him as such. But every time I tried, my stomach tied itself in knots and my heart ached.
I needed to get ahold of myself and let go of whatever disillusions I had of him, and fast. I couldn't trust him, for the sake of my familia. Formyself.
He had to stay at an arm’s length, no matter what. Because if I let him in, he'd ruinme.
Closing my eyes, I listened to the softened beat of the club music below, trying to focus on it. I needed to clear my mind, think of anything else but that damning man. But it wasn't working.
My emotions, thoughts, and body were a wreck, and I couldn't work this way. I got no rest at home, at work, or anywhere else. I barely slept and was running on fumes.
It had to stop or else I'd be no use to anyone. I needed to go to the only place I could to let out some steam—my gun range.
I never imagined a gun,something that could take or save a life, could bring me so much peace, but as I pulled into the shooting range, my tension eased a little.
The hustle and bustle of the city echoed on the wind, the city lights gleaming over the hill. It was remote, filled with trees, no houses, and barely any passing cars: my haven.
When I first picked up a gun again with my instructor, I'd been terrified. Images of Fernando's fat, lifeless body filled my head.
The sound, the smoke, the weight of it in my hand filled me with dread. The uncertainty of whether I'd live another day, if I'dsurvivewas endless.
Without adrenaline coursing through my body, I became weak. The fear running through me was suffocating.
This was where I practiced my aim. Where I cried, screamed, and released every bit of anger that threatened to boil over. Where I let myself wonder how I could lead themafia. Questioned how I could understand a world that I'd never been in. Doubted if I could really manage countless businesses, families,peoplewho depended on me all on my own.
It was the one place I could be vulnerable and embrace the deepest parts of myself. And if it weren't for this plot of land, I might not even be here today.
I hauled my assortment of guns out of my trunk and set them on a wooden table. I started small, with my pistol, Glock, then Magnum.
With each shot, I relaxed a little more. The tension and focus, how I had to hold my breath as I fired each round, the loudbangas it went forth, ripping into the wood, and the satisfaction when I hit the bullseye was like a balm to my nerves.
But while it physically satisfied my body, mentally, my thoughts were chaotic.
I needed more.
Another kick, a louder bang. Something that was turbulent,ferocious. Something with so much force it knocked me out of my head.
Picking up my shotgun, I adjusted my posture, and put my finger on the trigger, when a car pulled into the field. While my men could use the range if they wanted, they rarely ever did.
I turned to face the vehicle. It was too dark for me to fully make out who was in the driver's seat, but once the door opened, I lifted the shotgun over my shoulder and sighed. "I'm not even surprised anymore."
Marco's lips curled into his typical mischievous smile. "I have something for you."
His voice carried a note of excitement that only made my curiosity peak higher. How did he know about my gun range? What did he have for me? Why had the noise in my head quieted down the moment I'd seen his face?
"I'm too tired to play games right now," I warned.
"I know." His voice was muffled as he popped the trunk of his SUV, but he sounded almost sad.
Does he pity me?
Marco rolled his sleeves, revealing swirls of tattooed ink over his muscular arms. I stared at them a moment too long—based on the sudden dryness in my throat—as he pulled out several cases from his trunk.
Focus, and not on him.
I walked over to help, but he waved me away and brought the cases to where my guns were.
"What's in there?"
He opened the case, and my eyes bulged. Nestled inside was a black bazooka.
