I grab a fork and start eating, curiosity fueling me as I stroll toward the den. Once again, I pause near the doorway and look in.
The television is still on, the channel changed to some cooking competition. Naz is sitting at his desk, his feet kicked up now. He's changed, wearing a pair of sweat pants, which means he came upstairs while I was asleep.
His eyes drift my way. I haven't made any noise, but he seems to always know when I'm there. He stares at me, his gaze shifting to the food in my hand, before he turns back to his book.
It feels like an hour passes.
It might've been only a minute.
The silence is getting to me.
I haven't used my voice all week, so I'm surprised it still works when I open my mouth. "What are you reading?"
He doesn't react. He doesn't seem surprised that I've spoken. His eyes stay glued to the book until he flips the page. "The Prince."
"What's that?"
"It's Machiavelli."
"Machiavelli." I lean against the doorframe. "Like Tupac?"
Laughter escapes his lips—real laughter—the sound lightening the air in the room. I know who Machiavelli is, but I wasn't sure what else to say. He looks away from the book, those deep dimples out in full force. "Have you read it?"
Slowly, I shake my head.
"Everyone sees what you appear to be," he says, "few experience what you really are."
I take a bite of the food. I know he's quoting The Prince, but damn if it doesn't feel like he's talking directly to me with that. "Does he have any advice for what someone's supposed to do when they see what you really are and it scares them?"
He's quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed as if in thought, before he responds. "Never was anything great achieved without danger."
I don't say anything to that. I stand there for a while eating as he goes back to reading. My feet grow tired eventually, and without even thinking, I walk into the den and sit down on the edge of the couch.
Naz is fast asleep.
He's on his side, facing away from me, hugging a pillow as he snores softly. It's the first time in a week I've been up in the morning before him.
I move soundlessly around the bedroom, pulling on clothes and putting on shoes, my eyes periodically shifting to him to make sure he's still asleep. I grab my phone, tossing it in my purse, and head toward the door when I hear his voice. "Going somewhere?"
I turn to him, seeing his eyes are open now, regarding me suspiciously.
"I'm meeting Melody for coffee."
"Is that right?"
"Yes," I say. "Or actually, it's tea... chocolate mint tea, from the cafe we always went to."
"In Manhattan."
"Yes."
He sits up. "I'll drive you into the city."
"No," I say, holding my hand up to stop him before he can climb out of bed. "I can take the train there, no problem. I've done it before."
Truth is, I need some space to breathe, to think, without the smell of his cologne surrounding me, without his presence looming in the next room.
He stares at me. Hard. It's as if he's trying to decide whether or not to trust me, as if I've given him some reason not to. I haven't, though, and he seems to accept that after a moment. "Be careful, Karissa."
"I will," I say, hesitating, staring at him as he just sits there and watches me. After a moment I turn away, striding out the door.
I get to the city a few minutes early and step into the cafe, surprised to find Paul behind the counter. He looks at me, smirking. It gives me the creeps.
"I didn't know you worked here," I say.
"Just started," he says. "What can I get for you?"
I order and take my usual seat, but I don't touch my drink. It freaks me out a bit that Paul made it. Last time I drank something his hands touched, I ended up collapsing on the sidewalk in the middle of the night, drugged.
Melody strolls in at ten o'clock on the dot, taking a few minutes to flirt with her boyfriend before joining me. She plops down with a coffee, and before I can even say hello, she reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope. "Oh, before I forget, you got another one of these letters."
I look at it with surprise, taking it from her. "When did it come?"
"Yesterday."
I tear it open as Melody starts rambling. I pull out the single piece of paper and unfold it, seeing the scribbled writing just like the last one.
Friday night. Midnight. Meet at the entrance to Washington Square Park. You have to get away from him. Leave everything behind. I love you.
"Well?" Melody says, snapping her fingers in my face. "Are you listening?"
I glance up, shoving the letter back into the envelope. Friday night. Midnight. I'm not sure how I could get away at that time. "No, sorry, what did you say?"
She repeats herself, something about Paul. I don't know. I still don't listen. My mind is stuck on the note, my stomach in knots. I still don't know what to do, what to think.
We've been here for going on an hour when Paul takes a break and squeezes himself in at our table. Sighing, I look away from them when they start getting touchy-feely, my gaze shifting to the window. My expression falls, my muscles tensing, when I see the familiar Mercedes parked across the street.
The motherfucker followed me.
I should've known. I'm more exasperated than shocked by it. Now that I know his secret, he's not going to let me out of his sight. He's not going to risk it.
He's not even breathing the same air as me, but I suddenly feel like I'm suffocating. I can feel his hands around my throat, little by little squeezing the life out of me.
Melody excuses herself to use the restroom. As soon as she walks away, I turn to Paul. I have a chance to slip away, and I need to find some way to do it... to at least hear them out, hear their side of the story.
It's my mother, after all.
I owe her that much.
Maybe my life was built upon lies, but there's no denying she raised me for eighteen years on her own. The side of me that's fractured is frantic for this opportunity, while the other half is already grieving the loss of the man waiting outside.
