Target on Our Backs

  Armando Donati was one of Ray's street soldiers, the kind who did dirty work, who roamed in the trenches and wasn't opposed to bending rules off the books to win wars. Kidnapping, extortion, and assault were his specialties, as well as the average every day drive-by shooting. The parts of the life that had no honor. The parts of the life that none of them talked about. Armando had a knack for making a hit look more like a random act. Ray kept eyes and ears all over the street, and most of his information came straight from Armando and his band of bloody thieves.

  So, naturally, the second gunfire lit up my father's business, I thought of him.

  "No screaming," I tell him. "If you want any chance of going home, you'll listen. You got me?"

  He nods frantically.

  "Good."

  Using the knife, I slit across the duct tape on his mouth, watching as blood flows around the hole, the blade slicing into his lip. He grunts, letting out a strangled cry as more tears fall, but he doesn't scream. He sucks in a large gulp of air through his mouth, immediately begging the second he exhales.

  "Please, Vitale, it wasn't me! I swear to God! I swear on my wife, my children! I swear on the family! I didn't do it!"

  I want to jab the knife into his larynx to shut him up, but instead I clamp my free hand down around his mouth and nose, squeezing. He starts to thrash, but settles down the second I say, "Don't."

  He can't breathe now. I know he can't. His face is turning red, his eyes bugging out.

  "I know it wasn't you," I say. "So don't waste your breath trying to explain that to me, or next time I'll take your breath away permanently."

  I let go, and again, he gasps for air. His blood is on my hand and I absently rub it on my pant leg, not realizing what I've done until it's too late.

  Shit.

  I'll have to burn them now.

  Get rid of the evidence.

  He's quiet this time. Well, he's hyperventilating, and sobbing, but at least he isn't trying to beg anymore.

  Armando lives in Hell's Kitchen, not far from my father's deli, in an apartment above the convenience store Ray used to own, the same one I stole from when I was sixteen years old. I stopped there on my way home to grab a newspaper… and I just happened to grab my old acquaintance while I was at it.

  I know he didn't do it. I know, because he was sitting in a recliner, in his boxers, watching soap operas like the little bitch he is. But just because he didn't do it doesn't mean he wouldn't know who did. His kind are like wolves… they run in packs.

  I'm gunning for the alpha.

  The one brave enough to come after me.

  "I want to know who shot up the block in Hell's Kitchen this afternoon," I say, continuing before he can give me the 'it wasn't me' spiel. "The streets talk, Armando, and you're about as close to a gutter rat as there is in this business. You hear it all. Ray's people are dropping like flies. Everyday, it's someone else. But somehow, you're still alive, and I can probably guess why. So I want to know who's behind it… I want to know who you're working for now."

  "I'm not—" The words slip from his lips instinctively before he silences them with a gulp of air, swallowing back the lie he's trained to say. We're all taught to deny any involvement whatsoever, but he knows better. He knows giving me the lie will only get him killed. "Look, I haven't met the guy… he hasn't come to me yet, I swear! I'm nobody. I'm nothing. He probably doesn't even know who I am! But people talk, you know… they talk, just like you said. A guy came to me last week, came to me about some information, said he heard that I might know some things. He asked about you, but I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know!"

  "Who was the guy?"

  "I don't know his name."

  As soon as the denial is out of his mouth, the knife slams down, right into the meaty part of his thigh. I yank it right back out, again clamping my hand down around his mouth and nose as he lets out a shriek of pain, muzzling the sound. His face turns bright red, and I let go, immediately regretting it when he screams, "Joe! They call him Fat Joe!"

  He catches his mistake right away and starts pleading quietly, sobbing, as a stream of blood runs from the wound in his thigh. It's not much. Nothing he can't easily survive. I hold the knife up, telling him to be silent, as the damn dog starts barking in the kitchen, hearing us out here.

  I listen for a moment, making sure Karissa hadn't been disturbed. The dog stops barking finally, giving up on finding out what's going on outside.

