Serafina
The warehouse didn’t look like much from the outside—just another brick box with rusted shutters and graffiti scrawled across the walls. But inside, the air smelled of oil and gunpowder. Metal tables lined the concrete floor, and paper targets were clipped to rails at the far end.
Adriano flicked on the overhead lights, shadows scattering. “Not glamorous,” he said, his voice bouncing off the walls. “But private. That’s what matters.”
My throat felt dry. I’d asked for this, but now that I stood here with the weight of the decision pressing down on me, it was harder to breathe.
He set a steel case on the table and popped the latches. Inside, two handguns lay on foam. One was a matte-black beast, heavy just to look at. The other was smaller, sleek, with a grip that looked mad
