Page 75 of Impenitent Claim

“Izzy!” Gio protested. “You wanted to shoot some pumpkins, so let’s shoot some fucking pumpkins.”

“Language,” Alonzo and I snapped at the same time.

It was easy to laugh with this man. Pleasant to be around him.

But I knew in a heartbeat that if someone darker called my name, I would go running.

“You need to watch your back,” I murmured.

Alonzo narrowed his eyes.

“The Scorso Famiglia is taking out our men, left and right,” I added quickly, taking the coward’s way out at the last second. I couldn’t tell him about the conversation with Cosimo during mass. Alonzo was too noble. The more I thought about it, the more worried I was becoming that he would rush in, playing the hero, and stir up trouble.

No, dealing with Cosimo would take discretion. I would take care of him myself.

Alonzo dropped his touch, and we moved back to the folding table where Gio was assembling a rifle. He slid the firing pin into the bolt before pushing it gently into the barrel.

He knows about guns.My heart fell to my stomach. How did my little brother know the mechanics of a semiautomatic?

“I’d be careful with your bets, Lonzo.” I nodded toward my brother. “Seems someone might hustle you out of that grand.”

Gio shrugged. “This is nothing.”

You assembling an assault rifle like it’s Legos? Yeah, right.Gio had been practicing. Which meant he’d been out doing things he shouldn’t be doing. He slid the spring and then placed the top on, snapping it in place.

My fiancé boasted something, but his words were muffled and far away sounding. I struggled to swim back to reality from the void of emotions clogging my chest. My little brother hadn’t just been wanting to play gangster, the little shit had been outplayingthe role of a man already.

This target practice exercise was futile.

I’m losing him.

Touching the cornicello that hung around my neck, the good luck amulet I only took off to shower, I asked him, “What model is that?”

Gio looked up at me suspiciously. “An Arsenal SAM7SF.”

“I see it shoots 7.62 by 39 millimeters, which means it’s basically an AK-47,” I said quietly, reaching out to stroke the barrel. “Impressive. Where have you been hiding it?”

“How the hell do you know so much about weapons?” Gio countered and looked at me with scrunched brows.

I shrugged. “Mama used to take me out shooting. While I was in college, I was part of the trap team.”

“Mama took you shooting?” Gio’s voice dripped with incredulity. “And papa let you shoot trap?”

A small smile played on my lips. “Our parents, especially mama, believed a woman’s best friend was a gun. She used to say a handgun made us more equal to the menfolk than the entire feminist movement.”

Gio snorted. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

The mental box where I kept the memories of my parents creaked open. A terrible ache spread through me. Gio was already forgetting our parents. He hadn’t spent enough time around them, and it was probable that he was actively trying to forget them in the change of circumstances.

“She did, Gio. She was more fierce, more protective of us than anyone else,” I insisted.

My little brother puffed his shoulders. He seemed almost the same height as me. It was a pity he didn’t grow more during his last spurt. He needed height and breadth, and likely wouldn’t have much of either.

“I don’t believe you,” he stated with certainty. “Mama knew that it was the man’s job to protect his house. She was meek and submissive, just like Cecilia. You could learn something from that.”

Those words stung.

“And who protects her man?” I countered, pulling the .308 SOCOM -M-1 off the table.

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