Target on Our Backs

  Target on Our Backs

  J.M. Darhower

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Target

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2016 by J.M. Darhower

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To Leonardo DiCaprio...

  I'm sorry for what I said.

  I'm going to tell you a story, a story about a lion that was killed by a callous hunter not long ago. This lion was the king of his pride, and this hunter? This hunter didn't even think twice about pulling the trigger, consequences be damned.

  And consequences there were.

  You see, when a king is killed, anarchy reigns as the next strongest male steps up to take his place. Sometimes that male is considerate, compassionate, but more likely he's a ruthless beast. To secure his place at the top of the food chain, to assert his dominance in a time of chaos, the lion annihilates anyone he considers competition, starting with his predecessor's cubs.

  His offspring, the ones he created, the ones he raised to follow his lead... one-by-one they fell, victim to the new cruel tyrant, until the former king's pride was no more. In the hunter's mind, it was over the second he put down the gun, but in reality, that was when the real trouble began.

  And trouble?

  It came with a vengeance.

  The pride lands were knee-deep in it.

  Midtown Shooting Leaves One Dead

  I stare through the darkness at the bold headline deep in the middle of yesterday's newspaper. It didn't make the front page. Not even close. It was tucked in along with the petty crimes that plague the city, like a shooting means nothing to these people nowadays.

  Maybe it doesn't.

  Who am I to judge?

  Bullets certainly don't faze me anymore.

  But this one stalled me. This one made me hesitate. My eyes drift from the vague headline to the lone victim's name: Kelvin Russo.

  I know him.

  Well, I knew him.

  Kelvin is no more.

  Once one of Ray's favorite street soldiers, Kelvin caught a bullet to the back of the skull. He was young, just starting out… couldn't have been any more than twenty-three or twenty-four. The paper doesn't say much about what happened, but I know an execution when I read about one.

  Another of the former king's cubs has fallen.

  I didn't pull the trigger this time, but when it comes down to it, I still shoulder the blame. He's dead because there's a new king of this concrete jungle, a king that's sending a message to everyone.

  Bow down.

  The thing is, though, I don't kneel for anyone. I get on my knees for no fucking man. I walked away a year ago, before pulling that fateful trigger, but that won't be good enough for someone like him.

  It's only a matter of time before he comes for me.

  Before he wants me.

  Whoever he is...

  "A leopard doesn't change its spots."

  Giuseppe Vitale isn't usually a man to mince words. He speaks in riddles a lot of the time, something his son inherited from him, but his point is always there, front and center. He knows what he knows and feels how he feels, and when it comes down to it, he won't hesitate to tell you how it is.

  A leopard doesn't change its spots.

  He's talking about Ignazio.

  "But he's different," I say, my eyes drifting to the small wooden table between us, like maybe subconsciously I doubt my own words. He has been different, that's true, but I know that doesn't mean he has actually changed.

  Can he change?

  I don't know.

  Should I even want him to?

  It has been over a year since a bullet tore through me in the foyer of the home in Brooklyn, although my chest still aches like it happened yesterday. The physical wound healed but my heart is another story.

  Part of it remains broken.

  It probably always will be that way.

  Six weeks ago, Naz asked me to marry him. Really asked me, unlike before. This time, when I said yes, I knew exactly what I was committing to. I know what kind of man he is. I know the things he's done, the things he wanted to do. We said 'I do' that very night, in the chapel at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, and I've spent every night since then convinced I'd made the right decision.

  Because he's different.

  He is.

  But what exactly does different mean?

  Giuseppe reaches over, placing his rough, calloused hand on top of mine, squeezing lightly to draw my attention back to him. He's got a smile on his lips, but it's not a smile of happiness. It borders somewhere on pity.

  I can almost hear what he's thinking.

  Poor little girl, you don't understand what you've gotten into.

  "You know, they say if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it'll jump right back out," he says. "But if you put a frog in a pot of cool water and steadily raise the temperature, it'll stay right where it is, like nothing is happening. You get where I'm going with this?"

  My brow furrows at the jump in conversation. "No."

  "You're the frog, girl, and Ignazio? He's boiling you alive without you even noticing."

  I want to argue against that. I want to tell him he's wrong. Because he is. He's wrong. But the only words I can come up with are 'he's different' and I'm not even entirely sure how to explain what that means. He's still Naz, still the same intimidating Ignazio, but Vitale hasn't shown his face... not around me, anyway.

  I know Giuseppe can't differentiate between the masks, though. He looks at his son and only sees the monster he turned into over the years. He can't see the man he was, or the man he is, the man he swears he's trying to be.

  He still disappears at night sometimes. There are still the occasional whispered phone calls. He's still paranoid, and overprotective, and extremely careful, but what he isn't is cruel. He isn't deceitful. I understand him. He understands me. He doesn't handle me with kid gloves, but he doesn't give me more than I can tolerate, either. He treats me like a person, not a possession, although, okay… his possessive streak can sometimes still be pretty fierce.

