Torture to Her Soul

  Neither will she be, for that matter.

  Finally, he comes to our table. Karissa glances up at him, her expression slipping. She turns to me, hesitant, and I can practically see her heart beating out of her chest in alarm.

  There's no warm welcome here.

  No smiles or laughs for us.

  He looks furious.

  He presses his palms flat against the table, leaning over until his face is a mere few inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sweat coating his skin, the tinge of salt mixing with a hint of tobacco, a scent I'd be ecstatic if I never inhaled again.

  My gaze shifts to meet his for the second time in a day, trying to come off as relaxed and at ease, but the inside of me is taut, coiled like a spring.

  "There isn't somewhere else you can be?" he asks, voice low. His breath reeks of hot cinnamon, like the flavored toothpicks he chews on to keep from smoking. "Somewhere else you can eat? There are thousands of restaurants in this city, Ignazio. Thousands. Why do you come here?"

  "The food is good."

  "The food is good," he mocks. "You didn't order anything."

  "I was concerned about safety."

  He narrows his angry eyes at my casual words, taking it offensively. "You think I would mess with your food, do you? Think I would try to make you sick? Poison you, like those other schmucks you deal with?"

  "I think it's possible."

  "You think so highly of yourself. You always have. But I would never. Never. This is my life… my food is everything… and you're not worth it. You're not worthy of eating my food, period. I would certainly never contaminate it for the likes of you."

  The voice is slowly skinning me alive, pulling me apart piece by piece. I stare at him hard, seeing Karissa's stunned expression from my peripheral. I don't turn to her. I do nothing but drum my fingers on the table, absorbing every word he says, knowing she hears it, too.

  Good.

  Maybe she'll get what she wants from this.

  Validation.

  She's not the only one who hates me.

  There are people out there who hate me even more than she ever could.

  She's not capable of the kind of hatred this man brings.

  "You're scum," he continues. "You think I'm a bad guy; you think I would taint my food for you, that I would hurt what I love, but that's you, Ignazio. You. Not me. You're the one who ruins everything."

  The voice is his, but those words are hers… words Karissa said to me just a few days ago. Do you have to ruin everything?

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and slams it on the table in front of me, eyes still fixed on my face. "You aren't welcome here, and neither is your blood money. Take it and get out. As far as I'm concerned, you died a long time ago, and I'm glad for it. I won't let you haunt us anymore. I can't look at you, can't look at this demon you've become. You're better off staying dead. God knows you look it right now." He steps back, turning his focus to Karissa. "Run, little girl. Run far away from him."

  My eyes follow him as he stalks through the deli, heading straight to the back, disappearing behind a swinging door. I stare at it in silence, taking deep, even breaths to steady myself, willing myself to remain calm, to stay in this seat. Dead silence overtook the deli while he berated me. I'm certain Karissa wasn't the only one who overheard everything he said.

  "Naz?" Karissa whispers, her voice shaking. I stare at the still swinging door, contemplating following him back there as I continue to drum my fingers against the table. After a moment, she reaches over, placing her hand on top of mine to still my movements. "Ignazio?"

  My gaze shifts from the door to my hand—to her hand, on top of mine, nails painted pale pink, a stark contrast to her soft tanned skin—before I meet her eyes. She looks shell-shocked, a look I've seen time and time again, the look of someone who knows they witnessed something they shouldn't have… the look of someone worried how I'm going to react because of it.

  "I'm fine," I say, clearing my throat when my voice catches because I know I certainly don't sound fine. "Are you done eating?"

  Her brow furrows as she looks at what's left of her food, like she can't believe I'm even talking about it at a time like this. "Uh, yeah…"

  "Are you sure?"

  She nods. "I'm not hungry anymore."

  "Then let's get out of here."

  I pull my hand away and push my chair back, standing up. I smooth my suit coat as I wait for her to get to her feet, not looking at any of the other customers as I lead her toward the exit, leaving the money lying on the table. He can toss it in the fucking trash for all I care. I open the door for her, stepping out behind her, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth at the sound of the bell jingling above me.

  "What just happened?" Karissa stops on the sidewalk, right in front of the deli, not moving when I try to get her to. "Who the hell does that guy think he is? Why would he talk to you that way?"

  She stares at me, eyebrows raised, awaiting an answer. I'm not sure what she expects me to say. It's pretty self-explanatory, I think.

  "I'm not his favorite person."

  "Obviously," she says, waving toward the building. "I mean, what's the point in us stopping for something to eat if you can't even eat? Why would we come here? Why would you bring me here, knowing that?"

  She's speaking loudly, making just as big of a scene as we endured inside, people walking by glancing between us curiously, wondering why she's yelling like she is.

  I step toward her. "You asked me a question."

  "I asked you a lot of questions, none of which you ever seem to want to answer unless it's convenient for you."

  "Convenient?" Her use of that word rubs me the wrong way. Easy… convenient… why do people think these things aren't a hassle for me? "Do you think that was convenient for me, Karissa? You think I enjoyed being berated in front of all those people, that I got a kick out of having him tear me apart in public like that? Do you think I did that for the fun of it, for the hell of it? Because I didn't. I didn't enjoy a second of it. But you asked a question, you said you want to know me, so I showed you."

