Chris! I told you not to do that. That is going to complicate things." Chris, who had the hammer, was ready to smash the gun again. The gun now looked very old and beat up. The serial number looked worn. The stock was broken and twisted. It looked out of place next to its shiny brethren in the collection. "I am so sick of the gun already. I don't know why the police let you bring it home with you." Chris looked again at the weapon. His anger started to dissipate, but his questions still lingered. He wanted to know the entire story. He wanted to understand what drove the gun from the desk of a successful architect in Washington to an alley in Mexico City and why he had never felt compelled to tell it. "Why have you never told me about it before?" "Well," Gina said, "a gun is a symbol of death, and it is a pretty grim place to start a relationship. The gun represented the beginning of our relationship and it was a rough start." Chris thought about it. Gina had been dating him for six months. He knew that she had seen some rough parts of his past, but he had never told her about the gun. He had never felt the need. He had never really told her anything about his life. And he knew why. The gun represented something so profound and dark that even he did not want to consider it. "Let's start from the beginning," she said. "How did you get the gun?" Chris shrugged his shoulders. He was still trying to understand why he was being interrogated about it. "It is a long story, Chris." "Then let's hear the whole thing," he said. "Okay," she said. "The best place to start is in Italy. About 10 years ago I was in a bar in Florence, and a man and a woman walked in and sat down at the next table. "They were dressed like wealthy people. The man had on a nice suit and the woman wore a dress that cost more than my car. He did not drink, but she had at least four glasses of wine. I remember that they made me nervous. I did not know why, but something told me I needed to stay away from them. "We sat there for two hours and talked about nothing. Finally, I had to go to the bathroom. It was an elegant place and I was afraid to leave my drink. I told the waitress that I would come back to get it. I walked into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat down. I did not notice that the little bottle of liquid soap on the counter was gone. I could not find it anywhere, and I started to panic." "What happened?" Chris said. "My thoughts were racing. It dawned on me that someone had been in the bathroom with me. The room started to get very hot. I was getting hot too, and I was beginning to panic. Then the panic became anger. I started thinking that this was not a prank or an accident. I felt so violated and so angry. I got up and started to leave. I was about to unlock the door when I turned back to look at the mirror. "The mirror was covered with toilet paper and there was a tiny piece of tape taped to it. Written in big, black letters on the mirror was the name 'BAM.' The look on his face was more frightening than a bullet." Gina stopped to look down at her hands, which were shaking. She could not hide her emotions. She knew that she would never forget the look on the man's face. It was the look of a bully, but the words that were written on the mirror were not innocent. "I walked out of the bathroom with my eyes on the floor and almost got hit by the man's body. I looked up, and he had stopped, taken out a gun, and was holding it in his hand. He had obviously been tracking me. He looked furious, and he motioned to me to go back to the bar. "I was too angry to listen. I started to get in my car, and he followed me outside and hit the hood of my car. I froze with fear. I had the key in my hand, but I did not turn on the engine. He leaned down and pointed the gun toward me and said something in Italian. I did not understand him, and I could tell that he was a madman. I went back into the bar and told the bartender that something terrible had happened. I could not get myself to repeat it, and my English is good." "Why do you not have an accent?" Chris said. "It is because of my father," Gina said. "He was born in Italy and his family moved to California when he was very young. He made a point of talking in a different way, to try to disguise his heritage. He was afraid that he would be perceived as a thug. I had never met him, but I understood why he would do that. As I got to know him, I realized that he had a good heart. My mom was the one that had an accent. She had been born in Italy also, and she never passed that on to me." "So why are you not in Italy?" "My mom died when I was about 10. My father wanted me to have her last name to help me with college applications. He called himself DeMarcus and I became Gina DeMarcus. He died before the university year started, so I became a burden on his wife, a waitress at a restaurant." "Where did your name come from?" "She did not have the heart to use her maiden name," Gina said. "I was named after a family member she had loved and lost. I never knew her, but that is what I was named after. My dad liked to joke that he was the one who got to live." "I am so sorry to hear that," Chris said. "You were probably about 14 when he died?" "Yes," she said, "I was 14. The gun was a reminder of him too. It was like he was saying, 'you don't have to be afraid anymore.' I told you that I hated guns, but I did not care. It meant too much to me. I wanted to see the guy that had done that. "There was a chance that I would run into him again, and I wanted to see his face. I went into a gun shop and bought it. He came up behind me in a bar one night and pulled out the gun. He said something and then hit me. It was on." "What did the police do?" "Nothing," she said. "They never really looked for him. I kept a good job, and the bar paid for it. I thought he was a monster until I found out who he was, then I hated him. I hated him with all of my heart. He had ruined my life, my mother's, and he had taken something from me that I was going to keep close to me for the rest of my life. I wanted to see him again so I could beat him." "How did you get to me?" "His name was John DeBello. He was a high ranking FBI agent. He worked out of Washington DC for years. I thought I could find him in DC, and I had no idea how far a high ranking FBI agent could get. I went to DC and found out that he was no longer living in Washington. He had moved to Chicago, and I figured out that he could be in Mexico City. I flew down here and started asking people. Finally, a man that worked for a newspaper told me about the bar. I went down there and started talking to people. I had a lot of information, but I needed some background to make it believable. I heard that someone was selling pictures. I gave the man two hundred dollars, and he gave me pictures of his life with my father. "There was a picture of you in the paper. There was a picture of him, and I was able to figure out his identity. He had grown his hair out and quit drinking. When he saw the pictures, he knew it was a wrap. I had to have the gun back, and I had to have you back. "Then you and me walked in, and he was standing right there. He looked at me and I saw that cold, angry look in his eyes. He pulled out the gun and pulled the trigger, but it did not fire. When he saw me pull