Chapter 7 - The Gunpowder and the Salt
The basement firing range of the Gloucester estate was carved directly out of the sea-cave granite beneath the cliffs.
The air was damp, smelling of gun oil, burnt gunpowder, and the distant, rhythmic boom of ocean waves pounding against the bedrock far below.
I stood in the shooting stall, wearing heavy protective earmuffs and safety goggles, my hands clamped around the black steel grip of the Walther PPK. The metal felt heavy, cold, and entirely alien against my palms.
"Relax your shoulders," Dominic murmured, standing directly behind me.
His chest pressed against my back, his large hands coming over mine, guiding my grip with a firm, uncompromising authority. I could feel the heat radiating through his black sweater, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my spine.
"I can't do this," I whispered, the sound muffled by the earmuffs. "It’s too heavy. It feels like it’s going to jump out of my hands."
"It won't jump if you respect it," Dominic’s voice rumbled in my ear, warm and low. "Keep your feet shoulder-width apart. Lean into the stance. Don't fight the recoil—ride it."
He shifted his weight, his arms enveloping mine, his fingers curling over mine on the trigger. Downrange, twenty feet away, a paper silhouette target stared back at us with chilling anonymity.
"On three," Dominic said, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending an involuntary shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. "One... two... three."
CRACK.
The gunshot was a deafening roar that slammed against the stone walls of the cave, vibrating straight through my teeth and bones. The gun kicked violently in our hands, but Dominic’s iron grip kept it steady, guiding the barrel back toward the center line.
"Look at the target," Dominic commanded softly.
I blinked through the settling haze of gunsmoke. Right in the center of the paper silhouette’s chest, two overlapping bullet holes gaped back at us.
"You hit the heart," Dominic noted, a rare, genuine note of approval coloring his deep voice. "Not bad for an art history student."
"I didn't hit it," I breathed, dropping the gun onto the shooting table with a trembling clatter and ripping off the earmuffs. " You hit it. You were steering my hands the entire time."
Dominic stepped around the table, blocking my exit, his flint-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt heavier than the gun. "Next time, you'll do it alone. Because the Russians aren't going to wait for me to hold your hands, Evelyn."
Before I could fire back a sharp retort, the heavy steel door at the entrance of the firing range banged open.
One of the perimeter guards jogged inside, breathing hard, his hand resting on the butt of his sidearm.
"Boss," the guard panted. "We just intercepted a local police cruiser pulling up the private access road. But... it’s not local cops. It’s Lieutenant Miller from the Boston Organized Crime Task Force."
Dominic’s expression went completely dead. The warmth of the firing range evaporated instantly, replaced by the lethal, calculating coldness of a mob boss preparing for war.
"Miller," Dominic muttered, his jaw tightening. "The rat who’s been trying to pin a RICO indictment on me for three years."
May you like
He turned to look at me, his eyes narrowing. "Miller knows about Hart Atlantic. And if he’s here at the Gloucester estate tonight, it means someone invited him."
My blood ran cold. "Nolan."
