Target on Our Backs

by J. M. Darhower

  There's a noise near the alley. Movement. Voices. Naz moves away from me, and before I can even get a grip on what's happening, he pulls me to my feet. He's tucking himself back away, fixing his pants, while I just stand there, startled, unsure what to do about anything. I run my fingers through my hair... not like it'll make a difference.

  Before I can stress over any of it too much, Naz pulls me toward him, putting his arm around my shoulder as he steers me down the alley, toward the disruption. The club is getting out already.

  Where did this night go?

  I'm nervous, maybe irrationally. I don't know. My body is trembling as I tuck in at his side, almost like I'm shrinking away. Did he even enjoy that?

  "You did good," he whispers, like he can sense my worries. Naz was always good at reading me.

  I peek up at him, seeing a lazy smile on his lips. It's like a burden was lifted from the man's shoulders. Okay, maybe he did enjoy it.

  "Yeah?" I ask, surprised. "I wasn't sure. Never had my throat fucked before..."

  He laughs quietly, pausing at the end of the alley as a crowd of Cyndi Lauper look-a-likes starts to form. He pulls me around, so I'm in front of him, and it's almost like instinct, but I wrap my arms around him, hugging him. I lay my head against his chest, feeling his warmth, smiling when I feel his hands on my back, holding me to him.

  It's like being wrapped in a cocoon.

  Public displays of affection aren't really Naz's thing, but he seems at ease--for the moment, at least.

  "So you like it like that?" I ask. "You've never tried to do it to me before."

  His hands rub my back. "You know I like it when you struggle."

  I should probably be worried about that statement, but I get it. I do. He likes pushing me to the brink before pulling me back, shoving me under before letting me resurface. It's like it gives him life again, being there, watching me breathe.

  "Yeah, you like that damsel in distress routine," I mumble. "Get your rocks off being my hero."

  His hand snakes up my spine, grabbing my hair, and he pulls on it, playfully jerking my head back so I'll look up at him.

  "You're no damsel in distress, sweetheart," he says. "And I'm the furthest thing there is from a hero."

  "Whatever," I say. "How about for your birthday this year, I let you hog-tie me, maybe even ball-gag me, and have your way with me all night long?"

  "That's not going to happen."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it isn't safe." He looks at me, dead serious, almost admonishing, like somehow I should already know this. "If you're tied up, you can't fight me. If you're gagged, you can't use your safe word. If you're completely incapacitated, Karissa, you're liable to get hurt. The only reason we play around as much as we do is because I know, if it's too much for you, you'll find a way to stop me."

  "You wouldn't really hurt me."

  "Not intentionally," he agrees. "But just because you call me a good guy doesn't mean I am one. It just means I've sufficiently Stockholm'ed you."

  Laughing, I elbow him, just as someone calls my name. Melody. Turning around, I settle back against Naz, his arm still wrapped around me as she approaches, staggering, dragging Leo along. He looks hesitant, like he's trying to pull her the other direction, but she's not having it.

  "Karissa!" she screeches, looking me over. At this point, I'd be surprised if she weren't seeing double. "Oh my God, what happened to you?"

  I glance down at where her eyes have settled, feeling blush rising through me, settling in my cheeks. My knees are skinned from the alley.

  "She fell," Naz says, tucking me further into his side, as he turns from Melody, instead settling on her boyfriend. I can practically feel him as he puffs out his chest, like he's trying to be intimidating, but okay… he doesn't have to try. Leo senses it, too, it seems, because he keeps a bit of distance between them, damn near flinching when Naz holds out his hand. "Ignazio Vitale."

  Whoa.

  He's introducing himself.

  I'm kind of proud.

  I don't know if this is some ridiculous show of arms or something, or if this is his way of trying to make friends to appease me, but either way, it's nice to see.

  Leo reaches out, taking his hand, shaking it. "Nice to meet you. I'm Leo."

  "You got a last name, Leo?"

