Torture to Her Soul

  I started again from scratch.

  No memories pad across these hard floors, no stories infuse themselves into these bare walls, but the house still makes noise at night, groaning like it's in mourning for what it never got to be.

  Because walls and a roof? They don't make a house a home.

  There was a small house on the other side of Brooklyn, within walking distance of my favorite pizzeria, that I used to think of as home. It had one floor, one bedroom, and the smallest kitchen I've ever seen, but it was the first place I ever got to call my own.

  It was the first place I ever felt safe and secure.

  The first place I found happiness.

  The first place I felt love.

  But it had nothing to do with the building that stood there. It was what existed inside those walls that made it that way.

  I lived there for less than a year… less than a year before my home came under attack… but nineteen years in this house never came close to adding up to what I had there. I understood Karissa when she told me home wasn't a place to her, because it was never one to me, either.

  Johnny took my home from me that day.

  I burned the house down afterward.

  "Guess it's true what they say."

  The sound of Karissa's voice draws my attention. Turning around, I see her standing at the bottom of the steps, eyes trained past me at the front door. Early morning sunshine bathes the area around it in a soft orange glow, making the brand new locks lining the door shine brightly. I spent all night fortifying the house, doing everything in my power to make the place secure.

  I can't stop Carmela from showing up here, but I'll keep her from getting inside if she does.

  "And what, exactly, do they say?"

  Karissa's eyes shift from the door to meet mine. Her hair is a mess, her pajamas disheveled. She clearly just woke up from sleeping hard, lost in tranquility, while I spent the past few hours drowning in paranoia. Every time the house creaked, I damn near clawed my way out of my own skin.

  "History repeats itself," she says, "first as a tragedy, second as a farce."

  Karl Marx. I recognize the quote.

  Daniel Santino must've taught it to her.

  Huh.

  I wave toward the front door. "Something about this is funny to you?"

  "Not really funny," she says, slowly stepping closer. "It's sort of curious, though, that I spent my entire life trapped behind locked doors and here it is, happening to me again. I always knew something was going on when my mother started buying extra locks and nailing down windows. It's just a bit of déjà vu seeing you doing the same thing."

  Hesitating, I reach into my pocket and fish out a set of keys. I toss them to her without warning, and they hit the wooden floor by her feet with a clang. Bending down, she picks them up, eyeing me curiously.

  "You're not trapped here, Karissa."

  Her fist closes around the keys, her gaze burning through me as she arches an eyebrow, silent for a moment before asking, "Aren't I?"

  "No, you're not. You can leave the house whenever you want."

  "Can I?"

  "Of course," I say. "Doesn't mean I won't follow you, though."

  She glares at me for a moment before looking away, focusing back on the locks lining the door. "I take it back."

  "Take what back?"

  "It is funny," she says, although there's no humor in her voice. "The entire reason I was on lockdown growing up was because of you, and here I am, on lockdown once again, all because of you. Ironic, don't you think?"

  "Does it make you feel like an Alanis Morissette song?"

  Her brow furrows. "Who?"

  Shaking my head, I stroll toward her. "Never mind. Sometimes I forget how young you are."

  Her eyes meet mine once more. "I'm not young. You're just old."

  "Huh." I pause right in front of her. "I remember once, not long ago, you were adamant I wasn't old. But then again, that's the same night you told me to stay, and you've been pretty vocal about how you regret that. Guess I shouldn't be surprise if you take back everything you've said."

  She holds my gaze for a few seconds before closing her eyes and looking away. I don't linger, shuffling past her on my way to the den. I'm exhausted, and frustrated, wanting nothing more than to collapse in my bed and sleep for days on end, but there's still too much to do.

  I've wasted enough time being unconscious.

  I'm sitting at my desk, on the phone with American Express when Karissa appears. I expect her to take a seat on the couch, to turn on the television and do whatever it is she does, but she surprises me by approaching my desk instead. She perches herself on the corner of it while I lean back in the chair.

  "I need to cancel my card and order a new one," I tell the person on the phone. "I also need to know if it's been used recently."

  The lady gives me the usual spiel about timeframes and security as she looks up my history. Last swiped at a gas station north of the city limits the night it was stolen. Huh.

  I hang up once it's settled and continue to watch Karissa as she stares out the vast window behind me. She's switching up her routine because of me, but not much has really changed. Not really. I don't want her to feel like a prisoner, but it's obvious she feels trapped.

  She even said so herself.

  "I have something for you," I say.

  "I don't—"

  "Want anything from me," I say, finishing her thought. "You don't want anything from me, I get it."

  "Actually, I was going to say I didn't need anything."

  "Well, good, because I think you'll want this."

  Opening my top desk drawer, I pull out the receipt from NYU and hold it out to her. She takes it, slowly unfolding it as I close the drawer again. Her gaze goes to the receipt as she clutches onto it tightly. Her eyes flit across the paper as she reads. "You paid my tuition?"

  "I did."

  "But how did you know? I mean, how did you…?" She trails off, shaking her head. "Never mind, what don't you know when it comes to me."

  Not much, I think, but I'll learn the rest eventually.

