She fucking yellow'ed me.
Neither of us can win this way.
We're a disaster, a certifiable catastrophe, and there's nothing beautiful about the way we're going. She's trying to be unbreakable but I'm unshakeable. She's going crazy, and I'm already goddamn insane. I clipped my jailbird's wings so she couldn't fly away from me, and then I wonder why the fuck I can't make her soar.
That familiar sound echoes through the room again, like she's sucking in air but still can't breathe. I drop my head, eyes seeking her out just as she starts to cry. This time she doesn't hold back, doesn't try to bury it deep inside. It leaks out, a flood of emotion, the time bomb finally detonating.
I can feel the explosion.
There it is.
BOOM
She sobs so hard she's hyperventilating. I lay down beside her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her toward me, her head on my chest. I expect her to shove away, to lash out, but she just lays there, her body limp and heavy against mine.
She didn't say the word, but she should've.
She meant it.
"Breathe," I whisper into her hair. "Just keep breathing, and it'll be okay."
The man who greets me in the mirror the next morning is shattered.
Red welts and scratches rake down my chest, winding up my neck and running down my arms, a few stray ones slashed across my cheeks. My bottom lip is swollen, a small gash faintly visible, the skin discolored. Heavy bags line my eyes from no sleep, my muscles tense, and jaw clenched, as I absently grind my teeth together.
I run my fingertips along a bruise forming around the juncture of my neck and my shoulder, the slight imprint of teeth marks embedded in the skin.
I've killed men with nothing but my bare hands and walked away with fewer injuries.
Sighing, I turn on the bathroom faucet and splash cold water on my face, running my fingers through my hair, before turning the water off again and walking out. I tread lightly on the stairs, heading downstairs in nothing except a pair of sweat pants I grabbed from the drawer.
Karissa is awake now… or up, anyway. I don't think she slept much either, if at all, as we lay in bed all night, lost in the darkness.
Smothered by the silence.
Drowning in the bitter truth.
The scent of coffee clings to the air in the kitchen. It has been two weeks—fourteen long mornings—since I brought that machine home.
She finally touched it.
Karissa stands by the counter in a pair of underwear covered by one of my white t-shirts, her back to me. I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her. I can make out the profile of her face, seeing her passive expression. She holds a small white cup, one I assume she dug out of the cabinet with the other china I've never used. Steam rises from the top as she lightly blows into it before taking a small sip.
And another.
And another.
"Good morning."
She turns at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flits my direction and she freezes, eyes scanning my face and down my chest, admiring her handiwork. I expect her to walk away, to blow me off like she usually does when I try to start a conversation, but instead she strolls my way.
Her feet stall after a few steps, and she lingers in front of me, a mere foot between us. I remain quiet, stoic, as she holds her cup out, wordlessly offering some.
My chest tightens.
It's an olive branch, I realize, but one I don't take.
She sipped it, so I don't think there's anything wrong with it, but I remember exactly what happened last time I thought that.
After a second, she sighs, realizing I'm not going to touch it, and pulls her cup back as she walks away.
"Thank you for the coffee machine, Naz," she says quietly. "I appreciate it."
Ray's trying not to laugh.
I'm trying not to punch him in the face.
I slouch in the black leather chair at Cobalt after nightfall, nursing a bottle of cold pale ale, hoping the alcohol can soothe my frayed nerves, but it's pointless, given the way Ray's gawking at me.
I turn my eyes toward him and raise an eyebrow in silent challenge, as the corners of his lips spastically twitch. He's shit at keeping a straight face, and he most definitely can't hide his amusement today.
It dances in his eyes.
He's enjoying this.
After a moment, he loses the battle entirely and a small chuckle echoes out as he full-blown grins. "How you feeling, Vitale?"
At least he's not drunk yet.
Because if he called me Naz with that look on his face?
I would punch him.
Potential consequences be damned.
"Fine," I respond, taking a sip of the beer. It tastes extra bitter, or maybe I'm just in one of those kinds of moods. Karissa has me flipped upside down. I don't know if we're coming or going.
"Fine," he repeats, swirling his glass of scotch around, the ice cubes clinking against the side as he waves his drink toward me. "If that's fine, I'd hate to see the other guy."
He's looking for information, information he knows I won't volunteer, but he isn't stupid, not in the least. He'd be worried if he truly believed some guy got the best of me like this. The scratches are the tale-tell sign of a woman scorned, and only one woman could leave these marks on me and still live afterward.
Ray knows this, but he doesn't get it.
He doesn't get why Karissa is still breathing.
Why I haven't... why I won't... why I can't… kill her.
He laughs again, this time a sharp edge to it, as he takes a sip of the dark liquor. "Such a waste."
I glare at him, hoping he's talking about the wasted opportunity and that it isn't an insult aimed at me.
Unlike the other guys he keeps around, I never took an oath to be here. I was never inducted into the organization he runs, never vowed my life to the things they do. I do them, all right. I do more than most of those other guys do. But I do it with an understanding, a mutual sort of respect, that it didn't take the prick of a trigger finger to forge.
I do it because he's like a father to me.
I do it because I want to.
