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“Why?”
“I’m teaching you how to shoot.”
She gave me a blank look. “You think the MC will let me carry around a gun.”
“Bou does,” I said. “Though none of the other ol’ ladies do.”
“Don’t call me an ol’ lady,” she snapped.
“What would you prefer I call you?” My question was mostly meant for me alone, to remind myself that she would be Sas’s wife.
“Whore,” she said in a small voice.
I stopped her before we entered. “You’re not a whore, Adelina.”
Her lips were pinched in a frown, and her eyebrows were drawn together. She was thinking hard, and I was scared of what might be running through her brain. She was a lot more complicated than the kid I used to know. Then again, I was more complicated than I had been when I went off to the Marines and tried not to come back.
We had both changed, and I needed to remind myself of that.
“Adelina,” I said gently when she didn’t respond to me.
“Can we just get this over with?” she asked, waving her hand to the check-in desk and the guns and bullets in the glass cases.
The man at the desk watched us carefully, and we could quite possibly be the best entertainment he had all day. He dragged his eyes over her, and I bit back a retort at him for looking at her like that. However, I was sure I had been looking at her with the same hunger.
“Why are you acting like this?” I hissed at her.
“Like what?” she asked, working her jaw.
We exchanged wordless conversation when our eyes met. She knew what I wanted to say because she knew exactly what she was doing—acting like a brat.
“You’re the one who wants me to shoot.” She waved her hands in a grandiose motion toward the guy and the counter. “Let’s get on with it.”
“You don’t want to?” I asked, holding my hands behind my back. I couldn’t trust myself not to reach out and touch her.
“It’s not like I’m going to get the chance to use it,” she said.
“And if you did have the chance, or if you were cornered by someone in the club, would you take the chance?” I asked.
She hesitated.
I fucking knew she was too close to Sas and Graff and maybe even more of the bikers. She didn’t understand how much danger she was in with every last person in that warehouse packing like they were.
“Come on.” I jerked my head over to the shoot range check-in desk and got us started with the paperwork.
Once we had a lane, I loaded my gun.
Adelina stood off to the side, arms crossed. She frowned as I checked the magazine and then the safety. I had already checked everything this morning but repeated the process now. I always went through the S.A.F.E. and A.C.T.T. steps every time guns were involved. I’d seen one of my soldiers put a bullet through his left eye, and that was enough of a cautionary tale.
Adelina chewed her thumbnail, acting squeamish and jumpy. We hadn’t even started, but she flinched at the guns around us. You would think with her presence in the Mafia, growing up around guns, that she would be more comfortable. But even though her father, grandfather, and the capos carried, she had never been asked to hold a gun. Let alone shoot one.
I slid the magazine back into the gun and loaded the chamber. Being doubly certain, I checked the safety—engaged.
“Here.” I offered her the gun.
Adelina shook her head. “No.”
“Yes.” I moved closer to her. “You need to learn how.”