  "Who does this Joe guy work for?" I ask when I'm sure we won't be interrupted. I need to get this over with and get my ass back upstairs. "And don't tell me you don't know, because next time, I'm aiming for the artery."

  "There's a guy, he's new in town."

  "I know that much."

  "Joe, he didn't say who he was working for, and you know, Vitale… you know we're never supposed to ask! He kept saying 'my boss this, my boss that', but it's gotta be the new guy!"

  "Does this new guy have a name?"

  "They call him Scar, I think."

  "You think," I repeat. "You better think right, or you'll come to regret giving me bad information, Armando."

  "I'm sure," he corrects himself. "I'm positive that's it."

  Scar. Huh.

  "And Fat Joe's working for this Scar guy?"

  I hate even asking that sentence.

  My life has turned into a cliché Mafia movie.

  "Has to be," Armando says. "Don't know who else would do it."

  I stand there, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with this information, when Armando starts whimpering again, quietly begging for mercy. The sound grates on my nerves, and I step away, tossing the knife down on the top of my toolbox as I snatch up the roll of duct tape. I rip a chunk off and slap it over the bloody slit across his mouth, silencing him again.

  "You're lucky, Armando," I say. "You see, I'm trying to do better these days, trying to be a better man, trying to be the man my wife thinks I can be, so I'm not going to kill you tonight. I'm going to give you a chance. If you survive until morning, I'll take you home; I'll drop you off right where I picked you up. You understand?"

  He can't respond, not with his mouth taped again, but I take his muffled frantic mumbling for confirmation that he understands. Before, things would've been non-negotiable. Cross me, and you die. That was the way it was. But I can't do that anymore. I can't keep that up. If I'm not flexible, I'm not commendable.

  And I'm trying to be commendable for her.

  "But remember… you let my wife find you and the deal's off."

  I slam the trunk closed, hearing his startled cry, but then he goes silent again.

  The gutter rat wants to live.

  Grabbing the knife, I head back into the house, making sure to lock up behind me. Killer retreats a few steps when he sees me, his chest rumbling as he starts growling.

  In the kitchen, I reach up into the cabinet beside the sink, digging into the bag of pepperoni-flavored dog treats. I toss a few to the mutt, and he gobbles them up, too distracted by the treats to bother with me anymore.

  I wash the blood from the blade and toss the knife in the dishwasher before heading toward the stairs, veering to the laundry room on my way. I pull off my sweatpants, burying them in a pile of dirty clothes, making a mental note to remember to do something about them later.

  I head upstairs then, back to the bedroom.

  Karissa is still asleep. It doesn't look like she's even moved an inch. I climb in the bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her to me.

  It worried me today.

  Thank God she's safe.

  I just need her to stay that way.

  She stirs then, briefly waking up, before nuzzling against me and going right back to sleep in my arms.

  She starts dreaming again.

  This time, though, she's smiling.

  She wouldn't be smiling if she knew what I was thinking, if she knew where my mind was venturing, the things I was yearning to do. I'm trying, for h
er, I'm trying my damndest, but I'm not sure how much more I can give. She says retaliation is a choice, and maybe she's right. Maybe it is a choice.

  But maybe I want to choose retaliation.

  Is it so wrong to want vengeance?

  I don't think so.

  * * *

  "Good morning."

  Karissa's voice is a sleepy mumble, her words broken around a yawn. I glance over toward the doorway as she steps into the kitchen. Her hair is a tangled mess. She's wearing nothing but a too-big black t-shirt that I'm guessing she stole from the back of my closet.

  Half of her wardrobe comes out of there.

  "Morning." I'm not sure yet if I'm willing to call it good. I haven't had a wink of sleep and I'm probably not getting any until sometime tomorrow. "You're up early."

  It's seven, maybe eight in the morning. Clocks are still quite scarce around the house, and I don't feel like looking at my watch, so I'm not entirely sure. I'm dressed for the day and have been since around four.