  "You didn't have to do this," she continues, looking at me as she folds the receipt back up. "I wasn't going to ask you to do it."

  "I know," I say. "But you risked a lot to come to NYU, so if school's important to you, you should keep going."

  She seems at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing a few times. After a few failed attempts at a response, she simply looks away, temporarily giving up on attempting conversation.

  I know she's grateful, even if she doesn't say it.

  Sighing, I shove my chair back and stand up again, swaying a bit. I grasp the desk beside her and close my eyes, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself. When I reopen my eyes, I see she's watching me, but I don't linger. I don't need her to worry.

  I walk out of the den without another word.

  I go upstairs to shower, standing under the frigid cold spray and hoping it'll jolt me awake, before heading into the bedroom to change. I'm dazed as I absent-mindedly pull on another one of my suits, only vaguely having to pay attention as I knot the dark tie. I sit down on the edge of the bed with my shoes when I glance toward the doorway, Karissa appearing yet again. She hesitates in front of me, leaning against the doorframe.

  She still has something to say.

  I think she finally found the words.

  "You didn't go to sleep last night."

  I cut my eyes at her. "I'm surprised you noticed."

  "I always notice."

  "Then I'm surprised you care."

  "I always care, too."

  "Yeah, maybe you do," I mutter, slipping on my shoes before letting out a light laugh. "Sometimes you care because you don't want me there."

  She doesn't argue that, sighing dramatically when I carefully stand up again to grab my coat. "Are you going somewhere? Again?"

  "I have to go sort out things with my car," I say. "I also need to get a new driver's licen
se and deal with whatever else was in my wallet."

  "It can't wait?"

  "No," I say. "It can't."

  "So you're going to be gone a while?"

  The question makes me eye her peculiarly as I put on my coat. "Maybe."

  "Oh."

  "Planning to throw a party in my absence?"

  Planning to run as soon as I'm not here?

  "Of course not," she says quietly. "I just thought, you know, maybe I could go with you."

  My fingers stall as I'm fastening the buttons. "You want to go with me?"

  "If you don't mind… unless you're doing something, well, you know…"

  "Illegal?" I guess, shaking my head when she nods in confirmation. "It'll all be boring and above board. No skirting any gray areas today, jailbird. Scouts honor."

  She smiles slightly. "Were you a boy scout?"

  "Yes," I admit, fixing my coat, smoothing the material. "All the way through Junior High."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "You must have a thing for joining organizations."

  Despite myself, I laugh at that. I have a rule against talking about what I do for work, against even verbally acknowledging I play any role in the world of organized crime, but she's not an idiot, and I'm done hiding who I am.

  She's seen me.

  She knows.

  "Yeah, well, I like to think it's mutually beneficial," I say. "They teach me what they want me to know, and I use what I learn to assist them however I can."

  "What did the Boy Scouts teach you?"

  "The basics," I say. "Tying knots, hunting, shooting targets, starting fires… surviving."

  "And the, uh… other organization?"

  I consider it. "Pretty much the same things."

  She eyes me warily. "You must be good with so much training."

  I step toward her, pausing right in front of her, so close the tips of my shoes graze her toes. She stares up at me, her expression earnest as she bites the inside of her cheek. Carefully, I reach out, running the back of my fingers along her jawline as her lips twitch. "What did I tell you about asking things like this?"

  "That I should be careful what I ask," she says quietly. "That the answers aren't always pretty."

  "Exactly."

  "But I wasn't asking anything," she says. "It wasn't a question."

  You must be good with so much training.

  No, it wasn't a question.

  "You ever hear the expression 'more is caught than taught'?" I ask. She shakes her head, and I lean closer, dropping my voice lower, whispering to her. "You can learn more watching the world around you than anyone could ever dream of teaching you. I'm good, all right, but it has nothing to do with any kind of training. I'm good, because the world showed me how to be. Very few have ever witnessed my greatest tricks, Karissa… even fewer lived to remember them."

  Her muscles grow taut… I can see them straining as she tries to stay still, but my words send a shiver through her. I pull away, turning around to head for the door.

  "I'll be downstairs," I say. "Get dressed if you want to come with me today. It's up to you."

  I don't expect her to really come along; don't expect her to show her face again before I leave.

  After retrieving some cash from a safe in the den, finding my spare car key and gathering my passport and social security card to use as identification, I head out the front door and stroll toward the driveway, surveying my car.

  A few dings pepper the driver's side door, but a .22 caliber bullet is no match for the armored metal of the Mercedes S-Guard. I bought this car because it's arguably the safest on the market. Not bulletproof, per se, because nothing is bulletproof. A strong enough weapon can cut through even the toughest Kevlar, demolish even the sturdiest structure, but it's resistant to whatever might come my way. The side window took the worst of it, a spider web crack in the corner filtering out along the tempered glass.

  I reach for the door handle, opening it, and freeze when I glance inside. Bloodstains streak the leather, but they're just that… stains.

  The car has been wiped clean.

  I hear a noise behind me as I'm staring at the interior and turn quickly—too quickly—nearly toppling over from the jolt of pain. I clutch onto the door, gripping it tightly, and close my eyes again to stop the world from spinning.

