Chapter 7 7

Isabella POV

The late summer sun beat down mercilessly on the yellowing grass of the Trinity College shooting range. The scent of expensive French perfumes clashed with the metallic tang of dry earth and old gunpowder. I stood in the line of girls, the dark thrill of Grayson's near-fatal collapse fading into nervous exhaustion as we waited.

Valentina Mendoza fanned her flushed face, her patience finally snapping. "This is absurd," she complained loudly, making sure everyone heard. "Whoever this 'instructor' is, he clearly doesn't understand who he's keeping waiting. I should have my father call the Falcones to remind them of our arrangement."

Before the murmurs of agreement could spread, a black, bulletproof Cadillac V-16 rolled silently to a halt near the dirt berms.

The heavy door opened, and Damon Falcone stepped out.

The air instantly grew heavy, suffocatingly dense. He didn't even glance at Valentina as his storm-blue eyes swept the range, calculating and cold. "My business does not wait for your schedule, Miss Mendoza," he said, his voice a lethal, icy drawl that cut through the heat.

Valentina paled instantly, her mouth snapping shut. The silence that followed was absolute. Damon had established his unquestionable authority with a single sentence.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries. At his gesture, heavy Springfield M1903 rifles were distributed to each of us. "Standard firing position. Fifteen minutes," he commanded.

A collective gasp rippled through the line. The wood and steel were incredibly heavy. Within seconds, Valentina lowered her barrel an inch, her face twisting in indignation. "This is barbaric. It's not suitable for ladies-"

Damon's gaze pinned her, devoid of any mercy. "A woman who cannot bear the weight of steel does not deserve the protection of the Falcone family. You may leave."

The threat hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Valentina swallowed her pride and raised the rifle, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

I tried to focus on the target ahead, but my own arms were trembling violently. My physical conditioning was abysmal. The rifle felt like lead, pulling my shoulders down, my posture crumbling with every passing second. I prayed to remain invisible, but Damon's heavy footsteps crunched on the dry grass, stopping right behind me.

I stopped breathing.

He didn't use his hands. Instead, the freezing muzzle of his ivory-handled Colt M1911 pressed against the base of my spine. I gasped. He pushed the barrel upward, forcing my back straight, then traced the cold metal along the underside of my arm until my elbow locked into the correct height.

The phantom touch of the gun sent a violent shiver through me, perfectly mirroring the dark, possessive dream I'd had in his study. My heart hammered against my ribs.

He leaned in, his chest brushing my back, and whispered into my ear. "Your face is very red, *piccola*" (little one).

The nickname struck me like lightning. *Piccola*. It wasn't just a dream. It was a promise. Heat flooded my neck, a mix of profound shame and terrifying awareness. I opened my mouth to blame the sun, but Damon had already straightened.

His mask of indifference snapped back into place. "Your physical conditioning is pathetic," he announced loudly, the words echoing across the silent range.

The public slap of his words tore through me, unlocking a vault of agonizing memories. In my past life, it was this exact physical weakness that had left me defenseless when Grayson and Clara locked me in that freezing warehouse. They had broken my frail body with effortless cruelty, leaving me to die like a clipped bird.

The humiliation burning in my chest didn't break me; it forged something lethal. I stared down the sights of the heavy rifle, my muscles screaming in agony, but I refused to lower the barrel. I would master this steel. I would build my strength. I would survive long enough to watch Grayson and Clara drown in their own blood.