Chapter 4: Midnight Marksmanship
The days after the warehouse attack passed in a strange, suspended rhythm. Sandro returned sometime before dawn on the second day. Leo, who had been sleeping fitfully on the library chaise, heard the elevator chime, the low murmur of voices, then the heavy, deliberate tread of footsteps passing the library door. He caught a glimpse of Sandro’s profile in the hall light—a shadow of fresh bruising along his jaw, his knuckles raw and darkened. He didn’t come in.
A tense quiet settled over the penthouse. Orders were given in hushed tones. Men came and went. Leo kept to his books, but the words seemed to blur. The first edition of The Quiet World sat on the bedside table in the guest room he’d been moved to, a beautiful, guilt-inducing paperweight.
It was a week later when Sandro finally sought him out. He found Leo on the vast, empty terrace, leaning against the glass barrier and watching the city’s endless crawl.
“Getting some air?” Sandro’s voice was closer than Leo expected. He’d moved with that predator’s silence.
“Trying to,” Leo said, not turning.
Sandro came to stand beside him, close enough that their sleeves almost brushed. He placed two crystal tumblers on the low parapet, followed by a bottle of something amber and expensive. He poured two fingers into each glass without asking. The smell of good whiskey cut through the city’s metallic scent.
“You’ve been quiet,” Sandro said, offering a glass.
“I’m a prisoner. What am I supposed to say?”
“You could say ‘thank you for the book.’ You could ask about my bruised face.” Sandro took a sip, his eyes on the horizon. “You could even ask if I killed anyone last night.”
Leo flinched. He took the whiskey and drank, the heat of it a welcome shock. “Did you?”
“The men who touched my property? Yes.” The answer was flat, factual. “The ones who gave the order? Soon.”
“I’m not your property.”
“You’re in my home. Under my protection. That makes you mine.” Sandro set his glass down with a sharp click. “And that makes you a target. Again.”
Before Leo could protest, Sandro pulled something from the waistband at his back. It was small, black, and utterly alien in the soft twilight. A pistol. He placed it on the parapet between them.
Leo stared at it. “What is that for?”
“For you.” Sandro picked it up again, his hands moving with a casual, terrifying expertise. He ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, slid it back home with a smooth snick. “Sit.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Leo.” Sandro’s voice dropped, a note of exhausted patience in it. “The world is not a library. The quiet answers you love? They get shouted down by louder noises. Sit.”
Slowly, Leo sank into one of the terrace chairs. Sandro dragged another chair over, placing it close beside him, facing out toward the open city. He sat, then reached over and took Leo’s right wrist. His grip was firm, his skin warm against Leo’s pulse.
“This is a Beretta 92. It’s simple. Heavy. It won’t jump too much.” He guided Leo’s hand around the grip, arranging his fingers. “Index here. Not on the trigger until you’re ready. Your other hand supports, like this.” He wrapped his own larger hands around Leo’s, completely engulfing them. Leo could feel the rough texture of his healing knuckles.
“I don’t want to learn this.”
“I know.” Sandro’s breath was warm against his temple. “But the men who want to hurt me to get to you? They don’t care what you want. Now look. Front sight. Rear sight. Align them.”
He raised their joined hands, aiming at a potted olive tree at the far end of the terrace. Leo’s arms trembled. The weight of the gun, of Sandro’s intent, was immense.
“Your breathing is all wrong. Breathe in. Out. Hold at the bottom.” Sandro’s voice was a low murmur in his ear, clinical and intimate at once. “Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull.”
Leo squeezed.
The crack was deafening, a physical slap of sound in the open air. The recoil was a jarring thump up his arms, absorbed mostly by Sandro’s steadying grip. A chunk of plaster exploded from the wall a foot above the tree.
“Jesus Christ,” Leo gasped, his ears ringing.
“You flinched. You anticipated the noise.” Sandro didn’t let go. “Again. Just the mechanics. Sight alignment. Breath. Squeeze.”
They fired again. And again. The empty brass cartridges tinkled on the terrace stones. Each shot was less of a shock, though the power of the thing in his hands never felt less than apocalyptic. Sandro’s guidance was patient, his corrections quiet. It was the most focused attention he’d given Leo since the library, and it was for this. To make him capable of violence.
“Last round,” Sandro said. He nodded toward the other side of the terrace where a solitary wine glass, half-full of ruby red, sat on a table. “Hit that.”
“That’s impossible.”
“The glass is bigger than a man’s heart. Hit it.”
Leo swallowed. He raised the gun himself this time, Sandro’s hands hovering just beneath his. He focused until the front sight blurred, trying to remember the rhythm. Breathe in. Out. Hold. The city’s noise faded to a hum. There was only the sight, the glass, and the warm pressure of Sandro at his back.
He squeezed.
The glass disintegrated. A sharp, satisfying ping of impact, then a shower of crystal and dark wine spreading across the table.
For a second, there was only the ringing silence. Then Leo let out a shaky, astonished laugh. “I hit it.”
He turned his head, and Sandro was right there. His dark eyes held a fierce, proud gleam. “You did.”
The kiss wasn’t like the first one, which had been stolen and shocking. This was deliberate. Sandro cupped the back of Leo’s neck, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there, and closed the last inch between them. It tasted of gunpowder, expensive whiskey, and the dark wine from the shattered glass. It was heat and approval and a promise of something darker, all at once. Leo didn’t pull away. His hands, one still holding the warm pistol, hung uselessly at his sides.
Sandro broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Leo’s. Their breathing mixed in the cool air. “See?” he whispered, his voice rough. “You can learn new things.”
From the doorway, Marco cleared his throat. He stood silhouetted against the interior light, holding a tablet. “Boss. The reports from the docks are in. You need to see this.”
Sandro pulled back, the moment shattering. He took the pistol from Leo’s limp hand, ejected the empty magazine, and made it safe with a few efficient motions. He stood, all business again, but his eyes lingered on Leo’s flushed face.
“Get him another glass of wine,” Sandro said to Marco, not looking away from Leo. “The ’97 Brunello. He earned it.”
As Sandro followed Marco inside, Leo slowly brought his fingers to his lips. They still trembled, but not from fear alone. The taste of gunpowder and victory was stubborn on his tongue. He looked at the wreckage of the glass, the dark stain on the pale stone, and felt a cold, sinking understanding.
He hadn’t just hit a target. He’d stepped over a line. And a part of him, a part he desperately wished didn’t exist, had liked the sound it made when it broke.