Monster in His Eyes

  I'm afraid I'll bust my ass in these heels.

  He pulls the necklace out and sets the box aside as he walks around behind me. My hair is already pulled up and pinned—Melody's handiwork—so it's easy for him to slip it on and fasten it. He leans down, kissing the back of my neck, as I grasp the pendant to gaze at it.

  Carpe Diem. Seize the Day.

  "Why me?" I whisper as he steps back around to pause right in front of me. It's a question I've asked before, but one I just can't understand. Out of all the women in the world, why would he choose me?

  He answers the exact same way he did the other time. "Why not you?"

  Smiling, I let go of the pendant and meet his eyes. "You spoil me, you know."

  "No, I don't. Not nearly enough, anyway." He reaches out and cups my chin, making it so I can't look away. "It could be like this all the time, Karissa, every moment of every day. I can give you the best of everything. You just have to let me."

  "Why would you?" I ask. "What do you get out of this?"

  He leans forward and lightly kisses my lips. "I get you."

  "You act like I'm a treasure."

  "Aren't you?" he asks. "The way I see it, I hit the jackpot."

  I laugh. "I'm more like a five dollar scratch-off than the mega-millions lottery."

  "You just don't know your own worth."

  His phone rings, shattering the moment. Pulling it from his pocket, he glances at the screen. "Time to go. The car's here."

  "You're not driving?" I ask.

  "No," he says. "Drunk driving is reckless and stupid."

  "You've driven before after you drank."

  "I didn't drink enough to get drunk then."

  I scoff. "We shared a whole bottle."

  "Did we?" he asks. "Because I remember you drinking three quarters of it on your own both times."

  My face flushes. "No way."

  He nods.

  "Ugh." I make a face. "So, what, you're going to drink your fair share tonight?"

  "I'm going to drink more than my fair share," he says. "As much as I paid for these tickets, I intend to drink every drop of alcohol they have in the place."

  My eyes narrow at those words. "Tickets? What kind of dinner party is this?"

  "It's more of a fundraiser, but I figured calling it a party would make it more appealing for you."

  "Fundraiser? What kind?"

  "The political kind."

  I'm stunned, and stammer a bit, but have no idea what to say. He's taking me to a political fundraiser? I'm imagining formal speeches and tuxedos and uptight old men with bitter young wives wanting to bomb other countries and trample civil liberties. Are those the kind of people Naz hangs around? Are those the kind of people we're supposed to be?

  But that's not me, and it never will be, and I'm not so sure that could ever be him. I'm imagining a room full of Santinos, judging, deriding, and pointing their sticks at people who they think don't belong. "I don't think I can do this."

  "I think you can," Naz says, taking my hand as he leads me outside. There, parked in front of his house, is a stretch limo. The driver opens the back door and Naz ushers me inside. The leather seats are cool, the air temperate, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice in front of me.

  "This is absurd."

  Naz merely laughs as he pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. "Drink. Relax."

  I take the glass and sip it as he pours himself one. "I'm only eighteen, you know, in case you don't remember."

  "I haven't forgotten."

  "I can't be drinking." Contrary to my words, I guzzle my champagne, downing it so fast that he pours me a second one before he takes his first sip. "I'm not old enough."

  "Don't worry about it," he says, relaxing back and putting his arm around me like it's nothing. "It's fine."

  "It's illegal."

  "Does that bother you?"

  "What?"

  "Breaking the law," he says. "Do you feel remorse? Do you want to do penance? Ask for forgiveness? Turn yourself in? Beg for leniency? Swear you'll never do it again, that you'll be a good girl forever, that you'll never so much as litter or speed or steal Wi-Fi or jaywalk or pee outside again?"

  I laugh. "I've never peed outside."

  "But you've done the rest?"

  "Yes."

  "All illegal," he says. "No big deal."

  "That's easy for you to say."

  "It is," he admits, clinking his glass with mine. "I'm practically aiding and abetting a criminal right now."

