Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 72

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 72**

**Lucien’s POV**

The indoor shooting range loomed before me, an immense expanse that felt more like a sterile surgical theater than a place for training. The harsh, fluorescent lights hung from the high ceiling, illuminating the polished concrete floor so brightly that it almost hurt to look at. It was cold in here—cold like a morgue, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and made you acutely aware of your own heartbeat.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder, mingling with the oily scent of metal and the unmistakable chill of steel. My gaze swept across the walls, which were lined with an array of firearms, each one gleaming like a predator waiting to pounce. Rifles, shotguns, handguns—this was an arsenal designed to intimidate, to proclaim dominance.

In the corner, Mateo stood with a cocky smirk plastered across his face, clearly relishing this little spectacle. He thought this was just some game, a contest to prove who was better. Most people didn’t know the truth—that my mother had taught me how to handle a gun when I was just a child. I could still feel her firm grip on my small shoulders, her voice sharp and urgent in my ear: “You can ignore art and music, but you must never be helpless. Never.” That lesson had etched itself into my very being, coursing through my veins with a heat that was more intense than any anger I felt.

“Your pick,” Mateo said, waving his hand dismissively as if offering me a drink at a bar.

I didn’t waste a second. I strode confidently to the wall and grasped a classic Colt M1911. The moment the cold metal settled into my palm, a wave of familiarity washed over me. It felt solid, reassuring—a deadly weight that brought me a sense of comfort. This was a language I understood fluently.

“Round one: fixed target. Ten shots. One hundred meters,” Mateo declared, selecting an identical model. He wanted to mirror my actions, to show that he was just as skilled, but I saw through the façade.

This was a competition of egos, and he was the one holding the measuring stick.

We took our positions, the silence around us thickening, heavy with anticipation. Then, the shots rang out—sharp cracks that sliced through the stillness of the air. One shot after another, each one precise and unwavering. The scent of cordite burned in my nostrils, but my focus was razor-sharp, unyielding.

We finished almost simultaneously, the electronic scoreboard lighting up with our scores.

“Perfect score. One hundred points each,” Mateo said, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone. He hadn’t expected me to keep pace with him, and I relished the thought of his discomfort.

“Round two: clay pigeons,” he snapped, his cool demeanor beginning to fray.

With a swift motion, two clay disks shot into the air, crossing each other at unpredictable angles. I tracked the first one, leading it just slightly before pulling the trigger. It shattered into a cloud of dust. Mateo’s shot followed a heartbeat later, obliterating the second.

They launched more disks, faster and more erratic, as if they were trying to throw us off our game. Our shooting turned into a tempest of lead and splintering clay, the air filled with the sounds of our relentless barrage. Sweat trickled down my temple, but my grip remained steady, my hands unwavering. I could still hear my mother’s voice echoing in my mind: “Steady hands, Lucien. Fear is a luxury.”

“Interesting,” Mateo muttered, switching to a long-barreled revolver. “Final round.”

At his command, his men rolled out a human-shaped dummy, placing a single red apple precariously balanced on its head.

“Let’s make this more interesting,” he said, snapping his fingers with a flourish.

Two of his men dragged a figure into the range—a woman dressed in a mud-stained white dress.

Norah.

My heart raced violently in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out all other sounds. Her eyes were wide with fear, yet they locked onto mine, unwavering. She didn’t look away, and that small act of defiance stirred something deep within me.

“Same rules,” Mateo said softly, his voice oozing malice. “But this time, the target… she’s real.”

I tightened my grip on the Colt, the metal feeling colder against my skin than ever before.

This was no longer a game.

He had crossed a line, and I vowed then and there that he would come to regret it.