Chapter 5: Hold Still

The Commission had called us to its Sunday table in three days, and Dario wanted my hands steady before then.

He set up the targets at the bottom of the garden, in front of the stone wall, at eight the next morning.

Paper silhouettes, thirty feet out.

He handed me a compact pistol with a grip worn smooth.

"Your father's," he said.

I stopped with my hand halfway out.

"He kept it in the glove box of the car for fifteen years. The week he died, he told me to put it away for you."

I closed my fingers around it.

It fit as it always had.

"Feet," Dario said.

I set my feet.

"Breathe."

I breathed.

"Squeeze, don't pull."

I put six rounds through the center of the first silhouette.

Dario nodded once.

"Three years you did not touch one. Still good."

"Sandro did not like me carrying."

"Sandro did not like you doing anything."

I lowered the gun.

I did not turn around, but I knew Raf was standing at the top of the garden steps.

I had felt him there since the first shot.

"How long has he been watching?" I asked quietly.

"Since you walked out," Dario said. "He doesn't say much, signora. But he came out here before you did, to check the wall."

I reloaded.

My hands were steady.

The rest of me was not.

Between the second and third magazine, the garden tilted.

It did not do it all at once.

First the paper silhouette went pale, and the grass went bright, and a ringing started in my ears.

I had not eaten breakfast.

I had not eaten properly in two days.

"Dario," I said, and the pistol slid out of my fingers.

I did not hit the ground.

A hand closed around my upper arm and another settled flat against the small of my back.

Both were warm through my coat.

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