Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(13)

‘Bring your left arm around and cup the other side of the gun. No – not so loose.’ He moved around me, his arms coming over my shoulders against my own, his chin resting against my hair as his hands covered mine. ‘Like this,’ he said, shifting my left hand so my fingers cupped the gun. His breath was hot on my neck. I tried to ignore it. He moved his right hand over mine, shifting it higher. ‘Just one finger on the trigger,’ he said, his finger pressing mine into place. ‘Three fingers on the grip.’ He squeezed the rest of his hand over mine, dwarfing it. ‘Keep your feet planted. You need to be able to absorb the recoil.’

I tried to focus. I was not supposed to be feeling this urge to make out with him. He was still morally corrupt – still dangerous, still bad for me. He was still that same boy that had pointed a gun at my head inside the diner. He was still the brother of the guy who was kind and good and smart … My brain knew that. Even my heart did. But right now, in these close quarters, my body didn’t.

‘I’ve got it,’ I said, shuffling out of his grip. ‘I can do it.’

He stepped away from me, leaving my back cold and tingly. ‘OK,’ he said, pointing towards the targets at the other end of the barn. ‘Now bring the gun up to eye level, keep your arms straight out in front of you and aim.’

I hunched up my shoulders, my arms bordering both sides of my peripheral vision. I pointed the gun at one of the middle targets at the end of the room.

‘Picture someone,’ he said. ‘It will make it seem more real.’

I let out a breath. ‘I see Donata.’ I lowered the gun a little, tracing the imaginary lines of her expensive designer suit, her bony neck. ‘I’m aiming at her heart.’

‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘She took yours, now you’ll take hers.’

My mouth had gone dry. My arms were buzzing, and my breathing was coming more rapidly.

‘Let the adrenalin steady you.’ He was behind me again, his hands on my shoulders as he turned me just an inch to the left. He squeezed once – a reinforcement – and then withdrew. ‘Let it focus you.’

I envisioned Donata’s overly made-up face, her sickly grin. I imagined her pallor drained by fear as I aimed my gun at her skeletal frame.

‘Fire,’ he breathed. ‘Kill the bitch.’

I fired.

My hand snapped backwards, the gun veering towards the ceiling on its recoil. ‘Shit,’ I hissed, releasing the trigger. ‘I didn’t think it would be so strong.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Nic assured me, unfazed by the fail. ‘Keep your hand steadier this time. Don’t let the recoil push your grip backwards.’

The exhilaration of firing the gun was fast being eclipsed by the fact that I didn’t get anywhere on the target. I squinted. ‘Where did the bullet go?’

Nic pointed towards the ground on the right of the Donata target. ‘It’s lodged in the wall.’

‘Well, that’s embarrassing.’

‘Your arm lagged.’ Nic stood behind me again. He lifted my hand with his until the gun was in front of me again. ‘You have five more bullets in this magazine. Five more chances to hit a target before we reload.’

I focused entirely on the task at hand, not his breath on my cheek or his voice in my ear. Our arms lined up, and I was thankful for his coat and my sweater. Skin-to-skin would not be a good idea right now. ‘Line up your sight. Hold steady.’

Donata’s features shifted into view. I saw her in my mind’s eye, as plainly as if she was there in front of me.

‘Again,’ he said pulling back. ‘Shoot her.’

I fired again.

This time I was expecting the recoil. My arm still flinched, but not much. I missed the target.

‘Again,’ Nic commanded.

I replanted myself and fired.

Miss.

‘Again.’

Miss.

‘Higher.’

I held my arm higher. It was starting to get tired.

‘Again.’

Miss.

‘Again,’ he demanded.

That one hit the torso of the target next to the one I was aiming for. The bullets had run out. I dropped my arm, and realized I was panting. Frustration and embarrassment warred inside me.

‘Damn it,’ I cursed. ‘I can’t do it, Nic.’ I wanted to throw the gun across the room. ‘I’m terrible at this.’ I am powerless. I am weak.

Nic took the gun from me and reloaded it. ‘You’re a beginner.’

‘A bad one.’

Nic frowned at me. ‘Stop being so hard on yourself.’

‘I want to be good at this,’ I said. ‘Like, immediately.’

Nic threw his head back and laughed at the ceiling. ‘Sophie,’ he said, amusement trilling in his voice. ‘You can’t make yourself an expert marksman in ten minutes. Give yourself the time you need to work on it. I’ll help you, but you need to go easier on yourself.’

‘I can’t,’ I huffed, watching the gun in his hands. The ease with which he handled it, the lazy confidence in his stance. Here was something else unexpected: jealousy. ‘There’s too much at stake.’

His face dropped, seriousness returning like a storm cloud across his features. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you’ll get there. I promise you. You will have your revenge.’ He handed me the gun, loaded again. I took it, determination pulling me back into the shooting stance. ‘The hardest thing to master is the trigger pull. You flinch when you pull it and it throws your body off-kilter. Your brain is telling you to compensate for the recoil but you need to overrule that part of you.’