Page 151 of Maddening Fixation

Slowly, he withdrew a sleek black handgun.

Instead of aiming it...

He turned it grip-first and placed it gently into my open palm.

Our fingers brushed.

The contact lasted barely a heartbeat.

Yet the unexpected warmth of his skin sent a strange current racing through me.

I hated myself for noticing.

I curled my fingers around the weapon instead.

Its familiar weight settled comfortably into my hand.

“I believe you know how to use one,” Romeo said.

His tone remained neutral, though there was unmistakable scrutiny behind the words.

He wasn’t asking. He was testing me.

“I do.”

I checked the weapon with practiced efficiency before securing my grip.

“My father made sure of it.”

A slow nod followed.

“I thought as much.”

Romeo climbed out of the SUV.

“Come.”

Cool night air greeted me the moment I stepped outside.

The breeze swept across the industrial yard, raising goosebumps along my bare arms.

Without thinking, I tucked the handgun securely into the waistband at the back of my shorts, where it rested comfortably against my lower back.

The familiar weight grounded me.

Growing up as daughters in a Bratva family hadn’t spared Yarina or me from training.

Quite the opposite.

Because my father had no sons to inherit his legacy, he insisted that both of us learn enough to survive.

Our childhood had been divided between ordinary lessons and brutal discipline.

Early morning conditioning. Hours of self-defense. Martial arts until our muscles gave out. Firearms practice until loading and firing became second nature.

Situational awareness. Escape tactics. How to recognize an ambush. How to survive one.

My father had never allowed us into the inner workings of the organization.