  The man is an enigma. A beautiful, sometimes terrifying puzzle that I'm still piecing together, little by little.

  Giuseppe, though, has no interest in his son's healing. He has no interest in him being different. As far as he's concerned, Naz is the kind of broken you just can't fix.

  Before I can think of something to say to Giuseppe, something other than the usual 'but he's different' bit, the door to the deli opens, the bell loudly jiggling. I don't even have to look over to know it's him. There's something about the way he enters, a chill in the air, a heat in the stare, that tells me Naz is here.

  Giuseppe doesn't turn to l
ook, but I know he senses it, too.

  "Porca vacca," he mutters, sighing loudly as he pulls his hands from mine and shoves the chair back, standing up. His eyes remain on my face, the pity now more frustration. "You want some cookies? How about some Snickerdoodles?"

  He doesn't wait for me to respond before walking away.

  A few seconds later, the chair across from me shifts again, another body planting in it. I glance up at him, smiling when he mutters under his breath, "just like a whore in church around here."

  They're a lot alike, Naz and his father, but you won't catch me telling either of them that. Stubborn men.

  "Of all places," he says, raising his eyebrows as he stares at me across the table. "I could've gotten a table at the last minute at Le Bernardin, could've even taken you to Paragone again, but no… you ask me to meet you for lunch at Vitale's Italian Delicatessen."

  I shrug. "The food's good here."

  "I won't argue with that, but the atmosphere leaves quite a bit to be desired."

  Giuseppe returns then, sliding a small plate of cookies onto the table in front of me. They're so fresh I can smell the warm cinnamon sugar. "Uh, you are heaven-sent," I say, snatching up a cookie and taking a bite of it. Delicious.

  Naz rolls his eyes. He rolls his eyes.

  I don't think I've ever seen the man rolls his eyes before.

  "Are you going to order some lunch?" Giuseppe asks impatiently, glaring at his only child. "Or are you planning to just loiter for a while?"

  "Depends," Naz replies.

  "On what?"

  "On whether or not you're willing to serve me."

  Giuseppe grumbles to himself as he stalks away, heading straight back behind the counter, roughly shoving the swinging door open.

  He disappears into the kitchen.

  "So, uh, does that mean we're eating?" I ask.

  "It means I'm ordering," Naz says. "He's either gone back there to make the food for us, or he's calling the police because I'm trespassing again. But considering how hungry I am, I'd say it's probably worth the risk."

  Getting up, Naz heads for the front counter, ordering two Italian specials.

  After paying, he goes to return to the table but pauses. "You wouldn't happen to have today's newspaper, would you?" he asks the young guy running the cash register, one of only three employees Giuseppe pays to help him out around here. He tends to do the brunt of the work himself for whatever reason. Pride, maybe. Probably pigheadedness.

  Before the guy can answer, Giuseppe hollers from the kitchen, "Buy your own damn paper!"

  Shaking his head, Naz retakes his seat. "I suppose it's obvious by now where I got my asshole genes from."

  "He's not an asshole," I say, still shoveling the cookie in my mouth. "Neither are you, for that matter. You're just, you know... a bit intense."

  "Intense," Naz repeats. "That's one way to put it."

  Intense, he is. His intensity is unrivaled. His bright blue eyes burn through me as they slowly, carefully, scan my face, watching me eat my cookie like he's getting off on it. I can feel my cheeks warming with blush. "Why are you staring at me?"

  He leans a bit closer, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips, flashing his dimples. "Why not?"

  It only takes a few minutes for our food to be ready. As it turns out, Giuseppe decided to serve him, after all. I dive right in the second mine is placed on the table, but Naz hesitates. He stares at the sandwich, picking it apart with his fingers, eyes slightly narrowed as he inspects the contents.

  "For Christ's sake, Ignazio," Giuseppe shouts, coming out from the kitchen. "Just eat the damn thing!"

  A second passes.

  Then another.

  And another.

  I don't think he's going to eat it, but then... he does. He picks it up and takes a small bite, chewing carefully. Holy fuck.

  I don't want to make a big deal out of the fact that he's eating at his father's deli, food that, not long ago, he wouldn't even touch. I don't want to rock the boat, so to speak, by pointing out that Giuseppe hasn't once actually threatened to throw his ass out on the street. I don't want to gloat, but I can't help it. I can feel myself smiling with satisfaction. He's different. He is.

  'I told you so' is begging to come from my lips.

  "See?" I say, almost giddy as I watch Naz eat. "I knew the two of you—"

  I don't have a chance to finish whatever smug thing it is I'm planning to say. My words die on the tip of my tongue as loud bangs echo through the deli, one after another.