  "But—"

  He cuts me off. "I don't live my life by someone else's rules. I'm my own boss, my own judge and jury, my own authority. The government calls you an adult, and expects you to pay taxes, but they can't let you enjoy a glass of wine to unwind? I don't agree. I don't care what they say."

  "Yet you won't drink and drive."

  "That's not because it's illegal," he says. "It's because I'd like to live to see tomorrow so I can take full advantage of another day. I have purely selfish motives. I'm a selfish man."

  "You don't seem very selfish to me."

  "Ah, but I am. I'm selfish, and possessive, and I have a tendency to be a little controlling… and impatient… and I'm a bit of a neat freak."

  "I've noticed—the latter, anyway. I don't know about the rest, but you definitely are a neat freak. Your house is spotless. How often do you have someone clean it?"

  "Never," he says. "I clean it myself."

  That surprises me, and I think he has to be joking, but his expression is serious. I just can't imagine him on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor once a week. "Why?"

  "I don't like people coming into my house. I don't trust them."

  The drive into Manhattan flies by, as the champagne once again seems to evaporate right before my eyes. By the time we make it to the party, I'm a little lightheaded, and his hands are already doing crazy things to me. Just a simple stroke of my arm, his thumb caressing the clothed skin, seems to set my entire body on fire.

  The fundraiser is at a swanky hotel on Park Avenue. The limo drops us off and Naz puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. I feel him press a kiss to my hair before he whispers, "You're going to do great."

  I hope he's speaking the truth.

  He hands over our tickets and the second we're through the door, Naz's face lights up, his dimples out in full force, as he greets people by name. He introduces me as simply 'Karissa' as we make our way through a sea of large round tables to one toward the center of the room. Name cards are placed at every seat, and I spot his easily. Ignazio Vitale. Beside it, the card also bears his name with the word 'guest' beneath it.

  He pulls the chair out for me, and I sit down, eyeing the other cards at our table but not recognizing any of the names. The seats fill with people Naz seems to know. He introduces me to them, but they pay me no mind, too engrossed in striking up conversation with my date.

  My date.

  It sounds so weird.

  A waiter fills my glass with champagne when he reaches our table, not asking my age, not even hesitating as he looks at me. I pick up my glass and sip it right away, earning a chuckle from Naz. He puts his arm around me, and leans closer, nuzzling into my neck, kissing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "my beautiful little jailbird."

  Although it surprises me, nobody bats an eyelash at his playful display of affection. I wonder if it's because he does this often, if he brings women around and shows them off to these people, until I realize nobody's looking. Nobody's watching, their eyes everywhere but on the two of us, like they're purposely giving him privacy.

  A political fundraiser is everything I thought it would be, yet nothing like I expected. There are tuxedos, and speeches, and a few snooty people I peg as politicians, but most of the crowd is relaxed. The food is fancy, the champagne expensive, and the people engrossing. The atmosphere seems to flow in waves: the first course prim and proper, the second a little more lax, the third casual, and by the forth everyone's chattin
g and laughing like old friends.

  Or maybe everyone's just drunk by then.

  "Dance with me," Naz says, throwing his napkin down on the table as he stands. A band is playing some sort of slow melody on a stage across the room, the floor in front of them clear of tables as couples dance the night away. I shake my head, but he doesn't notice, or else he doesn't care, as he pulls me to my feet and leads me that way.

  "I don't think this is a good idea," I say as soon as we're on the dance floor.

  "Come on." He pulls me into his arms. "Don't tell me you can't dance."

  "Oh, I can dance," I say. "I just can't dance to this."

  It sounds like elevator music.

  He chuckles, placing his hands on my hips to draw me even closer to him. "Just follow my lead."

  I wrap my arms around his neck as my fingers tinker with the wayward curls at his nape. It's easy, mindless, as we really just stand there and sway. It lasts a good minute before I let out a deep sigh. "Okay, this is boring."

  As soon as I say it, the song changes, the tempo picking up. Naz swings me around, twirling me, and I nearly fall on my ass without a warning. Every step he takes makes me stumble, but he doesn't seem to mind, and I'm just too drunk to care what anybody thinks… anybody except for him.