I do it because long ago I decided this is exactly what I was meant to do.
So while I'm loyal, and Ray knows it, he can't treat me like he does those other guys. He can only push me so far. We wouldn't stab each other in the back, but there's nothing to keep us from someday stabbing in the front.
Nobody's truly safe.
My best friend proved that.
The thing is, I wasn't the only one who wanted Johnny dead.
Ray did, too.
He wanted the Rita bloodline destroyed.
He wanted them chewed up and spit out.
He wanted them to suffer like he did.
Like we did.
The only vow I ever took to him was that I would do just that.
That I would destroy them.
That I would get justice.
The only thing keeping Karissa alive—keeping Ray from outsourcing elsewhere, from putting a hit out on her life—is that he's not willing to cut ties with me. It's personal, and for the moment that outweighs any sort of business, but I'm not a fool.
It might not always be that way.
I'm sure Karissa thinks I'm a monster for forcing her to stay with me, and maybe I am. Maybe I'm a fucking despicable human being. I'm certainly not a good man. But she doesn't realize it's because of that she's still breathing. It's because of that she wakes up every morning to hate me another day.
She's alive because I couldn't bring myself to kill her, and nobody else is stupid enough to cross me by doing it.
"A waste, huh?" I take a sip of beer before gazing at the bottle, swirling what's left of the liquid around inside of it. "It's all a waste, if you ask me. None of it should've happened."
"But it did," he counters. "Only a fool would ignore that it did."
Now that is an insult, but I keep my cool, finishin
g the rest of my beer. "Yeah, well, good thing I'm not a fool. I don't ignore anything."
I set the empty bottle aside and stand, smoothing wrinkles from my suit coat. I don't bother saying goodbye, merely grasping Ray by the shoulder and squeezing it on my way past him to the door.
It's a sweltering night, the kind where the darkness feels thicker than usual and the air is heavier in my lungs, making my chest tighten when I try to breathe. I hate these nights. It's the kind of air that held Maria's last breath. The ominous sensation crawls across my skin, a chill in the heat, like I'm fighting a current that wants to take me under, but I won't let it.
Never let it.
My car is parked in the back private lot of Cobalt, down the alley that runs beside the social club. I stroll toward it, in no rush, not sure what to do or say when I face Karissa again.
I hit the lot, walking toward my car parked beneath a glowing streetlight, pressing the button on my keys to unlock the doors when I hear a noise behind me. It's quiet, and restrained, the kicking of loose gravel, a rustling in a non-existent breeze. The hair on my arms prickles in alarm, my back stiffening as every inch of me goes on high alert.
Somebody's there.
My heart pounds rapidly in anticipation, my mind working fast to strategize. I don't keep a gun on me unless I know I'll need it. I can't even carry a Swiss Army knife into the city without the NYPD calling it a deadly weapon. My eyes dart around in the darkness, looking for something I can use in defense, but nothing stands out.
Hands it is, I guess.
I was blessed with tough ones.
As long as I have my hands, I'm not defenseless.
The noise creeps closer—ten feet away at most. Steeling myself, I spin around, prepared to attack before they can make a move, when I catch sight of the face, familiar wide brown eyes catching me off guard for a few seconds, long enough for the barrel of a gun to be aimed right at my chest.
Carmela Rita.
She stands just beyond the reach of the light, her hands shaking the small caliber handgun, her finger on the trigger. I freeze in spot, making no sudden movements so not to set her off prematurely.
Because she'll shoot.
I know she will.
The look in her eyes tells me so.
"Hello, Carmela," I say calmly, keeping my voice steady as I greet her. "Nice to see you again."
"Don't even… don't you dare talk to me like that!" she grinds out, her voice shaking. "Don't talk to me like we're friends!"
She grips the gun tightly with both hands now, yet it still shakes, unsteady. She's crazed, more so than I've ever seen someone before. She's a feral cat backed into a corner, ready to claw my fucking face.
Pity for her, her daughter beat her to that.
Slowly, I raise my hands in the air to show her I mean no harm. Not now, anyway. I have no intention of hurting her today.
"Fair enough," I say. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"
"You killed him!" she says. "You killed Johnny! You took everything from me, and I want it back! I need it, and you're going to give it to me!"
Karissa, I think. She wants Karissa.
She's not going to get her, though.
I won't let her.
I can't.
I can't let Karissa become collateral damage.
My mind works fast, trying to come up with something to say, some way to distract her, to throw her off for long enough to give me the upper hand. I don't think she knows where I live, not unless Karissa told her before they lost contact. Few people know where my house is for this reason. "You want—"
"I want my daughter," she interjects. "But I need money right now."
My brow furrows. "Money?"
"Johnny was keeping me afloat. I have nowhere to go without him. I have nothing left! I need money, I need a way out of this, and you're going to give it to me."
She takes a step closer, into the light. She's more of a mess than I originally thought—dirty and deranged. I wonder how she's sustained herself these past few weeks without Johnny, but it's clear whatever she had set aside has dried up if she's desperate enough to try to strong-arm me.
"I don't have money on me. I'll have to go get you some."
"Liar!" She waves the gun at my face. "Give me your wallet."
