Page 33 of Broken Mafia Prince
The very next morning, I’d laced up my boots and followed him to the gun range, eager for more.
After years of being invisible to him, I was desperate for even the smallest scrap of his attention. Shooting practice had seemedlike the perfect way to bridge the gap between us. I’d tried to act casual, to stay cool and not mess it up, like it didn’t matter that much, but deep down, it meant everything.
Despite my best efforts, though, it wasn’t enough to fix the distance between us.
When he missed our practice sessions for the first time, I made excuses for him. By the third time, I stopped pretending. I had failed again. We slipped right back into living like passing ships, like strangers sharing a roof, and it had hurt.
But pain has a way of turning into anger. That anger fueled what started as a hobby and became an obsession—my way of quieting the chaos in my head.
I move to the worn wooden table, swapping the Glock for a rifle. My hands work quickly, loading the weapon, checking its condition, and settling back into position.
As I raise the rifle and line up the target, I close one eye and let my breathing slow. The world falls away. I can almost hear the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I wait a moment, allowing my breath to even out.
Exhale. Focus. Press the trigger.
“If you put this much effort into talking to boys, you wouldn’t be spending Valentine’s Day alone again,” a teasing voice interrupts from behind me.
It’s enough to throw off my concentration, and the bullet arches wide, missing the second tin can. A mixture of anger, annoyance, and frustration races through me as I toss the rifle down and spin around.
Isabella, my cousin, is sprawled on a chaise lounge under a huge umbrella, wearing shorts so tiny they might as well be lingerie. It’s a miracleherstore hasn’t been rebranded as one. I don’t know where my cousin shops from, but the store really should consider changing its description.
“Seriously?” I snap, narrowing my eyes at her.
She barely glances up from where she’s slathering an abnormal amount of sunscreen over her arms. “What?”
I gesture at the rifle. “I was kind of in the middle of something.”
She blinks her big brown eyes at me like I’m speaking another language. “And what does that have to do with me?”
The irritation dissolves as quickly as it came. It’s hard to stay mad at Isa when she’s so effortlessly charming. She’s the best friend I didn’t ask for but wouldn’t trade for the world. I love having her around, even if we couldn’t be more different.
“You broke my concentration,” I grumble.
She shrugs. “Maybe you need a break. You’ve been at it for an hour. Unless you’re training to join the Olympics—orCosa Nostra, which your father would first jump off a cliff before he lets you join—you could use a little sunshine.” She eyes me from head to toe. “Your nose is starting to burn, by the way.”
Only then do I notice the ache in my shoulders and the soreness in my arms. It’s easy to lose track of time with a gun in my hand, and it’s a good thing I have my cousin around to nag me about things like sunscreen. Isa may be a little bossy, but she’s good at reminding me to take care of myself.
“Come on.” She pats the space beside her. “Sit down before you roast out here.”
I drop onto the lounge chair, and she squeezes a generous dollop of sunscreen into her palm.
“I can handle it,” I protest, smiling.
She rolls her eyes. “You’ll just do it wrong.”
“Is there a wrong way to apply sunscreen?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Your way.”
I laugh. “And what exactly is wrong with my way?”
“Everything. You really think I’ll let you put your dirty hands anywhere near your face?” She huffs. “It’s a miracle your facedoesn’t look like a gravel driveway, the way you treat it.” She clicks her tongue like a disappointed mother.
“If my face offends you that much, you’re welcome to head back to your overpriced penthouse,” I tease. It’s a running joke between us. She spends so little time there that I’m half-convinced it’s just a glorified storage unit. She literally has to clear the cobwebs each time she goes home.
Her mouth pulls up into a smirk. “You’d miss me if I leave, and that’s why I stay.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I admit. “But I’d like the chance totrymissing you for once.”