  BANG

  BANG

  BANG

  Before I even have a chance to react, Naz is on his feet, grabbing the table in front of us and flipping it over, shoving me to the checkered floor behind it. I hit the floor. Hard. Wincing, stunned, I peek around the table, watching in horror as the glass covering the front of the building cracks from the force of the flying bullets.

  Bullets.

  Fucking bullets.

  Someone is shooting at the place.

  Everyone else drops to the floor, scrambling away on instinct, everyone except for Naz… and his father, for that matter. Both men just stand there, staring straight ahead, as the tinted glass ripples and splinters between the metal bars but never breaks inside.

  Bulletproof.

  A few seconds. That's all it lasts. A dozen gunshots in quick succession before a car speeds away outside, the tires squealing, smoke flying. I can barely see it through the destruction, but I can tell the car is black, a shadowy mass of metal hauling ass to get away before it's caught.

  My heart is hammering, my chest aching from the force of the thumps. Gasping, I try to catch my breath, but it's hard. So damn hard. Stark silence overtakes the deli in the wake of the gunfire. It seems to go on forever. We're all stunned. Eventually, Naz turns his head, calmly looking down at where I'm still crouching on the floor, carefully offering me his hand.

  "Are you okay?" he asks, although he doesn't actually sound alarmed. I don't know if the man is just desensitized to this sort of thing, or if maybe he knew we were safe where we were.

  "I, uh…" My voice shakes, my body trembling as I let him pull me to my feet. "Yeah, I think so."

  He looks me over, still gripping onto my hand, before turning his attention to the window. People around us are getting to their feet, some fleeing from the fear of it all, while Giuseppe still just stands there, silent, staring.

  He's in shock.

  I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do.

  Someone just shot up the fucking deli.

  Something tells me there will be hell to pay from a Vitale for it.

  I'm just not entirely sure which man at this point.

  "You," Giuseppe growls, his voice laced with an anger I haven't heard since the first day Naz brought me to this place. It's the sound of simmering rage, of fury, of disgust. His head turns, his eyes going straight to his son. Naz turns to his father at the sound of the man's voice, his expression stoic. "Get out! Get out, and don't come back!"

  I'm too stunned to do anything but stand there and watch. Naz, on the other hand, doesn't look surprised at all. He looks his father over for a moment before turning to me, pulling me toward him. He wraps his arms around me, and I hug him back, gripping tight.

  "Next time," he whispers, "pick somewhere else to eat."

  With that, he lets go of me.

  With that, he's gone.

  It happens in a blink. The bell over the door is jingling, and Naz is no longer beside me before I can even make sense of what's going on. Brow furrowing, body still trembling, I dash for the door, shocked my legs can even hold me up. I pull the door open and dart out onto the sidewalk, calling his name. "Naz? Naz!"

  I turn around in circles, looking, but he's gone. That fast. He disappeared from the deli, leaving me there.

  He just… left me here.

  Like I said, he's different.

  The old Naz would've never done that.

  Sirens blare in the distance, co
ming closer as I stand there, my eyes drifting to the front of the deli. Shards of glass litter the sidewalk, as well as a few bullets that had ricocheted off. The glass kept them from getting inside, but it wasn't immune to destruction.

  It's a mess.

  People are running down the streets, shouting at one another, the neighborhood in utter chaos.

  A drive-by shooting in broad daylight.

  It's one of those things my mother warned me about, the horror stories of monsters that run these streets. Naz always told me never to be scared, that I had nothing to be scared of, but I am… I'm scared.

  What the hell just happened?

  I step back into the deli just as the police start to arrive. Giuseppe is finally moving around, helping people to their feet, trying to calm down his remaining customers. His voice is quiet, almost soothing as he talks, all traces of his anger gone out the door with his son.

  Leaning back against the wall by the door, I slide down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees as the police descend upon the scene. I'm in a daze, listening but not hearing anything going on around me, the world just a big blur until someone calls for me.

  "Miss Reed?"

  I look up, seeing a familiar face staring down at me. He's so close his shadow covers me, swaddling me in a gloomy cocoon. It's ominous. Detective Jameson.

  The last time I saw the man was when I'd been shot. He came to the hospital while I was in recovery, asking to hear my side of the story. It was as if he'd expected me to refute Naz's statement, to tell them he'd somehow done something wrong, but I couldn't. Naz, for as many times as he might've endangered me, saved me that day. The doctor had said it himself. Naz saved my life. The detective had gone away, saying his door would be open if I wanted to reconsider, but never once did I ever think about turning on the man I love.

  Because even with everything that has happened, God help me, I do love him.

  I love him more than I ever thought possible.

  I clear my throat, surprised my voice works when I say, "Mrs. Vitale."

  Jameson's brow furrows as he squats down in front of me, like he thinks maybe if he's more on my level, I'll somehow make more sense. "What?"