Page 70 of Dante

“Just trying out a new service,” Dante says as he helps me into the town car.

Our driver weaves through congested city streets before eventually pulling over beside a squat concrete bunker on 20th Street.

It has no windows, just a metal door with peeling paint on its outer walls.

“This is the shooting range?” I ask.

Dante turns to me, his expression a mixture of amusement and impatience. “What were you expecting?”

I feel a little silly. “Did you ever see the TV series Downton Abbey? I was picturing one of those fancy shooting weekends—lords and ladies in tweed, fields with hunting dogs.”

“This is an urban range. No dogs, no tweed. Just targets and bullets. Come. Let’s start.”

The air inside smells of something that must be gun oil. The reception area is a small counter with bulletproof glass and a worn linoleum floor.

“Where’s the actual range?” I ask.

“Not so many questions, California Girl,” Dante says with that smirky half-smile of his.

A large man with forearms like tree trunks emerges from a back room. When he sees Dante, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Kiko, I’d like you to meet my wife, Gina Ricci,” Dante says. “It’s her first time.”

Kiko nods and starts gathering equipment. He pulls out oversized protective glasses and bulky ear muffs.

“I’d start her with a .22,” he says. Dante nods, and Kiko slaps the small gun on the counter.

We crowd into a freight elevator.

A few minutes later, the doors open to reveal a long room with partitioned sections. The rhythmic pop-pop-pop hurts my ears and makes my stomach tighten.

I scan the firing line, surprised by the diversity.

There’s a gorgeous woman in a sleek black catsuit who looks like she stepped out of a spy movie. Next to her is an elderly lady calmly shouldering a rifle.

If Grandma can handle that cannon, I can do this.

“Lane Four,” Kiko announces, dropping our equipment with a thud.

Dante settles the earmuffs over my ears himself. The foam pads muffle the world into a distant hum.

Dante’s face is so close I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes as he concentrates. When he reaches for my shooting glasses, his fingertips brush my temples.

The sensation of his warm breath against my cheek helps relax me. For a moment, I forget the acrid smell of gunpowder.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod, though my palms are moist with sweat. Dante places the black handgun on the counter.

It looks smaller than I expected, but somehow more dangerous. “Watch,” he says, his voice all business.

I force myself to focus as his hands move over the weapon with practiced precision. This is as natural to him as breathing.

“Take it.”

I reach out and wrap my fingers around the gun. It’s way heavier than I expected.

“No,” Dante says immediately. “Higher.”