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He gestures to the door. "This is your place now. Obsidian's got eyes on the outside, and I'll be keeping watch here. If you need anything, you know where to find me. We take care of our own."
His voice carries an unspoken promise, a reassurance that the confines of this room are shielded by the unseen forces of the Obsidian Shadows.
As I enter, the door closes behind me, and the shadows envelop the space, casting a cloak of secrecy over my transient sanctuary.
The room, though humble, bears the mark of careful consideration—a haven within the labyrinthine world of alliances and dangers. At this moment, sheltered by the Obsidian Shadows and guarded by the watchful presence of Vinnie DeLuca, I find myself at the crossroads of a new existence—one shaped by loyalty, shadows, and the relentless pursuit of survival.
eight
Now alone in the dimly lit room, the weight of my new reality settles in. The air carries a mixture of tension and the promise of sanctuary, the confines of the secure space a temporary respite from the unpredictable currents of the criminal underworld.
I take a moment to assess the room—a utilitarian arrangement that lacks the comforts of familiarity. The shadows cast intricate patterns on the walls, a silent reminder of the complexities that surround me. As I navigate the space, my thoughts turn to the daunting task ahead—navigating the dangerous world I find myself in.
A laptop sits on a small desk, a tool that will become my conduit to the world beyond these walls. As I power it on, the glow of the screen illuminates my face with a pale blue hue. I delve into encrypted channels, seeking information about the Obsidian Shadows, the Scarlet Vipers, and the delicate balance that defines their dynamic.
The door creaks open, and Dante enters, carrying with him the box. He places it on the table with a measured precision. “This is from your car. Is there anything you need in here?”
I open it. There shouldn’t be any secrets here.
All that’s inside are the gun and bullets.
“My husband’s gun,” I mumble.
Dante’s gaze falls on the corner. The bloody corner.
His gaze shifts to me, but instead of asking about the blood, he holds up the gun. “Do you know how to use this?”
I meet his gaze, uncertainty flickering in my eyes. The world of guns and violence is foreign to me, an uncharted territory in the realm of self-preservation.
“No.”
Dante's response is pragmatic, devoid of judgment. His focus shifts, assessing the situation with a strategic mindset that mirrors the calculated nature of the world we inhabit.
“We’ll fix that,” he said, “but first, are you hungry?”
The question catches me off guard, a reminder of the mundane aspects of life that persist even in the shadows.
Even here, where I’m supposed to be safe, I still don’t have an appetite.
I shake my head, my appetite overridden by the gravity of my circumstances. “Not really.”
Dante's lips quirk in a brief acknowledgment. Without further words, he gestures for me to follow. The corridor leads to an unexpected destination—a shooting range attached to the bar, a covert space where the echoes of gunfire are drowned by the symphony of the shadows.
As we step into the range, the air becomes charged with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Dante, an experienced guide in this realm, begins the process of acquainting me with the tool that may become a lifeline in the unpredictable world of the Obsidian Shadows. In the dimly lit shooting range, surrounded by the echoes of gunfire, I find myself immersed in a crash course—a reluctant initiation into the language of survival in the shadows.
The shooting range is cloaked in the echoes of muffled gunfire, an ambiance that underscores the gravity of the lesson at hand. Dante, the strategist of the Obsidian Shadows, takes on the role of mentor in this unexpected initiation into the world of firearms.
As I stand there, uncertain and vulnerable, holding the strange pistol Dante gave me to borrow for now instead of using my dead husband’s gun, Dante approaches with a silent assurance. His arms encircle me, a subtle yet reassuring gesture that weaves a thread of unexpected comfort amidst the cold steel of the gun and the shadows that envelop us.
I suppress the urge to shy away from his touch and find myself glancing around for Derrick. We stopped attending Christmas parties at his work after a male coworker shook my hand after Derrick introduced us. We never attended any for my job. Derrick was always the possessive type.
But he’s not here. He’s dead.
Not that I’m safe. If anything, I might be in even more danger now.
“Your stance is crucial,” Dante says, his voice low, a measured cadence. “Plant your feet, balance your weight. It's about control, not force."
His words resonate through the range, a steady guide as he positions my body, adjusting the nuances of my stance. The scent of gunpowder hangs in the air, a reminder that in this world, survival often hinges on mastering the tools of self-defense.
