KIRA’S POV
“Again,” Romano said, not even sparing me a glance.
“What do you mean again? I hit the bullseye.” I retorted, turning around to face him and pointing dramatically at the dartboard. He was seated lazily on a black bean sack chair at the edge of the armory.
Sitting up slightly, he waved the stopwatch in his hand. “Two minutes and twenty seconds,” he announced, flatly. “That’s how long it took you to hit the bullseye. In that time, Ma’am, you could have been shot or stabbed multiple times in a knife fight.”
I clenched my teeth, swallowing my irritation. I hated when he spoke to me like a clueless toddler and then threw in ma’am at the end, like that somehow softened the insult.
“What does throwing darts have to do with a knife fight? And how on earth would I ever get into one
