Page 61 of Bound in Possession

"Not bad, princess," I murmur, stepping in to take the empty firearm from her hands and setting it safely on the bench. "Not bad at all."

She smiles at me, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth that hits me harder than any bullet ever could. It’s flushed with victory, completely devoid of the lingering shadow from last night’s ambush.

"Again," she says, her fingers already reaching for a fresh magazine on the silver tray.

We go through a few more drills, the steady, rhythmic bang-bang-bang echoing off the concrete walls as she dials in her accuracy. She takes a dozen more shots, each grouping tighter and more lethal than the last, her focus unbroken until the slide locks back on an empty chamber.

"That’s it for today," I declare, taking the hot firearm from her grip and dropping the magazine onto the bench. "Training is over."

"What? No, I’m just getting into the groove," she protests instantly, wiping a stray lock of hair from her sweat-sheened forehead and trying to reach for the loaded piece on the counter. "I want to try moving while firing this time. Give me ten more minutes."

I step into her space, towering over her and firmly blocking her access to the weapon counter. I stand my ground, my eyes cutting through her stubborn protest with absolute finality.

"Your muscles are already tight, and your grip is starting to fatigue, Camilla," I say, my voice smooth but unyielding. "Fatigue creates bad habits, and bad habits get you killed. You rest now. That’s an order."

She rolls her eyes with a dramatic, exasperated sigh, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips tells me she knows I’m right. "Fine. But we’re coming back down here tomorrow."

"We’ll see," I rumble, guiding her toward the exit with a hand resting comfortably at the small of her back.

We head back upstairs, leaving the cold, clinical air of the subterranean armory behind. After a quick wash to clean the gunpowder residue off our hands and arms, we make our way to the dining room for breakfast.

The long mahogany table is already fully laid out—bowls of fresh fruit, hot espresso, eggs, pastries, and cured meats filling the center. Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, deceptive normal calm over the room.

I pull out a chair for Camilla before taking my place at the head of the table beside her. As we sit down to eat, the weight of the morning settles into a quiet, electric harmony between us—two survivors breaking bread together before the next storm inevitably hits.

The quiet calm is shattered halfway through our meal when the sharp, buzzing chime of Camilla’s phone rings against the mahogany table. She glances down at the screen, her relaxed expression instantly hardening into a mask of pure steel. She presses the phone to her ear.

"Hello, Dad," she says calmly.

My ears perk up instantly, my jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitches in my cheek. Massimo Caruso. The mere sound of his name makes my blood heat with an ugly, burning rage. The arrogant bastard who treated his own daughter like a bargaining chip, putting her up for bid to strengthen his empire. I force myself to pick up my coffee cup, keeping my eyes fixed on her as I listen intently.

The conversation takes a fascinating turn. Massimo’s muffled, demanding voice filters through the receiver, and Camilla answers him with smooth, unbothered precision. She begins laying out details regarding our syndicate's regional logistics—specifically pointing out key shipping lanes and financing routes.

Except every single detail spilling from her lips is dead wrong.

She feeds him false locations, scrambled timelines, and completely fictitious shell accounts with the flawless composure of a seasoned operative.

I watch her quietly, taking a slow sip of black coffee as the scene unfolds right in front of me.

"I'll keep you updated if I hear anything else," she says coldly, cutting off his response before tapping the screen to end the call. She sets the phone face-down on the linen tablecloth.

I wait a long beat, letting the heavy silence stretch across the table, before setting my cup down with a sharp clink.

"What the hell was that about?" I ask, my voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Camilla doesn't flinch. She picked up her glass, taking a casual, unhurried sip of her orange juice before looking directly into my eyes.

"My father wants me to spy on you," she says plainly, as if discussing the morning weather. "He was asking what you’ve told me about your financing routes."

I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers beneath my chin as I study her face. "And you gave him completely false information," I say, probing deeper. "Why?"

Camilla sets her glass down, her dark eyes flashing with a sharp, lethal conviction that makes my chest tighten.

"Maksim, I told you," she says softly, her voice carrying an unwavering weight, "I owe no loyalty to the man who sold me at an auction and treated me like property."

A sudden, intense hit of dark pride hits my chest. She didn't just reject her father; she actively handed him a trap, firmly aligning herself with me. I am thoroughly impressed, but I keep my persona locked in place, masking the satisfaction warming my chest behind a neutral nod.

"Eat your breakfast, Camilla," I say smoothly, gesturing toward her plate.