"I need something," I tell Paul, my voice barely a whisper. "Something to make someone sleep for a while."
His eyes widen. "Like Ambien?"
"Stronger."
He stares at me. "I can't get anything like that."
I make a quick glance around before focusing on him again. "The first night Melody met you, you bought her a drink... a drink I drank... a drink that knocked me out for half a day. I want whatever you put in it."
"I don't know what—"
"Cut the shit, Paul. I don't have time for it. Can you get it?"
He nods slowly.
"When?"
"Tonight," he says. "I can get it from a friend of mine."
"I'll be back this week for it."
He starts to babble about how he doesn't usually do those sorts of things, how he knows he made a mistake, how he loves Melody and doesn't want anything to ruin it. I don't respond, and he silences himself when she returns from the restroom and retakes her seat.
I stand up to throw my drink away. Hesitating, I pull out the letter and rip it up into a bunch of tiny pieces and throw it away, too. I tell Melody and Paul goodbye, but they don't hear me, too busy sucking face.
I consider pretending I don't see Naz's car, but it's pointless. Instead, I cross the street, walking around and climbing right into the passenger seat. He glances at me. There's no apology in his expression.
"I told you I didn't need a ride into the city."
"I know," he says. "But you said nothing about not needing one back home."
Semantics.
Night is falling, casting most of the house in shadows. It's dreary outside, cold and wet, a light rain falling, the weather matching the feelings simmering inside of me.
I've been back and forth all day, on edge as I roam the house. I can't sit still. I can't do much of anything.
It's
Friday.
It felt like it took forever getting here, but yet it came too soon.
I'm not ready.
I don't know if I'll ever be.
"Are you hungry?" Naz asks, stepping into the doorway of the kitchen as I stand in front of the sink, looking out into the back yard. He still hasn't let me out of his sight, but he's attempting conversation now, a semblance of normalcy. "I can order something."
"Actually," I say, turning to him, "I think I'd rather cook."
He's caught off guard. I get a strange thrill at surprising him. "You? Cook?"
"Hey, now," I say defensively. "I can cook."
"Since when?"
"Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I can't. My mother taught me a little bit."
It isn't until the words are already out that I realize what I've said. My eyes widen, regretting the fact that I brought up my mother, like me not speaking about her might make Naz forget she exists. Like the absence of her name on my lips might somehow save lives. He regards me peculiarly as he strolls further into the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
"I remember Carmela's cooking," he says casually. "She was good... much better than Maria. Maria could burn a pot of water with nothing else in it."
Maria…
His wife?
I'm surprised at the ease in his words. I'm not sure how to respond, how to react, merely whispering, "Oh?"
"We had dinner with them that night, you know," he says. "Your mother made lasagna."
I always loved her lasagna. It was my favorite thing she made. I smile at that, but it fades at the recognition of how Naz's story will end.
"We went home afterward, and your mother didn't send any leftovers. I think about that a lot these days. She always sent leftovers when we had dinner there. But she didn't that night." He pauses a few feet in front of me, eyes fixed to mine. "Makes you wonder if she didn't bother because she figured we'd be dead by morning, anyway."
His words send a chill down my spine. I don't want to think that, don't want to believe it. It's so at odds with the woman who raised me to be kind, and loving, and compassionate.
"So yeah," he says, "you can cook if you want, but if it's Ramen noodles, I can't promise I'll eat it."
He offers me a playful smile before walking out. If I hadn't been confused before, I sure am now.
I don't make Ramen. Instead, I make spaghetti and meatballs. It's nothing fancy, not even homemade, everything prepackaged.
Okay, I'm not that good of a cook.
I make up two plates when it's finished, carefully looking around to make sure I won't be caught, before I pull the small vial of white powder from my purse that Paul gave me. I sprinkle it over one of the plates and dispose of the evidence before mixing it in with the sauce. It dissolves easily.
It's invisible, tasteless, and undetectable until it's too late.
I know that from experience.
Taking the plates to the table, I set the tainted one down in front of my seat.
I know Naz. I've figured out his quirks. He pours his own drinks and he rarely trusts food. It's a gamble, trying to predict what he'll do, because if I'm wrong, I'm completely screwed.
Naz joins me at the table, taking his seat, as I take a small bite of the contaminated spaghetti, not enough to knock me out. He watches me before glancing down at his own plate warily. He doesn't say it, but I know what he's thinking.
It might be poisoned.
His eyes meet mine again, suspicious, and I know I got him. He reaches across the table and grabs my plate, switching ours, just in case. He saw me take a bite of that one, so he knows it's safe.
As usual, he offers no apologies. I don't expect one.
Weeks ago, I would've laughed at it, thinking it was a joke, that he was paranoid, but I understand now. I'm the daughter of the man who murdered his family, the daughter of the man who nearly killed him. He may love me, but I don't think he could ever truly trust me one hundred percent.
Can't say I blame him.
I don't deserve it.
Each bite he takes proves it more and more. It's not enough to harm him. Just enough to make him sleep so I can leave.
We drink wine at my suggestion. I need the liquid courage, and I hope intoxication will mask the onset of the drug in his system. I make sure he has his fair share. I need to be coherent enough to walk away.