  Leo nods, and I think maybe that's the only answer he's supplying, before he clears his throat. "Accardi."

  "Like Bacardi!" Melody chimes in, giggling. "Which is totally what I've been drinking tonight!"

  I laugh at her.

  Naz nods before tugging on me. "If you'll excuse us, we should get going."

  He pulls me away before I can even say goodbye to my friend.

  Not that she notices, really.

  A quick glance back tells me she's already too wrapped up in Leo.

  She's nuzzled into his neck, while he's whispering something, something I imagine is probably scandalous based on the way she reacts to it.

  It's sweet, I have to admit.

  Even kind of cute.

  Okay, maybe I'm being ridiculous with this whole weird feeling thing.

  Leo seems really good for her.

  Shrugging it off, I follow Naz just down the block, to where his Mercedes is parked. He unlocks it, opening my door for me. I start to get in but pause, looking at him. He senses my attention and looks at me, wordlessly raising his eyebrows.

  "Thank you," I tell him, "for coming tonight."

  A sly smile takes over his lips.

  "You're welcome," he says, "for both meanings of that word."

  Rolling my eyes, I climb in the car. I watch out of the windshield, down the block, as Leo leads Melody away from the club. A black car pulls up, coming to a stop, double-parking the cars right out front. Leo opens the back door to the car, motioning for Melody to get in, and she does without hesitation. He gets in after her, closing the door before the car again takes off.

  Naz is about to get in but pauses, watching them. He stands there, not moving, his eyes fixed to the black car as it slowly drives by us. It isn't until then that he finally gets in beside me, but something is wrong.

  I know it is the second I look at him.

  His posture is tense, his expression blank. Anger, sadness, and happiness are one thing with this man, but when he goes completely blank, I know we've got a problem.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  His tone is clipped.

  Before I can question it any more, he turns the car on, shoving it in drive. He gives a quick glance at the mirrors before pulling out in traffic, instantly making a U-turn in the middle of the street, eliciting some car horns as people slam on their brakes to keep from hitting us.

  I don't question it, though.

  Not to him.

  No, I clip on my seatbelt instead as my heart hammers hard in my chest. He passes cars, weaving through traffic, driving in a way Naz usually doesn't drive. It isn't until we pull up to a stoplight a few blocks away, right beside a black car, that I realize exactly what he'd been doing.

  He was following the car Melody got in.

  The light stays red for what feels like forever, the glow of it bathing us in the car. I'm watching Naz, on edge, while Naz is turned to the side, watching the other car. It's a BMW from what I can gather from the emblem on the hood. The windows are blacked out, darkly tinted, illegally so. New York has laws. You have to be able to see in.

  I can see nothing.

  The red turns to green, and the car takes off, heading straight through the intersection. I stare at it as it does, seeing a Florida license plate.

  Naz sits there for a second, until the car behind us blows the horn. The sound seems to jar him back to reality as he turns, facing straight ahead, and hits the gas, heading the direction of Brooklyn.

  "What's wrong?" I ask again, my voice hesitant, when he says nothing by way of explanation for whatever just happened.

  I need to know, though, if it involves my friend.r />
  "Nothing," he says again, glancing my way. "Just thought I recognized the car."

  It's a small, two story house in Bensonhurst, a neighborhood in the southern part of Brooklyn, not too far from where I live. Brick with pale pink trimming, it appears unassuming, bright and airy, surrounded by a white railing, the closest we get to a white picket fence around here. There's a small driveway right off the sidewalk, barely big enough for one car to fit.

  And there it is.

  The black BMW.

  It wasn't hard to track down. One unannounced visit to Armando and not only did I have an address, but I was given directions right to it. It's amazing to me, the information a man can produce, when you stick a knife to his throat and threaten to slice if he doesn't tell you exactly what you want to hear.

  I walk around the car, surveying it, before leaning back against the passenger door and crossing my arms over my chest.

  I wait.

