Dino followed Oz into the firing range. The sight gave Dino the same array of emotions: he was impressed by the work, but disgusted by the chaos in it. Killing was an art, and it had to be done with tact and taste, not brainlessly. But as soon as his eyes fell on the Anaconda, he lunged for it, snagging it off the table and fondling it carefully, almost lovingly. He muttered something to it, but it was close to a breath than a concrete sound. After he reunited with his precious handgun, he popped the drum open, revealing 8 empty shells.
"Did you fire my gun?" he blankly asked, his eyes snapping from the weapon to Oz. Dino jerked the the gun, popping the empty shells out of the drum and grabbing all in his hand with one quick sweep. He brought them to his nose and took a deep breath. They were still smelling like gunpowder and burn.
"Rhetorical question. Of course you did. If I were you I'd do the same." he stated calmly, even somewhat jovially. The Irish man began replacing the empty shells with live ones from his pockets, loading the 8 rounds with calm, staring at Oz.
"At the same time, if I were you and you knew about me, I wouldn't have done it. Savvy?" he stated as he finished reloading, snapping the drum back in place. He slowly rose the Anaconda, nodding it to Oz and then slipping it into its holster, after a couple of unnecessary twirls. Dino then crossed his arms.
"I did. Got it when I was 4. Never stopped tweaking it since. Some other people worked on it as well. None of your business to begin with, really."