He's feeling it, whether he realizes it or not.
The man who smiles at me across the table, who speaks playfully, who calls me his little jailbird, reminds me startlingly of the man I fell in love with. Like when we strip away all pretenses, and block all the pain, and anger, he's who exists deep inside.
The monster just overshadows him.
When he's finished, I take our plates to the kitchen. Guilt is nagging at my chest. It's already after ten o'clock. Time is ticking away too fast.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready.
I wipe my sweaty palms and absently fix my dress. I wore one of Naz's favorites—the red dress from Vegas. I fill up the sink with soap and water to do dishes to pass the time when Naz enters the kitchen.
He walks up behind me, stopping flush against me, his hand settling on my hip as he pulls me back toward him. It's the most he's touched me in a while, since the day I safe worded him right here where I stand. His other hand sweeps my hair out of the way, and I shiver when I feel his breath on my neck. He kisses the skin as his hand on my hip drifts forward, beneath the dress, slipping inside my panties.
I can't help myself.
I whimper at his touch.
I nearly lose it at the first graze of his fingertips. So gentle, so natural, his caress so attentive. It's like none of the past two weeks has happened, and he's forgotten I ever hated him.
Closing my eyes, I try to forget, too.
I feel the onset of an orgasm, my knees going weak, my breathing labored as I grip the edge of the sink. He rubs, and rubs, and rubs some more, fumbling with his belt behind me, unbuckling his pants. The voice in my head is telling me to stop this, to stop him, but I can't.
I won't.
Maybe I need this just as much as him.
Maybe I need it more.
Maybe, the other half of me screams, I just need him.
He shoves my dress up, pushing my panties aside. As soon as the orgasm rocks me, pleasure bursting beneath my skin, he bends me over just enough to push into me from behind.
I cry out as he fills me.
It's been so long.
Too long.
He's not brutal, he isn't playing a game, but there's urgency to his thrusts as he pounds into me from behind. An arm encircles my waist, the other hand finding home at the base of my throat, the same way he held me in the street in New Jersey. The hold says 'you're mine; you belong to me; you always will.' It says I can try to forget, but my body will forever remember this touch.
It hurts.
It hurts.
Oh God, it fucking hurts.
Not physically. The wound is deeper, an emotional scar I think won't ever heal, no matter how much time I give it. He touches my body but he tears at my soul, ripping pieces out of me that are now his and his alone.
He doesn't take long before I feel his muscles tense. The last few thrusts are deep, agonizing, as he groans into my hair and lets loose inside of me. When he finally stills his movements, his body sags against mine, heavy and satiated, his breathing labored.
I'm quivering, my body trembling from head to toe. Tears sting my eyes when he pulls out. I hope he thinks it's from pleasure, and not because I'm trying desperately not to cry in front of him.
"Are you okay?" he asks, fixing his pants as I lay against the counter by the sink, shielding my face. Confident Naz sounds almost unsure these days.
I don't look back at him as I nod. I'm okay, or I will be, I think. He leans over me, kissing my neck once more as he tugs my dress back down, before he steps back.
The tears fall as
soon as he leaves the kitchen. It takes me a good twenty minutes to pull myself together. I wipe my eyes and fix my clothes, careful as I head toward the den. He's sitting at his desk, his head down on top of his book.
He's still reading The Prince.
Slowly, I step toward him. He's fast asleep already. I stare down at him, my fingertips grazing his jawline, feeling the scruff, before I run my fingers through his hair. He doesn't even stir.
I hope he's dreaming, that he's happy, and at peace, if only for the moment, because when he wakes up, I know there will be hell to pay for somebody.
"I love you," I whisper, although I know he can't hear me. "I shouldn't… but goddamn it if I don't love you, anyway."
Pulling the engagement ring off my finger, I set it on the desk beside him before turning around and walking out.
Twelve o'clock on the dot.
I stand at the entrance of the park, near the massive arch, shivering in the damp night air. I'm kicking myself for not changing clothes, for not putting on pants. But Naz's scent clings to these, the memory of his touch infused in the fabric, and I'm not ready to let go of that yet.
My eyes studiously scan the neighborhood, on alert, waiting.
A minute passes.
Then another.
And another.
Ten minutes come and go, then fifteen. I start to panic. What if all this was for nothing? Nearly twenty minutes pass before a car comes up the street, creeping to a stop right in front of me. It's a black BMW, expensive, and new. The passenger window rolls down as my heart races.
I see his face. John Reed. Johnny Rita.
"Get in," he says.
I hesitate, wondering if I've made a mistake, but I can't know that, not until I hear what they have to say. Sighing, I climb in the car, refusing to look at him. "You're late."
"Yeah, well, I had to make sure you were alone," he says, pulling away. "Can't trust people these days."
"Tell me about it," I mutter, trying to quell the anger flowing through me. This man might be my father, but that doesn't make him my family. He's a stranger, and I don't trust him. "Where's my mother?"
"Waiting," he says. "She was afraid you wouldn't come."
"Because my entire life was a lie? Because I don't trust you?"