Chapter 18
She needed to keep her trigger finger sharp—no point wasting time cooped up at home.
But leaving Jack alone in the viper's nest that was the Windsor estate? Not happening. So she'd brought him along.
The kid had a mouth tighter than a vault. In all their time together, she'd only heard him speak once. That worked in her favor.
When Carter spotted Elizabeth walking in with the unusually quiet but adorable Jack in tow, surprise flickered across his face. But he didn't ask questions—just silently held the door open.
The club still carried that familiar scent of gunpowder and brass.
Elizabeth settled Jack onto a plush sofa in the lounge area, handing him a simple toy. "Stay here for a bit, okay? I'll be right back," she said softly.
Jack nodded obediently, clutching the toy in his small hands. His curious eyes surveyed this strange new world that reeked of ammunition, but fear never crossed his face.
Elizabeth ruffled his hair before turning toward the range.
Load. Chamber. Raise. Aim. Fire.
Each movement flowed like water.
The bullets struck dead center with satisfying thuds.
Power. She needed more power.
Only by becoming strong enough could she carve her way through these circling predators and make her enemies pay.
She lost herself in the rhythm of shooting, as if only this could quiet the bloodlust and urgency churning inside her.
What she didn't notice: Jack had set down his toy. Through the glass partition, he watched her silhouette—gun raised, shoulders squared—with silent focus.
Elizabeth finished emptying a magazine and was examining the tight cluster of bullet holes when Carter approached with two water bottles, his face alive with barely contained excitement.
"Elizabeth!" His voice pitched higher than usual as he gestured toward the lounge. "That little guy you brought? He's something else!"
She followed his gaze. Jack still sat on the sofa, but now held a child-sized toy gun that fired foam darts. He was carefully aiming at a makeshift paper target on the far wall.
Nothing special about that. Elizabeth started to look away—until she saw how steady his small hands held the toy, how his face tensed with concentration. Then the foam dart launched, landing precisely on a tiny marker at the target's edge.
Her eyebrow arched.
Jack raised the gun again, adjusted his stance slightly.
The next several darts, though lacking real force, clustered with eerie precision around the center zone.
No three-year-old should have that kind of accuracy just fooling around.
Carter clapped a hand on her shoulder, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "See that? The kid's a natural! Just like you! I handed him that toy gun on a whim, and—boom—turns out he inherited your killer aim! Future sharpshooter material right there!"
Carter had no clue about Jack's real identity. He just assumed the boy was Elizabeth's son.
The man was genuinely blown away by this "mother and child's" uncanny talent.
Listening to Carter's praise while watching Jack's focused, precise movements, Elizabeth felt something strange bloom in her chest—a pride she couldn't quite name, mixed with an odd sense of fulfillment.
As if he really were her child, earning recognition from someone who knew his stuff.
But reality snapped her back.
Her son? No, Jack wasn't hers.
She studied those features that looked more like Jacob every day, that innate instinct with firearms. And she understood.
His talent came from Jacob.
That man had clawed his way through gunfire and mountains of corpses to build his empire.
Of course, his son would carry this gift.
She pushed down the ripples Carter's assumption had stirred and gave him a mild smile. "Probably just beginner's luck. Kids mess around."
Still, she couldn't help stealing another glance at Jack.
Powerful blood ran through that child's veins.
Carter wasn't buying it, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "Luck? Hell no! That's pure talent! Elizabeth, bring him around more often—I'll help train him! Kid'll be better than both of us combined!"
Elizabeth smiled noncommittally, neither accepting nor refusing.
She walked over and crouched in front of Jack.
Seeing her, he set down the toy gun, his big eyes locked on her face.
Elizabeth pulled out a tissue and gently dabbed the tiny beads of sweat on his nose—concentration did that. Her voice came out softer than she'd intended. "You like this?"
Jack glanced at the toy gun in his hands, then back at her. Slowly, he nodded.
Something shifted in Elizabeth's chest.
Maybe teaching this kid some self-defense skills wasn't the worst idea.
After all, in a world like the Smith Family's, every skill meant one more chance at survival.
"Then we'll come back." She spoke quietly. "But this stays between us, okay? Don't tell Daddy."
Jack's eyes seemed to brighten. He nodded again, his small hand reaching out to wrap around her finger.
Elizabeth looked at their joined hands, then at the toy gun. A thought crossed her mind: Jacob, you had no idea your son's destined to walk the same bloody path you did. And now I was part of that journey.
Deep inside the Sunnyvale Club, behind a pane of one-way glass, a middle-aged man in a loud printed shirt and meticulously groomed goatee swirled whiskey in his tumbler, watching the range and lounge with keen interest.
Pacquiao—the club's true owner.
Unlike Jacob's newer, razor-sharp operation, Pacquiao represented old-blood mafia families with roots tangled deep in the city's underworld.
The two factions clashed regularly over territory and business.
He'd only stopped by for a routine check. He hadn't expected dinner and a show.
"That girl's got serious skills," Pacquiao murmured, sipping his drink, eyes appraising Elizabeth.
He'd met plenty of dangerous people. But young, beautiful women who could shoot like that? Rare breed.
"Boss, that's Elizabeth—the Windsor Family's black sheep daughter," his lieutenant reported quietly. "Recently got engaged to Jacob."
Pacquiao's eyebrow lifted, intrigue deepening. "Smith's fiancée?"
A playful smirk tugged at his lips. "So that's his type? Wonder if he knows he's picked himself a rose with thorns."
His gaze drifted to Jack in the lounge.
At first, just a casual glance. But the longer he looked, the more familiar those features seemed.