  "Showed me what?"

  "Why I don't see my parents."

  The anger in her expression melts as she gapes at me, the wheels in her mind turning fast as she puts together the pieces of why we came to this place. It's all there, it always is, if she'd just fucking open her eyes and pay attention. More is caught than taught. But I don't have it in me right now to stand here patiently, to hang out on this dirty, cracked sidewalk while everyone in the goddamn neighborhood watches, waiting for her to get her shit together.

  I wave down the street, toward where the car is parked.

  "Can we go now, before I pass out?" I ask. "Or do you need to yell at me some more first?"

  I see the flash of guilt as she lowers her head and starts walking. I sigh, shaking my head again, my eyes scanning the outside of the deli once more, lingering just a moment on the discoloration where the sign used to be, back when it meant something to the owner, before I single-handedly tarnished a name that used to make him proud.

  Vitale's.

  As soon as we're in the car, Karissa turns to me, rambling before I can even start the engine. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"

  "Don't apologize."

  "But I'm sorry. I really am. The things he said—"

  "Are true," I say, cutting her off before she can dwell on it. "I'm not a good man, Karissa. I've told you that, your parents have told you that, and now you've heard it from mine, too. Don't apologize to me for it, because I'm not going to apologize to you. I'm not sorry for being who I am. You wanted to know, so I showed you, end of story. There's nothing left to say."

  My words silence her. She turns away from me, shifting her body in the seat, and stares out the window the entire trip to Brooklyn. By the time we make it to the house, the sun is starting to set outside and I'm still not done with everything I need to do. I'm running on no sleep, exha
usted mentally and physically, utterly emotionally spent.

  I'm a mess.

  Frustrated, I pull into the driveway and cut off the car, but I just sit there, not moving. My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, to the vaguely familiar car parked along the curb. I spotted it as soon as I turned onto the street.

  Detective Jameson.

  Just great.

  I climb out, pausing, as the doors to the lurking car open and the familiar men appear. Detective Jameson approaches as his partner lingers behind, watching.

  "Detective," I say when Jameson pauses in the grass a few feet away. "Is there a reason you're here?"

  "Just thought I'd check to see how you were doing," he says. "Heard you were already back on your feet. Guess the incident at Cobalt didn't knock you down for long."

  I just stare at him. He sounds casual, conversational, but I'm not stupid.

  The detective's attention shifts to Karissa when she steps out of the car. "Miss Reed, nice to see you again."

  She looks panicked and says nothing.

  "Well then," Jameson says, looking away from her to turn back to me, his gaze skimming along the side of my car as he does, looking at the damage. "Tough break about the car."

  "It’s not as bad as it looks."

  "Still, I know a guy who could fix it for you. You might know him, actually. Name’s Josh Donizetti."

  The detective pauses, raising his eyebrows like he’s waiting for some confirmation that I know who he’s speaking of. I do, of course, and he knows I do.

  I can see it in his eyes.

  "Anyway, he has a shop not far from here. I’m sure he’d give you a good deal. He often works with guys like you." Jameson turns around like he’s going to leave, but pauses, snapping his finger, theatrically sighing. He's a terrible actor. "Oh, right, never mind… totally slipped my mind that the man died recently. Tragic, really. Quite the accident. Car fell on him. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?"

  He glances back at me.

  He knows.

  Somehow, he knows.

  Not good.

  "Of course not," I say. "Wouldn’t know a thing about it."

  The detective nods, his gaze turning to Karissa. He tips his head, acknowledging her again. "Miss Reed."

  I stand there, not moving, watching as the man leaves, the car disappearing down the street. Once they’re gone, I head straight inside, not lingering downstairs, going right up to the bedroom. I pull off my coat and kick off my shoes, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  I can hear Karissa as she comes inside behind me, hear the clink and clank as she fastens all the new locks on the door, hear her footsteps as she carefully makes her way upstairs.

  Unknotting my tie, I glance up in the doorway when she appears.

  "You're wrong," she says right away.

  I pull the tie off and toss it on the bed beside me. "I doubt it."

  Her lips twitch ever so slightly, a hint of a smile at my retort. "But you are."

  "Okay," I hedge, unbuttoning the cuffs of my shirt as I watch her, wondering where she's going with this. "What exactly am I wrong about?"

  "Earlier you said there was nothing left to say, but there is. There always is."

  Sighing exasperatedly, I start unbuttoning my shirt, not bothering with a response. If she has something more to get off her chest, I'm sure she'll say it without any coaxing.

  "Maybe you're not a good man—"

  "I'm not."

  She stalls at my interruption before finishing her thought. "Okay, but that doesn't mean you're a bad man, Naz."

  I pull my shirt off, tossing it aside before looking back at her. "What does that make me then?"

  "A man," she says. "Just a man."