  "Yeah," she mumbles. "Had a hard time sleeping."

  I consider pointing out how much she actually slept last night, but I think better of it. "Pity."

  "I know, right?" Karissa tinkers with the coffee machine on the counter, brewing herself a cup, as I unload the dishwasher, making sure everything, including the boning knife, goes back where it belongs. She watches me as she waits on her coffee, rubbing Killer's head as he nudges against her, wanting her attention. "Looks like you've been busy this morning."

  I've done a load of laundry, burned a pair of pants, and scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom, all to distract me while waiting on her to wake up. "I suppose you're not the only one who had a hard time sleeping."

  She regards me curiously, picking up her coffee cup when it's finished, blowing on the steaming liquid. "You know, it's still not your fault."

  Pausing, I close my eyes, forcing myself to not react to that. I don't want to have this conversation again. She's starting to sound like a damn self-help tape with her constant reassurances. It's not your fault. After a moment, I press on with what I was doing and change the subject. "So, what are your plans for the day?"

  "Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that."

  I shoot her a look as she sips on her coffee. She's purposely trying to provoke me. "Care to elaborate?"

  "I've got class most of the day," she says, pausing before adding, "Which you already know. Other than that, nothing much… might stop by and see Melody later on. Been a while since we hung out. You?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  "Sounds exciting."

  "I'm sure it will be as thrilling as it sounds," I reply. "Do you want me to drive you into the city?"

  "No, it's okay. I can just grab a cab."

  I pull my phone from my pocket as soon as she says that. "How about I call a car for you instead?"

  She shrugs, like it doesn't matter, as she guzzles her coffee now that it's cool. It does matter, though. The drivers with the car service are vetted. I know their names and addresses.

  I know where their parents live.

  "Whatever you want to do," she says, pushing away from the counter to leave the kitchen. "I'll be ready in about forty-five minutes."

  "I'll have them pick you up then."

  An hour later, the car is sitting by the curb in front of the house, patiently waiting as Karissa dawdles around the house, feeding the dog and making herself another cup of coffee—this one to go. When she's finally ready, all of her things together, she rises up on her tiptoes and pecks a kiss against my lips before heading for the door. "Have a good day doing nothing."

  "I'm sure I will," I tell her, watching as she walks out, leaving me alone. I hate it, whenever she leaves, but I find myself relieved today to have her gone. I feel like I can breathe deeply without risking her realizing what I've been up to and having to see that look on her face.

  The look that says I still terrify her sometimes, even to this day.

  It's been a while since I've seen it.

  I've certainly been trying to keep it at bay.

  Sighing, I look around the spotless kitchen, smelling the harsh bleach scent that clings to everything, as I lean back against the counter near the sink. Killer stands in the doorway, ears laid back as he regards me. The second our eyes meet, I hear the grumble, a low growl resonating deep in his chest.

  "Don't look at me that way," I say. "I do what I have to do."

  He barks once without moving. Reaching up into the cabinet near my head, I grab a treat. I toss it to him, the growl instantly ceasing, his tail suddenly wagging as he gobbles up the treat, forgetting—at least momentarily—that I'm supposed to be the enemy.

  He's easily trained.

  Easily tricked.

  If he keeps this up, I might eventually start to like him.

  Or not.

  Grabbing my keys, I leave, heading out into the garage. It's a little warmer now than last night. It's going to be a hot day.

  Popping the trunk on the car, I grimace as the stench again hits me, waving it away as I recoil. Son of a bitch, it's even worse this morning. I'm going to need a ton of bleach to tackle this disaster.

  Armando is out cold, but I can see his chest moving. He's still breathing. He survived the night.

  Lucky bastard.

  "Rise and shine," I say, slapping his cheek a few times, rousing him from his slumber. It's amazing… he got more sleep in a fucking trunk than I managed to find in my own bed. It takes him a moment to come around, a moment to realize where he is, to remember what I did to him. He balks when he sees me, blinking rapidly, his face contorting with pain. "Well, nothing, it seems you made it to morning. Congratulations."

