THE WRONG HAND
The Vasquez convoy rolled through the iron gates three days later with practiced, terrifying confidence.
Unlike the Vales, who moved like shadows and favored silence over spectacle, the Vasquez family made no effort to disappear. Their power announced itself—gleaming black vehicles, polished chrome, tailored suits catching the sun. They were wealth that didn't feel the need to hide.
They owned the light.
Steve Vasquez stepped out first, wearing an easy, predatory smile that never quite reached his eyes. He moved like a man who had never been told no and never intended to start listening now. At his side was his younger brother, Rio—broader, louder, radiating restless, muscular confidence like heat off asphalt.
Then there was Gwen.
At twenty, she lingered just behind her brothers, quiet but alert. Her gaze moved through the estate like a scanner—measuring exits, distances, people. Clinical. Detached.
Until she saw Toni.
Something in Gwen's expression shifted. The steel softened, just a fraction.
She crossed the distance without hesitation, slipping easily into Toni's space as if it had always belonged to her. Gwen Vasquez had been infatuated with Toni since they were children—an affection that had survived distance, blood feuds, and time itself.
A small, genuine wave passed between them.
Old allies. Old blood.
And today, a lethal test.
By afternoon, the estate's private shooting range had been prepared. The air was heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass, expensive tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil. Steel targets gleamed beneath the sun, waiting.
Althea stepped to the firing line first.
She moved with calculated, terrifying precision—every motion efficient, deliberate, stripped of waste. The weapon was an extension of her body, her breathing steady, her posture flawless. Shot after shot rang out in mechanical rhythm.
When the final steel target fell with a clean, ringing clang, the electronic board flashed its verdict.
A decisive win.
"Still ruthless, Althea," Steve laughed, clapping his hands together.
"Always," Althea replied, offering a thin, clinical smile that didn't disturb a single muscle in her face.
Rio and Jason followed, their round devolving into a contest of brute force and ego—high-caliber weapons, heavier recoil. They tied, neither willing to yield ground.
Then Steve tilted his head.
His gaze slid toward the back of the pavilion, where Eli stood half-shrouded in shadow.
"Let's raise the stakes," Steve said lightly, his voice carrying across the range. "How about Elizabeth against my sister?"
Gwen looked up sharply.
A murmur rippled through the gathered staff.
Aurora stiffened, her hand flying to the hollow of her throat. "Roman—Eli isn't recovered. Her arm—"
Althea frowned. "What are you playing at, Steve? She's in a cast."
Steve shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. "Everyone knows the second Vale daughter is the best shot in the city. We battled a year ago—she humiliated me." His gaze flicked briefly to Gwen, already checking the weight of her sidearm. "One daughter against another. Seems fair."
Roman didn't look at his wife.
He didn't look at the thick plaster cast encasing Eli's right arm.
His eyes locked onto Eli's face—cold, assessing, utterly devoid of mercy.
"Do you accept?"
It wasn't a question. In this family, Roman's requests were commandments.
Eli stepped forward.
The cast made her gait uneven, a subtle hitch in her armor. But her spine stayed straight.
"Yes."
Runa felt panic flare in her chest.
She had watched Eli train for hours, moving like a ghost through pain and silence. But never once—not once—had she seen Eli fire with her left hand.
Eli was right-handed.
And her right arm was a tomb of plaster and fractures.
Gwen met her at the firing line, expression unreadable.
"Good luck, Elizabeth."
"You too," Eli replied quietly.
The first shot cracked through the air.
Then another.
Eli's movements were agonizingly slow. She shifted her entire center of gravity to compensate, her body recalibrating in real time. Her left arm trembled under the unfamiliar weight of the weapon. Sweat beaded at her hairline as white-hot agony radiated from her shattered shoulder, each recoil sending fire through her nerves.
But her focus was absolute.
Pain was just noise.
Static to be filtered out.
The final target fell.
Silence swallowed the range.
The electronic board flickered—calculating speed, accuracy, spread.
Eli had won.
By a single point.
Polite applause followed, stunned and restrained. Roman nodded once—a rare, coveted gesture of approval, the only reward Eli would ever receive.
Steve laughed, genuinely entertained. "Incredible. Even broken, she's a demon."
Gwen scoffed under her breath. "Lucky shot."
Toni laughed softly.
"What?" Gwen asked.
"You know what," Toni said, keeping her voice low. "Let's take a ride. Eli's Ducati."
Gwen blinked. "But—"
"She won't know," Toni said with a grin. "She won't be riding it. Call it revenge."
Gwen's mouth curved into a wicked smile. "Let's go."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the estate, the Vales and Vasquez brothers retreated to the main house to toast to tradition.
Runa slipped away.
She found Eli behind the equipment shed, tucked safely beyond the reach of security cameras.
Eli leaned against the corrugated metal wall, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Her left hand clutched her right shoulder, her head bowed. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving only the raw, punishing reality of what she'd done.
"You're bleeding again," Runa said softly, nodding toward the fresh crimson blooming through the bandage at Eli's neckline.
Eli didn't look up. "It's fine."
Runa hesitated, then reached into her jacket and pulled out a fresh roll of gauze she'd stolen from the medical kit earlier.
"Let me fix it."
"I can handle it," Eli muttered.
Runa glanced pointedly at the cast.
"With what?" she asked gently. "Your right hand is in a cast, Eli."
Eli's jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like she might snap—might shut the door the way she always did. Instead, she looked away.
"…Don't," Eli said quietly. "I don't need help."
"You just outshot Gwen Vasquez with your wrong hand," Runa replied. "Let me do this one thing."
Silence.
Then, reluctantly, Eli nodded once.
Runa stepped closer, careful, slow. Her fingers brushed Eli's skin as she unwound the blood-soaked bandage.
Eli sucked in a sharp breath.
"I'm sorry—does that hurt?" Runa asked.
"…No," Eli said too fast.
Runa worked gently, cleaning the wound and wrapping fresh gauze around Eli's shoulder. Eli stood unnaturally still, eyes fixed on the far fence like it was the only thing holding her upright.
As Runa tied the bandage, her fingers lingered just a second too long.
Eli's breath hitched.
When Runa stepped back and looked up, she froze.
Eli's ears were red.
Blushing.
"Are you… blushing?" Runa asked.
"I am not," Eli snapped, immediately turning away.
"You absolutely are."
"I lost blood," Eli said stiffly. "That happens."
Runa smiled, soft and fond. "Right. Blood loss."
"…Don't make a thing out of this," Eli muttered.
"I won't."
A beat.
"…Thank you," Eli added, barely audible.
"I heard what Jason said," Runa whispered.
Eli went rigid.
"You said a name," Runa continued. "Amy. He said you were expendable—and you said you wouldn't let what happened to her happen again."
Eli's gaze snapped to hers.
Wounded. Wild. Dangerous.
"Who was she?" Runa asked. "Was she like me? Was she collateral?"
The silence that followed was grave-deep.
Eli straightened, pain sealed away beneath a mask of stone. She stepped forward until she was inches from Runa, blotting out the last of the fading light.
"Don't ever say that name again," Eli said quietly.
"Eli, I just want to understand—"
"There is nothing to understand." Her blue eyes darkened. "There are stories in this house that don't have endings. Only victims. If you want to survive in this family, you'll stop digging for ghosts."
She brushed past Runa without another word.
Didn't look back.
Runa stood alone in the dark, the name Amy heavy in her chest.
Another thing in the Vale family, survival wasn't about strength.
It was about how much you were willing to endure.
And how much you were willing to lose.