  Ten minutes pass, then twenty, but it doesn't matter. Patience has always been a strong suit of mine. I'll stand here all day if I have to, but I know I won't.

  He'll come out sometime.

  It's been about thirty minutes when the front door to the house opens and out he waltzes. Lorenzo. Dressed down, in jeans and a black t-shirt, clutching an orange as he hums to himself. He looks up out of habit, glancing toward the car. His footsteps falter, a look of surprise passing across his face that he quickly straightens out.

  I caught him off guard, but he's good at this game, because he didn't let it show for long.

  Carefully, he steps off the porch and heads toward me, pausing on the other side of the white railing. Only a few feet separate us. I could reach him if I wanted to.

  We both know that.

  "Ignazio," he says, nodding in greeting. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm just curious what you're up to."

  "Uh, checking the mail," he says, motioning toward the mailbox. "Thinking about what to eat for lunch."

  "You know what I mean, Lorenzo. You blow into town and start making waves. You've got people nervous."

  "You wouldn't be one of those people, would you?" he asks. "Nervous I might spill some of your secrets?"

  "You don't worry me," I say. "I have no secrets left for you to spill."

  He stares at me hard for a moment before his expression cracks and he laughs. "Right, right... so you want to know what I want, Ignazio?"

  "Yes."

  "I want the entire world," he says, "but I've decided to settle for New York."

  He says that like it's just that simple, like all of New York can just be his if he wants it. That's not how this works, though.

  "That won't be easy," I say. "You'll find resistance here."

  "So I've learned," he says. "It's curious, though, considering I haven't gone after any of their territory. Everything I've done has been fair game."

  He's right, technically. He's done nothing but take over Ray's old stomping grounds, places that were ripe for the picking. Anybody could've claimed them. He's messed with nobody except Ray's men.

  "You planning to stop there?" I ask.

  "Of course not," he says.

  I'm not surprised by that answer.

  I can only imagine what he's planning.

  "It's a problem, because they don't like outsiders. You're a stranger to them."

  "Maybe you should vouch for me, then."

  "I'm afraid that's not happening."

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  I won't vouch for anybody.

  Not anymore.

  Because once upon a time, I made a grave mistake and vouched for a man that I thought was my best friend. A few months later, he paid me back for that gesture with a shotgun blast to the chest.

  "Didn't think it would," he says. "I can't even get you to admit to yourself that we're friends."

  I ignore that.

  I'm not going to be goaded into that conversation.

  There's movement in the house behind him, something dropping in the front room, a curtain shifting. It's just a brief flicker as a face appears before vanishing again. Lorenzo glances that way, frowning, before turning back to me.

  He nods his head toward the house. "You remember Leo?"

  I do, but I don't. I never knew his name. Never cared to learn it. They called him Pretty Boy back then. He was nothing more than a whiny little toddler the last time I saw him.

  Lorenzo's little brother.

  They shared a mother.

  "Somewhat," I admit. "He's grown a bit."

  "Yeah, a bit. He's still a pretty boy, though. He's soft. This life... his heart ain't in it like mine is."

  "If that's true, why's he here?"

  "Because I'm all he's got," Lorenzo says.

  That's the only explanation he gives me.

  It's probably the only explanation he's got.

  I'm not sure if it's enough, though, not in this situation. Because he's tangled up in something dangerous and he's getting too damn close to my personal life.

  I don't like it.

  He's dragging me back in.

  "Look, I'm only going to tell you this once," I say, pushing away from the car, taking a step toward the railing. I'm already tired of this conversation. It's exhausting. "If my wife gets hurt in any way, I'll kill you, and I can promise it won't be merciful."

  He knows I mean it. He's seen me do it before. He stood beside me, in his stepfather's home, and watched as I took the man's life without an ounce of sympathy or remorse.

  He nods. "Understood."

  "Good."

  I start to turn, to leave, until his voice stalls me.

  "But I've already told you, Ignazio... I have nothing against you, no reason to target you, no reason to hurt this wife of yours."

