Page 34 of Angel of Light (Lords of The Commission: New York #5)

ALISON

“Settle. Listen. Quiet until you can feel the sounds in your chest.” I closed my eyes and inhaled, trying to breathe in the atmosphere that always had its way of grounding me.

The scent always hit first.

Gunpowder. Warm brass. The sharp bite of leather and cigar that clung to Nonno’s coat like armor. The familiarity was soothing, even if a gun range was supposed to be anything but.

The sun was high in the sky, hot and merciless, shining right into the scope and making this a whole lot more difficult than when we came in the mornings.

But the range got pushed again because I had another doctor’s appointment. Apparently, those were more important than shooting cans off a rail at a distance.

“It’s not your breathing and heart rate buzzing in the background in the face of danger.

It’s your thoughts. Your fears. The murmur at the back of your head is you .

” Nonno whispered those same words from behind me like he always did when I was out of focus, or shaking, or breathing too hard. “Quiet them and listen. Feel .”

Because all those reactions came from a dark place. From the one memory I couldn’t control. From a mind that didn’t know how to deal with the terror.

I’d just turned seven and hadn’t spoken in ninety-three days.

Not since the restaurant. Not since the screaming. The blood. That awful sound bodies make when they hit concrete, lifeless. That wet slap replayed in my head like a lullaby from hell, followed by a headless body that haunted every one of my dreams.

I couldn’t do it. I’d tried forcing myself to get the sound through my throat to appease Mom. Dad was a mess, too. Rushing me to all those doctors who said they could help. Who said they understood why I was like this, but in reality, they didn’t.

The only place I felt safe was here. Like that memory was at home here, and I could force it into submission. Like I could finally control the outcome.

That wasn’t me. That would never be me.

Nonno had been bringing me here for over three weeks now, and even though I still couldn’t force the words to come, I felt better. Safe.

“Focus, fiore mio ,” Nonno said beside me.

Even though it was deep and rumbled, his voice didn’t scare me. None of him did. Not the rough edges and powerful stance. Not the silver in his beard and constant frown on his brow. Not even the gun in his hand or the blood I knew he’d spilled.

He was the only person who didn’t look at me like I was broken. I never saw pity in his eyes, just understanding. Like he’d been in my shoes at some point in his life.

He handed me the rifle. It was smaller than the others, made specifically for me, but still heavier than it looked. My little fingers wrapped around the wood like they belonged there. The metal was warm from the sun, and I could feel the heat piercing my skin right into my bones.

“This one’s yours,” he said. “You hit the can, we go for gelato . You miss…” He shrugged. “We still go. But I’ll know you weren’t trying.”

He always made it about choices, not expectations. Because expectations aren’t controlled, but choices are. Good ones, bad ones, it didn’t matter, I was still the master at my sea, and I’ve come to understand what Nonno’s intentions with this were.

He was giving me control. Teaching me how to feel safe because I was steering. Because I’d know not to be that headless man. Because I was capable of defending myself.

I lay flat on my belly on that dusty wooden bench, the recoil pad pressed into my shoulder. The world narrowed into the range of the scope. Round, clear, and quiet.

I could hear my own breathing. Feel the tremble in my trigger finger.

That wasn’t me. That would never be me.

There was a soda can fifty yards out. Faded red from the blaring sun, balancing on the rail, waiting for me to decide what it deserved. Control.

My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

And then… the memory inside the memory came back.

That man screaming. My brother pushing me behind a wall of crates and trying but failing to cover my eyes. The sound of gunfire roaring like thunder. The eyes of the man who looked right at me before his head fell to the floor. Eyes that were wide and blue and pleading.

They never found out who he was, but he was there to take my Nonno’s life, and for that, there was no forgiveness. Absolutely no mercy.

Blood with blood repaid.

Six was too soon to know that reality. Too soon to know what death looked like. Too soon to know what my family was. Too soon to understand and not feel bad about the dead man at my feet.

But I did, and it wasn’t only the fear that froze my speech. It was that I didn’t know how to explain my feelings. What to say, ask, or scream to feel safe again.

I flinched at those thoughts, and my finger tensed.

“Alison,” Nonno said, quieter now. A rumble, not a bark. “This thing in your chest, it’s a weapon, too. You let it fester, it’ll destroy you.”

He reached down and touched my back, right between my shoulder blades.

“You aim,” he said. “You breathe. You choose.”

I didn’t know why, but something cracked inside me then. A fracture in the ice wall I’d built around myself. I choose.

I closed my eyes and inhaled until my lungs burned.

Exhaled, opened my eyes. Pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, and the kick of the rifle on my shoulder was like a wake-up call.

The can flew into the sky before it hit the dirt and bounced twice before settling in the dry grass.

“ Brava ,” Nonno said, like it was no big deal. Like he knew I’d hit it even with my eyes closed.

But I turned my head and looked up at him. My lips trembled. I hadn’t looked anyone in the eye in months. Too scared they’d be as dead as the last ones I’d gazed into.

“Again?” I whispered. My voice raw and cracked like it had been dragged out of a coffin.

Nonno froze.

Then his face broke slightly. Not into a smile. Into something more meaningful. Something like pride or relief. Or maybe love, if he was ever allowed to show it.

“You want to shoot again?” he asked.

I nodded, not sure I could verbalize my answer.

His hand rested on my head, heavy and steady. “My little sniper,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

With a gasp, I woke up and sat up in bed.

There was sweat coating my skin. My chest heaving with the intensity of that moment. I was sure it wasn’t just a dream. The smell of gunpowder, the vividness of that shooting range, the emotion in my grandfather's face.

I replayed every moment in my head in fear that I’d forget such a beautiful moment, trying to memorize the warmth and familiarity it carried. Trying to relive it.

It was like a second chance with a person that wasn’t here anymore. I wanted nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.

Because it was more than clear to me that it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.