I hesitate before slowly lowering one of my hands, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. I pull it out and open it, deciding to placate her by voluntarily handing over a bit of cash, but that's not good enough for her.
"Toss the whole thing to me," she demands. "And don't try anything funny, Vitale. I'll shoot you."
Shit.
I toss the wallet across the lot. It lands a few inches from her feet, and she carefully leans down to pick it up, making sure to keep the shaky gun aimed toward me, her finger still on the trigger. She struggles to keep it pointed my direction while she looks in the wallet, just a glance confirming I lied right to her face.
There's over a thousand bucks in there.
I'm hoping she'll swipe the cash and toss the wallet aside, but instead she pockets the whole thing before focusing on me again. "Now give me your keys."
"My keys."
"Yes."
"You're stealing my car, too, Carmela? I thought you were smarter than that. You know new cars are equipped with GPS. You won't get far."
"You're lying again," she says. "If anyone would have a car that couldn't be traced, it would be you. You'd never let anyone track your movements."
Smart.
I'm almost impressed.
"Besides, I don't want your car," she says. "I just have to be sure you can't follow me right away."
She's smart, all right.
Slowly, I start to take the Mercedes key off the ring when she shakes her head, taking another step toward me. "Give me all of them. You're not going to outwit me."
Too smart.
But she underestimates me.
I keep a spare key in my car.
I begrudgingly toss the keys, glaring at her as she picks them up. As she starts to back away, panic runs through me. I have to find a way to stop her, to stall her. I can't just let her leave.
I take a step forward, her name on my lips. "Car—"
The backdoor to the club opens and loud voices carry through into the lot. Their presence sets Carmela off, the lighting of the fuse. I can see it on her face, but it's too late for me to react, too late to diffuse this.
The explosion goes off unexpectedly, a gunshot lighting up the lot between us a fraction of a second before pain rips through me. A curse leaves my lips in a sharp exhale as my chest suddenly feels like it's engulfed in flames, the burning coating my left side, pinprick numbness radiating from it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I can't breathe.
I grasp my side, wincing, and inhale sharply as a second gunshot cuts through the night, clinking as it slams into my car door, ricocheting and hitting the glass of the driver's side window. My knees buckle as I hit the ground beside the car, trying to shield myself as she unloads the gun, bullet after bullet striking metal around me. I can feel them as they tear past me, crashing into the car.
She pulls the trigger, over and over.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I raise my head, blood seeping through my shirt when I hear the distinct clicking sound. She's out of bullets. I'm breathing heavily, adrenaline spiking my system. The pain runs deep, like someone stabbed me with a hot iron poker. I'm hoping it's just a flesh wound, but it hurts like a son of a bitch.
Carmela frantically takes a few steps back. The gunshots scared away whoever had come outside, but there will be others soon, and she knows it. She knows they're coming, and she's defenseless, and I'm not dead. Either I'm a lucky son of a bitch, or she's a terrible shot. Our eyes meet for only a few seconds, a few seconds where I drink in her sheer terror.
And then she's gone.
In a blink, the time it
takes to reopen my eyes after closing them, she's running, disappearing into the darkness. I force myself up, clenching my jaw from the pain, struggling to get my breathing under control. I'm steady on my feet for the moment, but I'm losing blood.
I can feel it.
I can't stay here.
The police are never far off, and there were way too many gunshots for nobody to report it. I hear people rush out the door of the club, yelling, but I don't stop to see who it is. Climbing in my car, I open the glove box, fishing out the spare key. It's hard, using only my right arm, my left hand clutching the wound, but I manage to get the car started before anyone reaches me.
Everything's a blur as I speed away.
My vision is skewed, my head fucking throbbing.
I'm not sure how the hell I get home.
But by the time I pull up in my driveway and throw the car in park, I feel like I'm already hanging by a thread. I don't bother cutting the engine, forcing myself toward the house, needing to get inside. I should go to the hospital, I know, but I can't.
They ask questions.
I don't have any answers.
The door's unlocked when I make it there. I usually get mad when Karissa leaves it I latched, but I'm thanking God for it at the moment. I push against it as I shove it open, the blood coating my hand as I struggle. I slam the door closed behind me and lean back against it, wincing.
I hear footsteps coming down from upstairs as I push away and stagger through the foyer.
Karissa.
"Naz?" she says, her voice borderline panicked as she appears in front me, eyes wide with terror. Yanking her earbuds out, she rushes at me, grasping at my shirt. "Oh God, you're bleeding, Naz! You're fucking bleeding!"
I stare at her, mesmerized by the fright in her voice—not because of me, but for me. She scared for me?
"What happened to you?" she asks. "Jesus, there's blood everywhere!"
"Shot," I grind out. "Just once, I think."
"Shot? Somebody shot you?"
Her hands frantically paw at me, and I grimace, gritting my teeth to not cry out but a curse slips from my lips.
"Oh God, I'm sorry!" She pulls away quickly. Blood stains her palms, her hands shaking as she scrambles for her phone. She drops the damn thing once… twice… before she's steadied enough to even press a button on the cracked screen.
Torture to Her Soul Page 5