Bloodlines and Bullets

nineteen

"So?" I press, my impatience barely concealed. "Tell me everything. What's his name? How was it?"

The heat of the July morning clings to my skin, but a sharp breeze swirls around us, a reminder that we're still in Canada, no matter how fierce the sun. The horizon glows with the first light of day, the sun lazily stretching its rays over the dew-covered grass.

We're lined up - Sofia, Marco, George, and I - among the other trainees, our breath mingling with the cool air as we prepare for another day of training.

Sofia's eyes light up, her smile so bright it almost makes me forget where we are. Almost.

"His name's Dario," she says, her voice tinged with a kind of excitement I haven't seen from her before. "And, Thalia, he's amazing. Way more interesting and funny than I ever thought."

I lean in, curiosity prickling at me. "Yeah? What did you guys talk about?"

It's been three days since Friday night, when Sofia and Dario finally talked for the first time. Sure, I've seen him around, but he's always been a shadow that neither I nor the others ever really interacted with before.

"Everything and nothing," she replies, her voice almost breathless. "He's travelled so much, Thalia. His stories are unbelievable. And—"

Salvatore's voice cuts through the morning air, sharp and demanding. Instantly, we snap to attention, our conversation cut short. There's no room for delay under Salvatore's watchful eye.

The day grinds on, the training intense as always. We push ourselves through hand-to-hand combat drills, then tactical simulations that leave no room for error. My muscles ache, and sweat trickles down my spine, soaking into the already clingy fabric of my black top.

I can't help but notice Dario, lingering near Sofia. His eyes follow her around. He's good at blending in, at keeping his distance, but now that I'm watching, I can see it - the way his gaze lingers on her, the way he steps in just when she needs a bit of guidance.

I watch as her confidence grows under his quiet encouragement, and a pang of something sharp and unwelcome twists in my chest.

My eyes narrow, studying him more closely. There's a look in his eyes when he watches her - not the calculation or coldness I'm used to in this dark world, but something genuine.

The sun climbs higher, burning away the last traces of morning chill. After a quick sip of water, it's time for the shooting range. I make my way there, the weight of the pistol in my hand familiar, though still not entirely comfortable.

The distant chatter of instructors, the soft shuffle of feet on dirt, and the occasional sharp crack of gunfire from farther down the line fade into the background, a dull hum that I barely register.

Firearms aren't my strong suit. My first attempts were nothing short of embarrassing - shots going wide, the recoil nearly knocking the gun out of my hand every time. But I've worked at it, pushed through the frustration, and today, I feel a flicker of confidence. Maybe, just maybe, I'll hit the target.

I load the magazine with a practiced motion, the mechanics of it now ingrained in my muscles. My stance is solid and stable, a result of countless corrections from trainers who have no patience for failure. I focus on the target, the small black dot in the center of the paper that I've missed so many times before. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.

I squeeze the trigger.

The sharp crack of the shot slices through my concentration, and for a moment, I'm afraid to look. But when I do, a surge of unexpected pride swells within me. The shot hit the paper target, and pretty close to the center at that.