  "I heard you."

  "Yet you don't believe me."

  No, I don't.

  I don't have to verbalize that.

  He knows.

  "He means her no harm, either," Lorenzo continues. "My brother, he's smitten by the Carmichael girl. I assure you, it's purely coincidental. Has nothing to do with me or you. So I'm asking you not to mess that up for him. A favor for a favor. Leave my brother out of this, and I'll make sure nobody hurts what's yours."

  "Fair enough."

  He smiles the second I agree and tosses me his orange. I damn near drop it, not expecting it, and grip the fruit tightly in my palm. Lorenzo backs up a few steps, pointing at me. "Have it... it's yours. Straight from the grove in Kissimmee. I'm sure you remember. Best oranges in the world."

  I glance down at the orange, squeezing it, and nod in gratitude. It's an olive branch he's extending. I don't trust him, but I know how to play this game.

  I'll give him something, too. "Piece of advice, Lorenzo?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do something about your car," I tell him. "You still have Florida plates. It sticks out like a sore thumb. Made it easy for me to find you."

  He glances at the car, that look of surprise returning, like he hadn't even considered that. "How did you find me?"

  I shrug, turning to leave. "Streets talk, remember?"

  * * *

  The second I open the front door of my house I hear the growl.

  It's a low rumble, completely menacing. I don't have to look at him to know he's baring his teeth. It's the same greeting, every single time. He remembers what I did.

  Unlike Karissa, he hasn't forgiven me yet.

  Although, forgiveness may not be the word for it. More like she's choosing not to hold it against me when it comes to our relationship. It's complicated. Doesn't make much sense.

  It is what it is.

  But Killer?

  He's holding it against me still.

  For the moment, anyway.

  Stepping into the foyer, I pause there, taking off my jacket as I stare at the mutt. Rolling my sleeves up, I waltz right past him, eliciting a small retreat out of panic. He follows me, though, still lightly growling, as I head into the ki
tchen and fix myself something to drink. I take a few swallows of ice water before reaching up into the cabinet, grabbing a dog treat.

  I toss it at him.

  All at once, the growling ceases. He gobbles it up, suddenly wagging his tail, before looking at me like he wants another.

  In all, I toss him three.

  Walking out of the kitchen with my water, still clutching the orange Lorenzo gave to me, I make my way into the den where the television plays.

  It's the middle of the afternoon, but Karissa is fast asleep.

  Sprawled out on the couch, huddled under a fuzzy black blanket, the remote lying on her chest as she snores quietly. I snatch up the remote before settling in on the edge of the couch cushion near her feet, careful not to disturb her.

  Food Network.

  Shaking my head, I quickly flip through the channels, stalling when I come across The Godfather on one of the cable stations. It's cut down and edited, diluted for the masses, but it's a hell of a lot better than what she'd been watching.

  Setting my water down on the coffee table, I start peeling the orange, my eyes on the screen. Sonny Corleone's black car speeds up to the toll plaza, blocked in by another. The tollbooth worker? He ducks and hides.

  Even he knows it's an ambush.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

  A rapid succession of gunfire lights up the screen, annihilating the car with Sonny still in it. He climbs out, prepared to fight back, but he knows he's in over his head. Men like Sonny? Men like me? We know when it's too late.

  Help comes, but not soon enough.

  Spoiler alert: Sonny's dead.

  If I ruined it for you, well, that's your own fault. The movie has been out longer than I've been alive. I've watched it a few times, mostly fueled by curiosity, picking out the shreds of accuracy that relate to my life. It might be cliché, but it's not all bullshit.

  I've considered that might be how I die someday.

  Wouldn't exactly be surprising, would it?

  Except, unlike Sonny, I don't think I'd have a father show up to mourn me afterward.

  Laughing to myself, I look away from the television as Sonny's father, the Don, weeps over him in the morgue. Yeah, not in my lifetime...

  "You know, most people find this part sad, not funny."