Adriana

The knock came at six sharp, hard enough to jolt me out of a restless half-sleep. My body felt heavy, but the moment I opened the door, there was no room for hesitation.

Two of Matteo’s men waited in the hall, dressed in black, their silence a command in itself.

They didn’t speak as they led me downstairs, out of the penthouse, into a waiting SUV. The ride was quiet, the city still half-asleep beyond the windows, but my pulse was wide awake.

By the time we reached the warehouse on the edge of the docks, my palms were damp and my stomach twisted.

Inside, the air reeked of oil and metal. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across stacked crates and the firing range that had been set up at the far end.

Marco stood there waiting, arms folded, eyes cold. Beside him, Lorenzo leaned against a pillar, watching me like I was a bad idea about to prove itself.

One of the men placed a pistol in my hand. It was heavier than I expected; the metal was cold, biting into my palm. For a second, I almost dropped it.

“First lesson,” Marco said, voice flat. “Never let a weapon feel heavier than you are. You own it, or it owns you.”

The drills started immediately. They didn’t ease me in. I was taught to aim, squeeze, and fire.

The first shot nearly ripped through me, the recoil snapping my wrists and ringing my ears. My second was worse. The bullet didn’t even touch the target. Laughter rumbled from one of the men, and shame burned hot under my skin.

“Shut up”, Lorenzo and Marco yelled, and the guards composed themselves at once.

But I gritted my teeth, refusing to put the gun down. They pushed me harder, reloading under a stopwatch, dropping to the ground and firing from my knees, running across the warehouse floor while trying to keep the weapon steady.

My arms trembled, sweat sliding down my back, but I kept going. Every mistake stung, every barked correction cut deep, but humiliation turned into something sharper: resolve.

By the tenth round, my shots started landing closer to the center. Not perfect, but enough to wipe the smirk off Lorenzo’s face.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Lorenzo smirking. He leaned back against the pillar, arms folded like he’d already decided I was a joke.

“Careful, Adriana,” he drawled after one of my shots went wide, the bullet pinging off the edge of the target. “Wouldn’t want you to chip a nail.”

Heat rushed to my face, but I ignored him. My hands shook as I reloaded, fumbling with the gun until Marco barked at me to focus. I breathed deep, forced my fingers to obey, and raised the gun again.

The next shot slammed into the target. Not perfect, but solid. The one after that hit just inches away.

Lorenzo’s smirk faltered.

He had straightened from the pillar, watching closely. His eyes narrowed, and the mockery was gone.

“Again,” Marco ordered.

I fired. The recoil still punished my wrists, but the shot was clean.

When the last bullet cracked through the air, landing dead center, the silence that followed was heavier than the gun in my hand.

Lorenzo’s jaw flexed. He didn’t say anything, but I saw it. the shift. The moment he realized I wasn’t playing dress-up with their world. I was dead serious.

Marco stepped forward, his boots echoing against the warehouse floor. He took the empty pistol from my hands and replaced it with another, freshly loaded, heavier. My palms were slick, but he didn’t care.

He nodded toward the far end of the range. This time, the target wasn’t just a circle with rings. It was shaped like a man with shoulders, torso, and a head outlined in stark black.

“This,” Marco said, his voice like stone, “is the truth of carrying a weapon. It’s not about how fast you reload. It’s not about hitting paper. It’s about choice.” He stepped closer, eyes drilling into me. “Every time you pull that trigger, you decide who lives… and who doesn’t. That weight is heavier than the gun.”

My throat tightened. I stared at the shape, imagining flesh and bone behind it. Suddenly, it wasn’t faceless. My hand shook, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Pull it,” Marco ordered.

I hesitated.

“Do it,” Lorenzo added, his tone sharper now, less mocking.

I drew a breath and squeezed. The shot rang out, tearing into the target’s chest. My heart slammed harder than the recoil.

Marco’s gaze never softened. He stepped in, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “One day, it won’t be wood and paper. It’ll be Riccardo. Or one of his men. You hesitate then…” His eyes locked on mine, cold, final. “And you’ll be the one bleeding out.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the bullet hole smoking in the target’s chest. My pulse wouldn’t slow, but I didn’t look away.

“Enough,” Lorenzo finally said, pushing off the pillar. His voice had lost the teasing edge, replaced with something flat, almost begrudging respect. “She’s done for today.”

Marco glanced at him, then back at me. Sweat plastered my hair to my temples, my arms heavy from the weight of the gun. My chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pulls, but I kept my chin up, unwilling to look beaten.

“It’s ten,” Lorenzo added, checking his watch. “We push her harder, she’ll break.”

I wanted to argue, to say I could take more, but the truth was my body was trembling, every muscle screaming. I lowered the pistol and let one of Marco’s men take it from me.

When they asked where I wanted to go, my answer came without thought. “The hospital. Not home.”

The ride back was a blur: the hum of the engine, the cool air rushing in through a cracked window, the weight of everything I’d just done pressing into my bones. My arms ached, my fingers still tingled from the recoil, but beneath all of that was a single thought: Matteo.

By the time we reached his floor, I was wide awake, adrenaline forcing back exhaustion.

I pushed through the doors of his room, and the sight of him knocked the breath from me. He looked smaller against the machines, his body still, his skin pale against the stark white sheets. The steady hiss and click of the ventilator was the only proof he was still here.

I moved to his side, fingers brushing his hand, cool beneath mine. For a moment, I just sat there, staring, silently begging him to move.

Then I saw a flicker. His eyes.

They fluttered, heavy and slow, but they opened. My heart slammed into my ribs so hard it hurt. “Matteo,” I whispered, panic and hope colliding. My voice cracked as I turned toward the door. “Doctor! I need a doctor!”

Two nurses rushed in, followed by the physician. They checked the monitors, adjusted the tubes, their voices calm but urgent, technical words I couldn’t process.

Finally, the doctor turned to me, a faint smile pulling at his tired face. “He’s improving. If this continues, he’ll be able to breathe without life support soon.”

Relief broke me open. My knees gave, and I sank into the chair beside him, clutching his hand like I’d never let go again. Tears blurred everything, but I pressed my forehead to his arm, whispering his name over and over, as though saying it could bring him back to me.