  When I reopen my eyes, I see Karissa standing there.

  She's wearing a pair of jeans and a tight black tank top, tall black boots and a pink scarf. Her hair is pulled along the side, loosely braided down her shoulder, just a touch of makeup on her face. She looks a lot like the woman I first encountered, the one who charmed me.

  She proves me wrong yet again.

  "I tried to get the blood out but it sat too long and I didn't know what to use," she says, motioning toward the interior of the car. "I thought… well, I figured you had more experience at that than me."

  There's not an ounce of sarcasm to that statement.

  It's the truth, anyway.

  "You shouldn't have."

  She shrugs. "It's the least I could do."

  No, really, she shouldn't have…

  Sighing, I turn back to the car, ignoring the stains as I climb in behind the wheel. I wait until she's buckled in the passenger seat before starting the engine and pulling away.

  Karissa's quiet as I run errands all over town, spending an ungodly amount of time trying to get a new copy of my driver's license at the DMV. She sits beside me the entire time, following me from place to place, her presence loud even if she's low on words.

  "Just one more stop," I tell her eventually. "I need to have the car dealt with."

  Her eyes trail over the fractured side window. "Are we going to Donizetti's Body Shop?"

  My brow furrows. "Where?"

  "Donizetti's," she says again before looking at me. "I think that's what it's called. I found the business card…"

  She starts to reach into the center console, and my stomach drops, realizing what she's talking about. Shit. Before she can pull out the business card, I stop her, shutting the console once again as I shake my head. "I get all my work done at the dealership."

  "Oh." She settles back into the seat. "I figured he did your work for you."

  I say nothing to that.

  I'm grateful she drops the subject.

  It's late afternoon when we make it to the Mercedes dealership in Midtown East. The lobby is quiet, only a few people hanging around, talking to salesmen or waiting for their cars. A strange blue glow surrounds the desk as I stand in front of it, leaning against it, waiting as the receptionist finds room in the schedule to squeeze me in.

  "It should just be a few minutes, Mr. Vitale," she says, bright red lips smiling widely, flashing her inexplicably white teeth at me. It's forced, and fake, the kind of smile that's bought and paid for. I hate when people smile needlessly, like their faces are puppets and corruption pulls the strings. "Just take a seat and someone will be right with you."

  She takes my only spare key and waltzes away as I let out as a sigh and turn away from the front desk. Karissa is sitting in a blue chair across the lobby, right in front of the television, fidgeting distractedly.

  I stroll that way, and she glances up at me, but I step past her to the counter along the side, to the small Dean & DeLuca set up, grabbing two shots of espresso before strolling back toward Karissa. She watches me warily as I hold one of them out to her.

  "Here," I say. "We might be here a while."

  They say minutes when it's always more like hours.

  "Thank you," she says quietly, taking the little paper cup from me, offering a small smile of gratitude. Unlike the one that greeted me just minutes ago, this one is genuine.

  I like this smile.

  I miss it.

  "You're welcome," I say, sitting down in the chair beside hers, stretching my long legs out as I take a sip of the espresso. It's thicker than usual, a slight bitter edge to it. I grimace, the taste lingering in my mouth,
and glance at Karissa to see her do the same.

  She scrunches up her nose. "This coffee is terrible."

  "It's espresso."

  She scoffs, taking another sip. "Same difference."

  "Same difference? Really?" I shake my head. "You're a disgrace to Italians everywhere."

  She laughs. "Good thing I'm not really Italian."

  "Oh, but you are," I tell her. "Your father was an Italian citizen, so by default you would be, too."

  She hesitates, taking another sip. "Is my mother an Italian citizen, too?"

  "Uh, no, she's not," I say, leaning back in my chair as I regard her. "Her parents... your grandparents, as it is... were second or third generation."

  Karissa's eyes widen. "My grandparents?"

  "Yes," I say. "You have some of those, you know… most people do."

  I can tell looking at her that she never thought about it, never considered the fact that she'd have more family.

  "They're dead, though, right?" Her voice is quiet. "Growing up, my mom always told me her parents passed away."

  "Yeah, they died in a car accident."

  "So she didn't lie to me about that, at least."

  "I suppose there's that," I say, drumming my fingers against the arm of the chair. "Although, you know, Carmela isn't your only parent. Johnny's mother is still around."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, she lives over in Harlem. She's a bitter hag, kicked your father out on his ass when he was just sixteen, but she's still around. Her name's Janice."

  "Janice," she mumbles. "Interesting."

  As I'm sitting there, sipping the espresso, the lady from the front desk comes waltzing over, that fake smile still plastered to her face. "Mr. Vitale, do you have some identification on you? I need to use it to verify you're the owner so we can order the new key from headquarters."

  "Yeah." Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out the paper from the DMV, the temporary driving authorization until my new license comes in, and hand over my passport along with it, in case she needs a picture. She walks away with them both, returning a moment later and handing them back to me.

  I start to slip them into my pocket when Karissa's voice cuts through the silence. "Can I see?"