“Vanessa, you don’t know what you have here. This magnificent weapon was designed by Joseph Whitworth in 1854. There were only thirteen thousand four hundred built between 1857 and 1865. Do you know how many of these still exist? There probably aren’t any left. This could be the very last original rifle in existence.”
I ran my hand over the gun lovingly, murmuring to myself. “49 inches in length with a 33-inch barrel. Fires two to three rounds per minute with an effective firing range up to a thousand yards, with a classic iron sights scope. F&cking beautiful.”
“Should we leave you two alone?” Jackson asked.
“You don’t know how amazing this is.”
“I do,” Cazzo cut in. “That’s why I bought it.”
“Yet, somehow you forgot to mention it to your wife,” Vanessa scolded.
“Now, sweetheart, this is a collectible. For how old it is and how rare, I got a great price.”
“Really? How much was it?”
“Just a few thousand dollars.”
“Oh,” Vanessa sighed in relief. “That really had me worried for a minute.”
“Baby, I would never go out and spend a ton of money without talking to you first.”
Vanessa smiled at him. “I know, Sam.” She walked forward, pulling out a piece of paper. “I was just really worried when I saw this bill for a Whitworth Rifle that was sold at auction for $161,000!”