Chapter 102 - ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

Chapter 102: Chapter ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

ANGEL

I found Daddy in the lower level. He was standing at a metal table with three of his men. And in his hand was a gun which he looked to be testing its performance. I stopped in the doorway.

I’d seen Vincenzo angry and violent, watched him break a man’s face and straighten his cuffs afterwards. But I’d never seen him with a gun in his hand. And the image — his long fingers wrapped around the grip, his thumb resting on the slide, made my breath hitch and my thighs press together.

I wanted him to fuck me with it. The thought arrived fully formed and completely deranged and I didn’t push it away. I wanted to feel the cold barrel against my skin. For him to trace it down my body while I felt the danger pressed against me while he was inside me.

I was getting wet. In a doorway. Watching my daddy handle a firearm. My cunt was throbbing and my nipples were hard against my dress and I was one depraved thought away from walking over and dropping to my knees in front of his men.

He looked up and saw me. His expression shifted — surprise, then concern, which morphed into a dark scowl that only made him look hotter. His daughter had wandered out of her glass tower.

"Angel. You should be upstairs."

"I was bored." I walked into the room just as he dismissed the men. "We’ll finish this later." He told them.

They cleared out and I stopped in front of Vincenzo and looked at the gun in his hand.

"Teach me."

"Teach you what?"

"How to shoot."

He studied me. I could see the calculation behind his eyes, he was probably weighing the risk of giving his unstable little girl a gun. On one hand: his daughter wanted to learn a skill. On the other hand: his daughter was an emotionally volatile, obsessively jealous, recently traumatized young woman who’d threatened his housekeeper and once orchestrated a man’s beating for fun.

"Please, Daddy?" I added in a small and sweet tone. "I just want to learn to protect myself, what if I get kidnapped again?" I pouted, watching his expression darken like I’d painted that image in his mind.

The one thing guaranteed to override every rational objection Vincenzo had. The thought of losing me again.

I was manipulating him. I knew it. He knew it. But the fear was real — for both of us — and I wasn’t above using it.

"You want to learn?" He asked.

"Yes, Daddy," I nodded eagerly.

Vincenzo walked me through a corridor, to a section of the basement I didn’t know existed.

A shooting range. Targets with human silhouettes at the far end in black and white.

He selected a gun from a locked cabinet. Smaller than his. He placed it in my hands and his fingers adjusted my grip. I focused on the heat of his skin and tried not to think about those fingers inside me.

"Stance," he said. "And lean forward slightly."

His hands moved my body, positioning me. His palm settled on my hip and turned me. His other hand on my shoulder, angling it forward.

Instructional. Except for the fact that his fingers lingered on my hip a beat longer than necessary.

And when he leaned in to check my sight line, his chest pressed against my back and his breath was warm on my neck.

He pulled back a fraction. "Focus, Angel."

"I am focused, Daddy." I pressed my ass back against him. Just a little against his crotch. Just enough to graze him. "Very focused," I smirked,

His hand tightened on my hip. A warning. Or an anchor. I couldn’t tell which and I didn’t care.

"Both hands on the grip. Firm. Not tight. You want to absorb the recoil, not fight it. Understand?" He finished explaining.

His hands were still on me. One on my hip. I could feel that his cock was getting harder against my ass while he taught his daughter to shoot a gun in his casino basement.

"Daddy?" I murmured, not turning around. My eyes on the target.

"What?"

"Are you hard right now?"

His fingers dug into my hip. "Aren’t you focused on the wrong target?" He growled in my ears and I giggled.

"I can’t help that I can feel you, Daddy. Against my ass." I wiggled, grinding myself against him. "You’re teaching your little girl how to kill someone and you’re getting hard about it."

"Shoot the gun, Angel." His voice was a deep hum, and his hips made a thrust that I felt.

"You’re thinking about fucking me in this shooting range, aren’t you?" I teased.

"Angel." His voice was an order now, even though I could feel how much he wanted me.

"Shoot. The. Gun." He breathed

I raised the gun and looked at the target.

"Breathe in," Vincenzo said behind me. His voice had recovered its composure but his cock hadn’t "Breathe out and squeeze the trigger at the bottom of the exhale. Don’t pull. Squeeze."

I squeezed.

The gun kicked in my hands, the sound was massive even with ear protection, it filled my chest. Downrange, the target jerked. I’d hit it center mass.

The power of it. The absolute, intoxicating power rushed through me. Just a small movement of my finger and a hole appeared in a body sixty feet away. It was like being God, pointing at something and deciding it was done.

"Again," Vincenzo said.

I fired again, adjusting higher this time.

Headshot.

"Again."

Headshot. Headshot. Headshot.

Five rounds. Five holes in the target’s skull.

I lowered the gun and turned to Vincenzo.

He was staring at the target. Then at me. His expression was what I could only describe as complicated. He looked both impressed and unsettled at the same time. And aroused. His pants were tented and he wasn’t bothering to hide it. His eyes were dark. Pupils blown.

We were both so fucked up it was almost beautiful.

"You’re a natural, most people take months of practice to get it right," He said and I beamed at him innocently.

He didn’t know what I was thinking while I squeezed that trigger.

That every headshot was a rehearsal and his little girl was thinking about Mommy Jillian on her knees somewhere, and how satisfying it would be to visit that club and this time be the one in control.

"Then do I deserve a reward?" I took the chance, "Can I keep the gun?" I asked.

Vincenzo hesitated. I saw the internal debate play across his face — the desire to indulge me fighting the very reasonable concern that giving me a firearm was perhaps not the wisest parenting decision.

"No," he said finally.

"No?" I pouted. "Why not?"

"Because you don’t need one. I keep you safe."

"What if you’re not there?" I was pushing. Testing. "What if Celine tries to poison me and I need to defend myself?"

His eyes narrowed at me. "Celine is not going to poison you."

"You don’t know that." I turned the gun over in my hands, feeling its weight and balance.

"Why can’t you just give me the gun? You don’t trust me?" I pressed, scowling at him,

"Do you think I’m going to kill Celine with it?"

"Angel—"

"I won’t do that." I looked up at him through my lashes. "If I wanted to get rid of Celine, I’d use something quieter."

I watched the unease move through his body. The way his shoulders tensed and his eyes tracked the gun in my hands.

"Give me the gun, Angel."

"Or—" I raised the weapon. Slowly. The barrel rose until it was pointing directly at Vincenzo’s forehead. "Do you think I’m going to kill you?"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​