Dont close your eyes

#1

The sharp, concussive crack of a gunshot echoed through the stone walls, rattling the glass of the French doors that led out to the courtyard.
You groaned into your pillow, dragging the heavy duvet completely over your head as if the fabric could block out the reality of where you lived. "Can they seriously not start shooting this early?" you mumbled into your pillow, your voice muffled and laced with pure exhaustion.
Another shot rang out. Then a third, sharper and closer than the last.
You threw the blanket aside with a dramatic, frustrated huff, glaring up at the empty ceiling. "Unbelievable. It's barely morning."
By the time you dragged yourself downstairs, the sharp smell of gunpowder had faded into the warm scent of roasted coffee beans. You made your way into the dining room, only to find your father sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table, a crisp newspaper held in one hand while his other casually cradled a ceramic mug.
"Morning," you muttered, pulling out the chair directly across from him.
He glanced up from the financial section for barely a second, his dark eyes sweeping over you before returning to the print. "Morning."
You sat across from him, resting your chin heavily in your palm as you watched him with narrowed eyes. "Dad..." you dragged out the syllable, leaning forward and waiting for his response.
"Hm?" he hummed into the rim of his coffee cup, not even bothering to look up at you.
"I hate guns."
He folded the newspaper with a crisp, rustling sound and finally laid it flat on the table. "I know."
"No, I mean I really hate them."
"They're loud."
"They're dangerous."
"They're annoying," he countered smoothly, a faint, teasing glint in his eye.
"And they wake me up every single morning like clockwork," you shot back, gesturing wildly toward the courtyard outside.
A quiet, fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You'll survive."
"I don't want to survive them. I want them gone."
He chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest, before taking a slow sip of his coffee. "They're not going anywhere."
You let out a long, theatrical sigh, slumping further against your hand. "Sometimes I seriously wonder if you're secretly in love with those things more than your own peace and quiet."
"I prefer not getting shot."
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "Exactly! Which is why you should probably stop making so many enemies."
The amusement vanished from his face instantly. The smile on his lips disappeared, replaced by a rigid, impenetrable mask.
A brief, suffocating silence settled over the room, thick enough to choke on. You immediately realized you'd touched a subject he didn't like discussing, watching the shift in his posture with sudden regret.
"...Sorry," you mumbled, your voice dropping its playful edge.
"It's alright," he said quietly.
He placed the newspaper down completely, the paper sliding flat against the wood.
"Actually..." he hesitated, watching you carefully. "I needed to talk to you."
You already didn't like where this was going, your stomach tightening with an instinctive dread. "What now?"
"Starting tomorrow..." he paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before he dropped them. "...you'll begin firearms training."
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth, hovering in the air as your brain scrambled to process what he had just said. "...What?"
"You heard me."
"No."
"It wasn't a question."
"Dad," you protested, dropping the fork with a sharp clatter against the porcelain plate. "I don't want to learn how to shoot."
"You have to."
"I don't!"
His expression hardened into stone, the stern, immovable mafia leader taking the place of your father.
"You're my daughter."
"So?"
"You're a mafia leader's daughter," he said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a grim reality you spent every single day trying to ignore.
You looked away, staring stubbornly at the empty corner of the room, a sudden sting of bitterness burning behind your eyes. "I never asked to be."
"I know." His voice softened just a fraction, though his gaze remained unyielding. "But the world doesn't care what you asked for."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table as if trying to force you to see the truth. "One day..." he murmured, his voice tightening. "...someone may point a gun at you."
"And when that day comes..."
"...I refuse to let you stand there defenseless."
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to breathe. "I don't want this life."
"I know."
"I don't even like violence."
"I know."
"So why are you making me become part of it?" Your voice cracked, betraying the frustration and fear you kept buried deep inside.
"I'm making sure you stay alive."
Silence hung heavily between you both.
After a few seconds, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh in defeat. "...Who's teaching me?"
"I hired someone."
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Please don't tell me he's one of those grumpy old men who yell every five seconds and smells like cheap cigars."
A genuine, startled laugh broke through your father's serious expression. "No."
You peeked through your fingers, suspicious. "Then who?"
"You'll meet him tomorrow."
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, studying the subtle, almost smug amusement playing on his face. "You're enjoying this way too much."
He simply smiled, picking his coffee cup back up as if he hadn't just upended your entire world.
You left the dining room with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, already dreading a tomorrow that hadn't even arrived yet.
Of all the ridiculous, over-the-top punishments your father could have possibly come up with...
A shooting instructor?
Really?
"You've officially lost your mind," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head as you walked away from the lingering smell of roasted coffee beans.
As you wandered down the expansive, high-ceilinged corridor, another loud, jarring gunshot echoed from the outdoor training grounds. You stopped abruptly beside one of the tall, arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard.
Down below, a group of guards stood in a neat, rigid formation, firing repeatedly at paper targets without missing a single shot. The sharp, rhythmic cracks of the guns made your skin crawl.
You grimaced, leaning your forehead briefly against the cool glass. "How is this even enjoyable?"
One of the house maids was passing by, carrying a stack of fresh linens, and couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Miss Y/N, they're just doing their job."
"And I'm judging them for it," you shot back instantly, crossing your arms over your chest.
She laughed quietly, a warm, familiar sound, before continuing down the hallway.
You stayed where you were for another moment, watching the guards reload their heavy weapons with practiced, terrifying ease. The faint, metallic smell of gunpowder drifted up through the slightly open window seam.
You slammed the glass shut immediately, locking the latch with a sharp click. "Nope."
Not your thing.
Never would be.
A few hours later, you found yourself sprawled carelessly across the plush living room couch, your phone clutched lazily in one hand while the television hummed softly in the background.
Nothing not even your favorite reality show could properly distract you from what tomorrow held.
You groaned dramatically, kicking your legs up against the back of the sofa. "I seriously have to spend my entire summer learning how to shoot targets like some kind of action movie extra."
You grabbed a decorative throw pillow, burying your face directly into it and letting out a muffled scream of pure frustration. "This is actual torture."
One of the housekeepers walked past the open doorway, pausing when she heard your muffled complaints. "Miss?" she asked, her voice laced with amusement.
You lifted your head slowly, glaring at the ceiling. "Hm?"
"Food will be ready soon."
"Tell Dad I'm filing a formal complaint."
She blinked, caught entirely off guard. "...Against?"
"The entire mafia."
She stared at you for a long second. "...I don't think that's a department you can file a complaint with."
"Well, it should be."
You had exactly three goals for today.
Eat.
Sleep.
And avoid your father at all costs.
Unfortunately, your father happened to live in the exact same mansion, which meant goal number three was doomed from the start.
You wandered into the massive, gleaming kitchen just as the morning sun was spilling across the marble countertops, quietly sneaking your hand toward a bowl of fresh fruit to steal a single, bright red strawberry.
"Miss!"
The head chef gasped so dramatically you would have thought someone had pulled a weapon. "You cannot just steal ingredients off the prep station."
You popped the strawberry into your mouth anyway, chewing slowly with an innocent look plastered across your face. "I call it quality control."
"You've had six."
"I've had one."
The chef crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "...There are witnesses."
You spun around, looking at the two junior cooks standing nearby. They immediately avoided your eye contact, staring intensely at the floor tiles.
"Traitors," you muttered under your breath, though a laugh broke through your sarcastic pout as the entire kitchen dissolved into quiet chuckles.