  He probably cried himself to sleep last night, thinking this was the end, thinking this was just me prolonging his death, torturing him a bit before taking his life. He probably passed out thinking it was the last time he'd see the dawning of a new day.

  I still have half a mind to kill the bastard just on principle. Don't leave witnesses. He certainly witnessed what I was up to yesterday. But I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to give him his second wind. "I won't kill you today, Armando. A deal is a deal, and I'm a man of my word. But that doesn't mean I won't kill you tomorrow. The first time you slip up or get in my way, I'm going to end you, and it's not going to be as merciful as a knife to the neck. You understand?"

  He nods as he starts to cry again, tears streaming from his eyes. Disgusted, I slam the trunk closed and walk over, climbing in behind the wheel. I'll take him home, just like I said I would, and I'll let him go, like I said I would, too. I'm going to give him a chance to live out the rest of his days.

  He better not disappoint me.

  I'm already low on patience.

  The café near NYU is pretty dead at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, most students off in class somewhere or already headed home for the day. There are only a handful of tables occupied, nobody waiting in line for a drink. I sip on my chocolate mint tea as I glance around the place, tapping my foot on the dark linoleum floor. I've had a ton of caffeine already today, enough to revitalize a tranquilized horse, but that isn't what has me so antsy.

  No, it's what happened at the deli.

  I can't get it out of my mind.

  I wonder how Giuseppe's feeling, wonder what he's thinking. His life's work shut down because of a hail of random gunfire in the middle of the afternoon. I remember Naz said his father added the extra security years ago, after his son fell in with Raymond Angelo, but for the first time, the precautions actually became necessary.

  I can only imagine what it means for whatever sort of relationship the two of them were starting to form again.

  Is there any coming back from this?

  "Earth to Karissa!" Fingers snap right in my face, startling me. "Are you having an episode?"

  I flinch, my eyes meeting Melody's across the small, round table. "What?"

  "Jesu
s, I thought you were having a psychotic break or something," she says, shaking her head as she regards me. "I've been talking to you for like, thirty goddamn minutes, and you haven't acknowledged the fact that I'm even here."

  Ignoring the fact that we've been here for only ten minutes, tops, I lean back in my chair, gripping my drink with both hands, giving her my undivided attention. "What were you saying?"

  "I don't even know anymore." She groans, her head dropping down right onto the open book on the table, her words muffled as she mumbles into the pages. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"

  "Maybe you're a masochist," I suggest. "You need a good sadist in your life."

  That earns me a slightly raised head and one hell of a glare. Laughing, I shrug. Who knows? I never, in a million years, thought I'd be an exhibitionist, but Naz swears I might be, and I'm not going to deny the thrill I get at the idea of being watched. "Hey, you never know. We've all got our kinks."

  "I'm an idiot," she counters, ignoring my suggestion. "I'm one-hundred percent a fucking dumbass. There's no other explanation. I'll never learn my lesson."

  She dramatically bangs her head against the brand new textbook a few times before sitting back up. Another philosophy class, her fourth so far. This time it's Philosophy of Mind, whatever that means. I don't even know the difference.

  Isn't all philosophy, you know, from the mind?

  She's passed every single one of the classes, her grades just getting better and better, but that doesn't stop her from complaining every time.

  Me? I gave up with the second one.

  Philosophy is just not for me.

  Melody, on the other hand, had the bright idea to make it her major.

  A degree in philosophy… what does one do with that?

  "Don't be so hard on yourself," I say. "It's all just opinions, remember?"

  That earns me yet another glare.

  Man, I'm on fire today.

  "Whatever," she says. "This is it. I'm not doing it any more. I'm drawing the line."

  She literally uses her finger to draw a line across the table, her red-painted acrylic scraping against the whatever-the-hell-the-table-is-made-out-of.