The shooting field sat behind the mansion, a stretch of overgrown grass fenced in by old stone walls.
Cranes liked to land there in the mornings, picking through the dew until a gunshot sent them scattering into the sky. The air always smelled faintly of gunpowder and wet earth.
At the far end stood a row of humanoid targets, crude things built from wood frames stuffed with hay, their painted faces long faded from rain and use.
Beside them, mounted on iron posts, sat the scoreboards, six tiers etched into worn wood, rookie shooter, standard, experienced, trained, elite, bull’s eye master. Paint chipped at the edges from years of near misses and stray rounds.
Around the perimeter, Nico’s men stood posted at each corner of the field, rifles slung over their shoulders, watching more out of habit than actual concern.
A few murmured between themselves. Most just stood still, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, waiting for the morning to end.
Nico was particularly after the score boards. The humanoid targets were quite hard to miss, since they weren’t exactly moving or pretty distant targets.
The scoreboards were the real deal. The board had six different score layers, the rookie shooter, standard, experienced, trained, elite and bulls eye master.
Nico had never once hit the bulls eye, not even by accident. The only time he’d actually come close was when he used a sniper twice the length of his arms. And that one bullet from it had destroyed the entire board.
Today, he decided to play it fair. He reloaded the rounds of a desert eagle and pulled the slide sharply. He stretched his arm out, aiming precisely for the small circular space in the centre of the board.
He heaved in a deep breath. Then shot.
The bullet hit the board with a tap. One of his men, holding some flags, ran towards it to check his score. The man studied the board for a few seconds before he raised a yellow flag signal, waving it slightly in the air.
’Elite rank huh? At least that’s something.’
Nico raised the gun again, aiming it at the board calculatedly. He didn’t fire immediately, he waited a bit to still his shaky hands. His index finger rested calmly on the trigger while he focused.
Then he took his shot.
The score reader hurdled to the board again and reviewed his shot. This time, he raised an orange flag.
"Seriously?"
Nico grunted.
He raised his gun, about to try again when he heard Kira’s voice.
"Gosh, you’re really bad at this."
Nico turned to her and saw her walking towards him. She was putting on a fit black shirt tucked into a pair of strapped black pants. On her head, a black Moscow hat.
"Agreed." Nico said, pulling the slide in and out. "I’m way past my prime."
"Haha, don’t bluff me. You never had a prime period for guns." Mira laughed mockingly. "I can tell by the way you’re holding that one."
Nico raised the gun, holding it firmly.
"What’s wrong with how I’m holding this?"
"Exactly. You know nothing about guns."
Kira crossed the field and grabbed a sawn shotgun from the rack. She dragged the charging handle and grabbed it by the neck, studying it.
"She’s beautiful." She said, still looking at it. "How do you have babies like this?"
Nico looked at her questioningly. Since when did anyone call a gun a baby.
"Weapons dealing." He looked away and replied her. "You would know that if you made more research about my business."
"Really, I thought you guys did drugs—"
She didn’t finish that last part. Nico didn’t bother finishing it for her either. Weapons dealing had been his one real contribution to Silas, back in the early days when the two of them were still building something out of nothing.
The police had always been circling them then, chasing drug charges and the illegal protection rackets their father Robert had built the family on. It was a dirty business, the kind that kept men looking over their shoulders.
Nico found a different angle. Something quieter, less tangled up with the law, enough to slip past the officers who’d been paid to look the other way anyway. Weapons.
It didn’t look like much of a plan at first. A year of scraping by, chasing half-broken deals, until they crossed paths with a Yakuza boss who needed enough firepower to fill a vault.
That single deal changed everything. Referrals followed, then buyers from other countries, other cities, until the business Nico and Silas built stood on something close to solid ground.
Then Silas died.
Orders dried up fast after that. Buyers didn’t trust a name they didn’t recognize, and Nico had never been the face of the operation the way his brother was.
He’d been there for most of the exchanges, technically, hovering at the edges while trying to work out what he actually wanted from his own life. He never imagined Silas would die right as things were finally paying off.
Now the only reason Nico kept going was to make sure none of it had been for nothing.
’Protect my wives, he said. Become the Don, he said. Easy for a dead man to demand.’
"Why are you just standing there, saying nothing?"
Kira’s voice pulled him out of it. She’d already lined up her shot, gun steady on the board. She fired once, then rested the buttstock against the flat surface in front of her, unbothered.
The score reader jogged over, checked the board, then raised a blue flag.
Nico’s eyes went wide.
"Wait. What?"
Blue meant she’d landed just short of the bull’s eye. Closer than he’d gotten in years of trying.
"See?" Kira turned to him, smiling like she already knew the answer. "You’re just not good."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. Feel free to cry me a river."
"Three shots." Nico said it sharply. "Three shots to hit the bulls eye. Winner kisses loser’s feet. You in?"
"You sure you wanna do this?" Mira’s smile deepened. "You know, it would be a shame if your men saw you smooching my toes."
Nico pulled the slide of his gun.
"Less talking. More shooting."