Page 10 of The Diávolos: Part One
Standing in my living room now, I look down at my wrist, pull on the hair tie I always wear around it with all my might, and I let it go. The sting makes me hiss loudly. I do it again, and again, and again, until little bubbles of blood form under my skin.Inhale. Exhale. You’re not that helpless girl anymore.
“Shit.” I sigh as I glance down at my wrist. I’d rather not draw attention to this habit, but I don’t have time to conceal the damage. Thankfully, there’s not much lighting at the shooting range, and no one usually gets close enough to me to notice.
What doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms, and this one is mine. Feeling physical pain numbs the mental anguish I feel inside.
I grab my hair and tie it into a messy bun, leaving the marks of my self-harm exposed. I walk over to the mirror in my living room and check my reflection. I catch a glimpse of a piece of paper on my dining room table behind me, and butterflies flutter in my stomach.
Since my return, things have beendifferent. I seem to have gained a secret admirer.More like a stalker.
A week after settling into my new home, I started finding random notes and gifts around the house. When I saw the first one, a perfectly wrapped tray ofloukoumades, little bite-sized fluffy, sweet, honey balls—the Greek version of donuts—with a little note that said, ‘Welcome home, sweetheart,’ I thought it was from my father.
Until I found another note, and another one, and another. Every day, I find a poem or gift from my ‘admirer.’ As much as I should be terrified that someone is breaking into my house, especially after what happened a few weeks ago in Antium, I’m not. Oddly, the little surprises that my stalker leaves me are…comforting.Not concerning at all, Angelica.
At a time when I am most vulnerable, his notes make me feel important and safe, as if someone is watching over me.
My stalker could be a psychopath plotting the perfect plan to murder me. I might be crazy for thinking this, but I enjoy the thrill. This secret is just for me. It’s mine to keep. And so far, it’s been harmless. It could very well escalate, but it’smydanger. The attention I craved my entire life is now in my hands, and I wouldn’t dare tell anyone and ruin this feeling. Everything I’ve ever done has either been overseen or controlled by my father. Even when I was in the Big A, my safety relied on him, and I didn’t even know it. This new ‘development’ makes me feel like I have something to callmy own.Mystalker.Do I sound like a lunatic? Yes. Do I care? Not so much.
I shake off the thoughts of my admirer and send Gianis a brief message to say I’m ready to be picked up, and I put my phone down on the dining room table. Several minutes later, I hear his obnoxious sports car pull up in the driveway. I grab my things and head to the door.
We arrive at the opening of the alley of the shooting range, and I swing the car door open to get out. Gianis tells me he will be back to pick me up in an hour, which is strange given that he always waits around for me. But I shrug and tell him that I’ll see him later. He watches me walk down the narrow passageway before I disappear behind the door.
* * *
The smellof gunpowder is heavy in the air, and I can hear the faint sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls through my protective earmuffs. The scent triggers my senses, and I instantly feel at peace. It reminds me that, here, I’m in control, even if it’s just for a little while. I’ve been coming to this shooting range a few evenings a week since I moved to the area three weeks ago. Thursday nights have been my favorite so far as it’s the least busy day of the week. It wasn’t easy to find, but I discovered Sharp Shooters after a little research and some asking around. It’s located downtown, in the heart of Cebrene Heights, about a twenty-five-minute ride from my place in the suburbs. I desperately needed to find a place to release tension and forget about my worries, especially after the experience in Antium. I still have to look over my shoulder when I’m out, and I don’t leave my house that much anymore.
I grasp my handgun firmly, making sure to keep a space between my thumb and trigger finger to help with the recoil of the semi-automatic glock as I shoot. I use my other hand to cover the rest of the grip, with my fingers pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle. The sensation of the weapon in my hand feels like a weighted blanket covering my body, my nervous system feels more relaxed, less anxious. When I shoot at the range, it’s exhilarating; my adrenaline spikes, creating a surge of energy in my body. Like a runner’s high, a brief state of euphoria.
