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“Yeah, he’s not going to shoot me or anything,” he said. “I tested him a few times, and he even pointed a gun at me once, but he couldn’t pull the trigger.”
Instead of making her feel better, her panicked expression only grew. “He pointed a gun at you?”
“Relax, he’s probably pointed a gun at everyone at some point,” he said as he finished getting ready. “You gonna miss me, tesoro?”
“I always miss you when you aren’t here.”
He put on his coat. “Give it a few more months and you’ll be tired of my ass.”
“Never.”
“Great to hear, but what’s that shit they say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Me leaving means you’ll love me more when I get back.”
* * *
The outdoor firing range was a few miles outside of town in the Swannanoa Valley. The field, about four hundred yards in length, had a covered pavilion with various-sized targets. They’d visited it a few times during the years but hadn’t been back since the incident with Nicholas . . . since Carmine went away.
Carmine had been a decent shot since he was a kid, but Vincent’s aim was impeccable, his hand as steady as a professional marksman’s. His bullet ripped straight through the bull’s-eye effortlessly.
Vincent reloaded his M1 Garand after expelling all the rounds and held it out to Carmine. “Do you want to try the rifle?”
Carmine took it and hesitated before handing his pistol to his father. Aiming, Carmine fired once and smirked when it hit the target.
“That was luck,” Vincent said, loading the pistol and firing it. He hit the farthest target, unloading the rounds into it.
“Fucking show-off,” Carmine said, taking another shot and hitting the target again. “See, that wasn’t luck. That was skill.”
“You’re not so bad,” Vincent conceded. “Nicholas can attest to that.”
Carmine rolled his eyes as his father exchanged weapons with him again. He shot at the target, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words. Vincent unceremoniously fired off a few more rounds before lowering his weapon and staring off into space. Carmine realized it then . . . this wasn’t just a casual shooting trip. This wasn’t just father/son bonding time. There was something on Vincent’s mind, something that would be talked about before Carmine would be allowed to go back home.
If Carmine would be allowed to go back home.
“Is that what you wanna talk about?” Carmine said, knowing he’d have to crack first. “Nicholas?”
“No,” Vincent said. “Unless he’s the reason you’ve been in a good mood lately.”
Carmine stared at his father as those words sank in. He knew.
“I couldn’t help it,” Carmine said, the stress making his voice quiver. “It’s not like I set out for this to happen. It just . . . did.”
Vincent remained silent, his lack of response grating on Carmine’s nerves. “Come on, I know you have an opinion—no need to hold back. I can take it. Tell me how fucking disgusted you are that your son would go as low as to fall for a damn sla—” He faltered, unable to finish the word.
“Whether or not you say it doesn’t change anything,” Vincent said. “It doesn’t make the girl more or less of one.”
Carmine waited for something more. “Is that all you have to say? I said I can take it. Tell me it’s wrong, that it’ll never work because people like us don’t belong together. Tell me she’s not good enough for me. Tell me she could never love me.”
“Is that what you want to hear?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Vincent casually glanced at his watch like he was unaffected by the conversation. “Why don’t we get some lunch?”
Carmine cocked an eyebrow. “It would be easier to kill me here.”
“Kill you? What kind of person do you take me for?”
“Well, fuck. I thought you might be the kinda person to hurt an innocent girl. Good to know I was wrong about that shit.”
