Chapter 87 Eighty seven
Elena's POV
The range is empty when I arrive.
I prefer it that way. No witnesses, no audience, no one to watch me miss or flinch or struggle. Just me and the target and the gun that has become an extension of my hand.
I set up fresh paper, a new silhouette with its blank chest waiting for my marks. Then I load and begin.
The first shots are warm up. Finding my rhythm, remembering everything he taught me. Breath control. Trigger discipline. The subtle art of becoming still while everything around you moves.
By the tenth round, I am not thinking anymore.
The gun is just part of me now. An extension of my hand, my eye, my intent. I do not aim so much as direct. The bullets go where I look, where I want, where I decide.
I shoot until my arm aches. Until the target is shredded, center mass gone, replaced by a ragged hole that grows with every shot. Until the pile of empty shells at my feet looks like small brass rain.
Something in my chest unwinds.
I did not know it was wound so tight. All these months, all this tension, all this fear and anger and confusion. It has been living in my body like a second skeleton, holding me together but also holding me down.
Out here, with the gun in my hand and the targets falling, it loosens. Breathes. Lets go.
I reload and keep going.
\---
Movement catches my eye. Franco is in the doorway, watching.
He is young, the guard who helped me learn to drive, who looked the other way when I needed things. He has been kind to me when kindness was dangerous. I trust him more than most people in this compound.
He is watching me with an expression I cannot quite read.
"Donna Elena?"
I lower the gun, safety on, the way he taught me. "Franco."
"The Don said to ensure you are safe, but..." He hesitates, shifting his weight. "You do not need me, do you?"
I consider the question.
He is right. I do not need a guard right now. I am not in danger here. And even if I were, I am not helpless anymore. The gun in my hand is proof of that.
But that is not what he is really asking.
He is asking if I have changed. If I am still the woman who needed help, who needed protection, who could not survive this world on her own. He is asking where he fits now, if he fits at all.
I look at him for a long moment. Then I speak.
"I need you to tell me if my form is slipping. That is all."
His face breaks into a surprised smile. He nods, takes a position near the wall, and watches.
I turn back to the target and fire again. Knowing someone is watching, someone whose opinion matters, makes me sharper. Better.
I shoot until my arm shakes and the target is nothing but confetti.
\---
When I finally return to our quarters, I am exhausted in the best way. Muscles tired, mind quiet, the unwound thing in my chest still loose and easy.
I push open the door and stop.
There is a box on the bed. Small, wrapped, no note on the outside. But I know who left it. I know whose gifts always come like this, quiet and mysterious, waiting to be discovered.
I cross to the bed and open it.
Inside is leather. Beautiful, supple, dark brown that will disappear under clothing. I lift it out carefully, turning it over in my hands, understanding what it is.
A holster.
Custom made, I can tell. Stitched perfectly, curved to fit a body. Designed to be worn under clothes, discreet and accessible. The kind of thing that lets you carry without anyone knowing.
I run my fingers over the leather, feeling the craftsmanship, the care, the thought that went into every stitch. It is not just a holster. It is a statement. A recognition.
There is a note at the bottom of the box. Small, white, his handwriting.
For the art you carry now. Both kinds.
I press it to my chest.
The leather is warm against my skin. The words echo in my head. Both kinds. The art I make with brushes and the art I make with steel. He sees them as the same. He sees me as the same.
The woman who paints and the woman who shoots. The woman who restores beauty and the woman who could destroy. He does not want me to choose. He wants me to be both.
I stand there for a long time, holding the holster, feeling overwhelmed by how completely he sees me.
\---
That night, I wear it to dinner.
The holster fits perfectly under my jacket, hidden but present. The weight of the gun against my spine is familiar now, comforting. A reminder that I am not helpless, not anymore.
Silvio is already at the table when I walk in. He looks up, and his eyes catch immediately on the subtle bulge at my back. The way I move, the way I sit, the way the jacket shifts just slightly.
Something hot and proud flares in his eyes.
He does not speak right away. He just looks at me, and I feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with my dress or my hair or any of the things women are supposed to be seen for.
I take my seat. Dinner is served. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
Then he speaks.
"You are armed at my table."
His voice is quiet, but there is something underneath it. Approval. Wonder. A kind of fierce satisfaction.
I meet his eyes. "I am armed everywhere."
He leans back in his chair. The candlelight catches his face, carves shadows across his cheekbones. He looks like a man who has just won something he did not know he was playing for.
Then he raises his glass.
"To my wife." His voice carries, fills the room. "The most dangerous woman in Naples."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks. But it is not embarrassment. It is something else. Pride. Pleasure. The joy of being seen for exactly what I am becoming.
I raise my own glass. Clink it against his.
The wine is rich and dark. It tastes like victory.
We eat the rest of the meal in a charged silence, full of looks and small smiles and the electric awareness of the gun at my back. He knows it is there. I know he knows. It changes nothing and everything.
After dinner, he takes my hand and leads me to our room. The holster comes off slowly, reverently, his fingers tracing the leather before they trace my skin.
"Both kinds," he murmurs against my neck. "My artist. My warrior."
I pull him close and show him that I am both. That I will always be both.
That the most dangerous woman in Naples is also the woman who loves him. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.