20. Vogue

"Will there ever bea time when there isn't a dead man with his head blown off on the floor when I'm in here?"

Dad chuckles, and Adam even lets out something akin to a snort of amusement.

"I'm so proud of you, Vogue. Most would run, cry, hide. You're doing none of those things. My blood is strong in your veins."

I wipe my palms on the fabric of my skirt. It's not that they're sweating; I can't do nervous. Not here. Not now. But there's something about fresh blood that makes me want to scrub away the invisible taint.

Feeling Leonard's all over my skin again makes me want to run, cry and hide. Watching someone else do it is easier to disassociate, and I'm really good at that.

I've stepped over the thin line that separates life from whatever lies beyond. Dad rises, crosses over to a cupboard along the side of the office, and pours himself a drink. "You'll need to get used to this," he says without turning around.

"I am used to it," I lie smoothly.

He turns now, scrutinising me with those sharp eyes that miss fuck all. "Really?" There's a challenge in his voice.

"Yeah, really," I snap back.

Dad nods slowly before offering me a glass, which I take and down in one go. The burn feels good, like a cleansing fire. My head swims, but I push it aside. I push everything aside. This is what I signed up for—all of it.

"Next time, you will do it."

I knew it was coming. I fucking knew it.

"Not a problem. Although, I would suggest Adam move away as I have never fired a gun in my life, so my aim will very definitely be off the mark."

Dad smiles. It was a test. I know it. He knows it. Adam knows it. All three of us know I passed it as well.

"Is that you asking for training on how to use a gun? Or that you would rather get blood on your hands?"

"Whichever. This is your show. Remember?"

"Hmm." He searches my eyes and then takes a long sip of his drink. "Adam, do you think she's ready?"

"One way to find out."

Dad nods. "Okay, Vogue. Shooting range it is."

"Now?"

"Why not?"

"Okay."

We head out, passing bodies that keep their heads down. Dad leads the way, and Adam follows close behind, a looming presence that reminds me there's no backing out now.

The shooting range is cold and sterile, located in the soundproofed basement of the building, which surprises me with it being on site. But then I remember guns are illegal in this country, and I'm being stupid.

Adam hands me a pair of earmuffs and safety glasses before selecting a gun from the collection—an intimidating piece of metal that gleams under the fluorescent lights. "Start with this," he says. It's heavier than it looks as he places it in my hands.

We go through safety procedures first because even in this world where life is cheaper than dirt, there are rules. Always point the gun downrange, finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot, stance solid—lessons drilled into me in minutes.

Then it's time for action. I aim at the target, trying to remember everything Adam said about breath control and squeezing the trigger gently. The kickback jolts through me when I finally pull it, a shockwave that doesn't just ripple through my arm but through my whole body. The bullet veers wildly, and I smirk at Adam.

"Aren't you glad you weren't holding a dead man walking?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You're impressive, girlie."

"Ahem." Dad clears his throat with a vicious scowl at Adam.

I roll my eyes at the behemoth. Why does everyone think I'm about to jump on him? He's like the taciturn uncle I never had.

"Again," Adam says, trying not to laugh at Dad's reaction to our exchange. He knows the score as well as I do.

I line up the sights again, trying to focus my breathing. This time, my shot is actually on the target but nowhere near the centre.

Not good enough.

Adam nods approvingly, but we both know I've got a long way to go before I'm actually useful and not a liability with a gun.

"Again," he repeats, and again I shoot. Over and over, squeezing the trigger until my fingers ache, the sharp smell of gunpowder is thick in my nostrils, and my skin is bleeding from the pinch. I get better with every round, closer to that fucking bullseye, until I can almost taste victory.

"Better," Dad murmurs, watching intently. "Practice makes perfect and all that bullshit. We'll leave it for today. Try again tomorrow."

I nod, relieved to be taking a break. Between the full-on sparring this morning and this, I'm ready to call it a day and crawl back into bed for a week.

But I know that's not an option—not that it ever was. Now, I have to be sharper, always ready, like a blade perpetually poised to strike.

"Adam will drive you home," Dad murmurs. "I've got a few things that need sorting here."

"Anything I can help with?" I ask, eager to keep proving my worth.

He grimaces and shakes his head. "Not yet. When I know more, I fill you in."

We lock gazes.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he is attempting to do. He wants my mother back here to answer for her crimes.

"Okay," I say steadily. "You know where I am if you need me."

He takes the green light I've handed with a swift nod and turns, walking away without another word.

I glance up at Adam. "Sorry. You seem to be on babysitting duty right now. I'll get better, and you can go back to your life."

"This is my life."

He stalks off, leaving me feeling a bit sad that he feels that way. But then the stark reminder of ‘the only way out is death' rings in my mind, and I figure maybe sometimes it's better to be alone. I'm lucky enough to have found four guys who are already in this life. I wonder if there is a vicious mafia princess out there just waiting for a giant, violent mafia man to come and sweep her off her feet. I smile as the thought fills me with the warm fuzzies, but then when the mafia man in question growls at me to move my ass, I launch myself forward, catching up as we head out into the growing dark.