In a matter of seconds, my eyes land on the moving target, and I pull the trigger. The sheet flies back as my forearm absorbs the recoil. I hit exactly where I aimed.X marks the spot. A wave of satisfaction runs through me at the sight.
I unload the gun, put it down, and take off my protective gear. I notice Henry from the corner of my eye, staring at me from the front desk with a wide grin. “Spying on me, are you?” I ask, jokingly.
“I always feel bad for the targets when you walk in here,” he says with a chuckle.
Henry is the owner of the range. We hit it off instantly the first time I came. He’s a tall, gentle, older man with hair as white as Clint Eastwood’s and has owned this establishment for decades. The patrons of this place are a littlesus, but Henry is always warm and welcoming. The first time I walked in, he was surprised that someone like me knew how to handle a firearm.
I learned how to shoot a gun at a young age, a littletooyoung, if you ask me. But when your father is a mob boss, you need to learn how to defend yourself. I had no choice but to prepare for the eventuality I would need to use a deadly weapon against someone.
If you’d ask me to use a gun outside of a controlled area, I would probably hesitate. I don’t have the same thirst for blood that others in my surroundings have. Although, given recent events, like beingkidnapped, I should maybe work on carrying something other than a pocketknife with me. I don’t feel safe anymore.Not that I ever really did before.
“Practice makes perfect,” I say, winking at Henry. “What are you still doing here, old man? Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I tease as I clean the glock to give it back to him.
He laughs loudly. “I’m leaving right after this, young lady. Done already?”
“Just taking a little break, Hen,” I reply with a smile.
He stores the handgun in its case and hands me my target sheets. I’m not the type to keep them as souvenirs, so I crumple the large pieces of paper and throw them in the recycling bin on my way to the washroom, waving goodbye to Henry in case he’s gone by the time I get back.
The darkness of the hallway engulfs me, but I feel a sense of tranquility. I find comfort in the dark. Maybe that’s the introvert in me, but too much stimulation makes my senses go into overdrive. I walk through the narrow, poorly lit corridor as I look down at my phone. I’m so engrossed in my thoughts I don’t notice where I’m headed, and I bump into a wall. My phone goes flying and I let out a little shriek of surprise as I fall back a few steps. The ‘wall’ I bumped into bends down to pick it up. I'm about to apologize when I stop and stare at the tall, dark-haired man standing before me. When his eyes reach my face, a glint of surprise flashes across his face. It’s subtle, and I almost miss it, but I catch it right before his expression goes serious and impassive again.
“You shouldn’t text and walk,” the man— not a wall—says, his tone unimpressed.
I can’t stop myself from gaping at him as he looks down at me from his towering height.Holy hell. I tilt my head farther back to get a better view. The dim glow above us casts his features in shadow. Hints of a strong jaw covered by stubble and high cheekbones. His presence wraps around me like velvet. Despite the partial absence of light, I’m still able to conclude that he’s one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even though I’m burning with embarrassment, I can’t seem to break contact from his piercing eyes. I close my mouth and feel myself blushing. Hopefully the lack of light is my saving grace.Get it together, Ang.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Thank you…for picking up my phone,” I stutter.
His annoyed demeanor seems to dissipate slightly as he takes me in, his gaze traveling the length of my body. His face softens and my breath hitches. His eyes inch back to mine, caressing my every curve along the way. My body heats like it’s being kissed by the golden sun.
He pauses on the redness of my exposed wrist, and I see his lips twitch, his face twisting into something that resembles anger, and then morphs into understanding. Not pity. I couldn’t take pity. I immediately cover my wrist with my hand, feeling self-conscious that he noticed my self-inflicted injury. In any other circumstance, I wouldn't care. But the intensity of his stare makes me feel bad and guilty for hurting myself. It’s as if I don’t want to disappoint him. I lower my gaze to the floor and scurry away after another muttered apology. I curse myself for even caring about what a stranger might think about my bad habit.