  He's all that matters.

  I'm swaying and twirling, staggering and laughing, tripping over his feet and he just laughs along with me. He dips me once, dips me so low my feet come out from beneath me and I land flat on my back. He bends down, smirking as he yanks me to my feet again, as a male voice cuts through the music behind me. "Mind if I cut in?"

  The voice is rough, not gritty in the sexy way, but more like grating sandpaper against sensitive skin. I turn quickly, seeing a vaguely familiar man, a man I've never met before, but I've seen him in pictures and on the television.

  The news, mainly.

  The front page of the newspaper.

  Tucked in the crime section day after day.

  His name is a written warning, his face synonymous with 'dangerous'. Growing up, my mother never talked about the boogeyman in the closet or the creature hiding under the bed. She told me about real monsters, and that includes the one standing in front of me.

  Raymond Angelo.

  The man's question is clearly meant for Naz, although his cold eyes are on me. He's mid-sixties and graying, tall and stocky. He looks like leather and smells like cigars.

  I'm grateful Naz said he was possessive, because I think there's no way in hell he'd turn me over to a man like Raymond. My heart pounds hard as Naz hesitates for a moment before he scoffs. "You wouldn't know what to do with her if you had her, old man."

  Raymond cocks an eyebrow. "Maybe not, but I'd sure try."

  Both men laugh.

  They laugh.

  My heart somehow pounds even harder at that.

  Naz waves toward Raymond, introducing us as Ray and Karissa. The man regards me strangely before his eyes flicker to Naz, holding his gaze, like they're having a silent conversation than ends in a nod.

  Raymond looks at me again. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Karissa. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just need to borrow Vitale here for a moment."

  "Uh, okay." I don't know what else to say. Naz kisses my cheek, whispering he'll be right back, as he follows Raymond to the edge of the dance floor. They chat quietly before embracing and going their separate ways.

  Naz strolls back over to me, his eyes scanning my face. He pulls me back into his arms, acting as if we weren't interrupted.

  "Do you know who that man is?" I ask, unable to help myself. I keep my voice low, not wanting anyone to hear me, especially not Raymond Angelo. He's notorious. He's dangerous.

  How could Naz not know?

  He pulls back to look at me. "The better question would be do you know who he is."

  "Of course," I whisper. "He's a gangster."

  Naz makes a face at my choice of word. "He's an opportunist. A businessman."

  "He's a criminal."

  "Says the little jailbird."

  "I'm nothing like him. I drink, sure, okay, but he…"

  "He what?" Naz asks. "What does he do?"

  "He hurts people."

  "He does," Naz admits. "But he's also family."

  I stop moving. "You're related to him?"

  "Not all family is blood, Karissa. Remember?"

  I gape at him as those words sink in. I guess there's a reason he fears no one in the city. The ones most people are terrified of are the same ones he calls family.

  "Are you okay?" he asks, that chilling look back in his eyes as he regards me. "Tell me if you're not."

  Am I okay? Jesus, I don't know. I probably shouldn't be, knowing what I know, remembering what my mother told me, but I'm more surprised than anything. After a moment I nod, and he pulls me closer to him for a kiss. The feel of his lips relaxes me, tingles creeping down my spine. It's a kiss of reassurance, a kiss telling me I'll be fine.

  I choose to believe it.

  I don't want to think otherwise.

  He smirks when he pulls back, running his pointer finger across my bottom lip. "I reserved us a room upstairs. How about we make the most of tonight?"

  The room is modest, the furniture outdated and antique, but it has a certain charm to it, like I've stepped back half a century. Naz switches the bedside lamp on to the lowest setting, a soft glow swaddling the room. It adds a golden hue to the already golden fixtures, illuminating the tan carpet and matching bedspread.

  I stroll through the room, over to the vast window. We're high up, giving me a wide view of the city, the lights twinkling in the night. I feel like I'm in another place, living another existence, breathing some other sort of air as I stand here, looking at the world from a different point of view.

  It's hard to believe, three miles away, my life waits for me to return to it come morning. I'm Cinderella, wondering if I'm destined for a happy ending after this.

  Naz pulls his jacket off and sets it aside as he strolls over to stand behind me. My gaze shifts from the skyline to his distorted reflection in the glass as he reaches for the zipper of my dress and tugs on it. The sound seems magnified in the silence as he pulls it the whole way down, his rough knuckles grazing my spine.

  It sends a chill through me.

  He pushes the dress forward, off my shoulders and down my arms, letting it drop to the floor like it's nothing. I stand there wearing only a lacy thong, almost the exact shade as my skin tone.

  The woman reflected back at me in the cold glass looks stark naked, completely exposed and bared for him. It's peculiar, seeing myself that way. I don't make a habit of checking myself out, but as I watch him stroke my bare arms and kiss my shoulder blade, I actually find what's in front of me beautiful.

  Turning to face him, I step away from the dress and kick off the heels, regretting losing those extra inches when I have to push up on my tiptoes to reach his lips. I kiss him softly, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  It's a sweet kiss, slow and gentle. My fingertips tremble against his skin.

  He pulls back, surveying me. "You sure you're okay?"

  I nod slowly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  He offers a slight shrug as his gaze leaves my face and trails down my body. "You want to play around a bit?"

  "Yes."

  I answer instantly, not even stopping to think what that might mean until he smirks at me. There's a slight sinister pull to it, like a predator spotting prey in the distance. I kiss the corner of his mouth, and try to squelch my flare of anxiety, as he pulls me away from the window and over to the bed. I run my hands down his chest, reaching for the buttons on his vest, but he grasps my wrists. "Uh-uh, did I tell you to do that?"

  "You didn't tell me not to."

  He pulls my hands away as he leans down, whispering, "Don't."

  The lone word is little more than warm breath against my skin, fanning the flames of my desire, kindling the fire deep inside of me. I exhale shakily, but before I ca
n speak, he shoves me away from him and spins me around. I gasp as he picks me up and throws me on the bed on my stomach, straddling my legs and pinning me there.

  "Wait," I say, my heart racing. His weight presses on me as he pulls on my panties, tearing them off. "Wait just a second, Naz."

  "I don't have a pause button, sweetheart." His voice is chilling, a sense of detachment to it. "If you don't want to play, you know how to stop me. All you have to do is say the word."

  "Stop."

  "That's not it."

  He doesn't stop, and I'm not at all surprised. I knew that wasn't the right word, but I can't say it. I can't use a safe word. Not now, not for this. I can't shout "red" or even "yellow" when all I want is green. When all I want is to feel him inside of me, to have him consume me, to be the air he breathes and the only thing he needs.

  My head is foggy and his body is constricting, his weight welcoming as it presses upon me, one hand heavily on the center of my back as I hear him fumble with his belt buckle with the other.

  I try to look, try to see, my cheek flat against the bed as I crane my neck to get just a peek, but it's barely a glimpse, a flash of dark suit in the dim lighting. He doesn't undress, doesn't even take off his shoes, merely unbuckling his pants enough to free himself from his restraints.

  He's between my legs, forcing them apart and shoving against me, pushing roughly inside of me. I cry out as he fills me, stretching me to form around him. It doesn't hurt, my body reacting the second he laid a finger on me.

  "Fuck, you're so wet," he says, laying down on me, his heavy suit rubbing against my bare skin. The buttons are cold against my back. "You like it like this, don't you?"

  He thrusts a few times, hard, and I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out, but he doesn't accept my silence.

  "I asked you a question," he growls.

  "Yes," I gasp, closing my eyes. "I love it."

  "I know you do." His voice is a lust-fueled murmur in my ear as his hand snakes around my stomach, slipping below, his fingertips seeking out my clit as his strong arm forces me back against him tighter, angling my ass so he can pound into me deeper. "You're a little ragdoll, aren't you? You want to be tossed around; you want me to use you any way I see fit. Because you know… you fucking know…" He thrusts so hard pain stabs my stomach. "You're my favorite toy."