  Her words make me wish I could believe them. It's nice, having her say it, though. "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

  The smile returns a bit. She realizes I'm quoting Hamlet. She's smart. She knows what I'm doing. "So you think you're a bad man?"

  I gaze at her in silence for a moment. "I do."

  "Well, I don't think a bad man would think that," she says. "A real bad man wouldn't see anything he did as bad. He'd feel justified. He'd have no regrets."

  I open my mouth, words on the tip of my tongue, but her sincere expression makes me swallow them back. She's wrong—so very, very wrong. I do feel justified. I have no regrets. I make no apologies. It is what it is. But it's endearing, how much she believes what she's saying, how she truly wants to think I'm not a bad man. But I know I am, and enlightenment doesn't negate it.

  I just accept it.

  She can't, though, and I love her for it. Yet another reason I love this damn woman. Despite everything she knows I've done, despite most of the time hating me, she can't let go of that sliver of hope, that part of her that thought she saw some good in me somewhere. I told her she couldn't change me, but she didn't believe that shit for a second. I wish... I fucking wish... some part of me could let her be right about this.

  Instead of arguing, I return her smile. So misguided, but I appreciate it, and I'll let her keep that wishful thinking, fight to protect the untainted part of her for as long as I can. "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For thinking that."

  Her smile grows a bit more, her shoulders relaxed. She thinks I'm proving her right, but gratitude doesn't erase greed, just like water can't magically wash away all the blood on my hands. You might not see it, but it's there, and it always will be.

  On a whim, I motion for her to come closer, expecting to be shot down, but instead she strolls right over to me. My arms snake around her waist, running along the curve of her ass before my hands slip beneath her shirt, resting on the small of her back.

  Her skin is warm.

  I love touching her.

  "I love you, you know," I say quietly, gazing up at her. "No matter what. I meant that."

  She hesitates, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to find words. Instead of saying it back, she merely whispers, "I know."

  Sleep deprivation is a funny thing.

  There reaches a point of exhaustion when you're just not tired anymore. Drowsiness ceases. You're awake. Alert. The blurriness of fatigue fades away with a strange attentiveness, head clear and eyes wide open.

  They call it catching your second wind.

  It's something that often accompanies death, too… natural death, anyway. When they reach the point where you think they can't take much more, something sparks inside of them, and the end, for the moment, feels much like a beginning.

  Life dangles a bit of hope in front of the most desperate, only to snatch it away afterward.

  I've never witnessed it happen, never been around someone that death took naturally, but I've employed the tactic before. I try to make it clean, and quick, an execution and not an experience, but sometimes the moment calls for a little more. It's fascinating, watching the surge inside of them manifesting physically, relief sparking in their eyes when they think maybe, just maybe, they'll make it.

  Maybe they'll live.

  Maybe they'll survive it.

  They never do.

  I wonder if it's wrong, teasing them that way, or if it's something they ought to be thankful for. I can only imagine how they must feel—the relief, the gratitude, the reverence for life. I wonder how many find God in those seconds, how many feel God for the first time in their mundane lives, as adrenaline and dopamine and all that feel good shit their body stores up releases in one big flood through their bloodstream.

  Whoosh.

  The highest high, brought on by the lowest low. Maybe they think it's a gift, a 'once-in-a-lifetime opportunity' you don't want to miss… or maybe it's nothing more than a cruel trick.

  I'm not sure.

  I don't know how I'd prefer it.

  These are the things I think about when I lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, past the point of exhaustion and well into my second wind. It
has been, what? Two days? Forty-eight hours since I last closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  I'll sleep when I'm dead. That's something my father used to say, something he told my mother whenever she got on his case about working so much. The man never slept either, running on a perpetual second wind every day.

  Life is short, barely a blink for some of us.

  Why waste half of it with your eyes closed?

  I'll sleep when I'm dead.

  Maybe I'm already there…

  Sighing, I turn my head, looking away from the ceiling, and glance at the bed beside me. Karissa is fast asleep on her stomach, facing me, her leg hitched against mine as I lay on my back. Her face is so close that even in the darkness I can make out the splattering of freckles along her nose, more prominent these days because of the sun. She looks so peaceful. I wonder if she's dreaming.

  I wonder how often she thinks about dying.

  Gritting my teeth from the pain, I shift onto my uninjured side, careful not to disturb her. I reach over and push some stray hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear before running the back of my hand along her flushed cheek.

  I think about her dying all the time.

  Leaning over, I press a kiss to her forehead, giving myself just a second to linger, before climbing out of bed. I dress in silence, pulling my clothes on in the dark, and walk out of the bedroom without giving her another look. I head downstairs, grabbing a bottle of water in the kitchen, and stare at the pill bottles on the kitchen counter.

  I still don't take them.

  I leave the house, making sure to lock up, and glance at my watch under the glow of the outdoor lights.

  Five in the morning.

  I don't know where I'm going, or what I'm doing, but I can't stare at that ceiling, can't lay in that bed beside Karissa and dwell on dying anymore. I drive around for a while, letting the darkness consume me, letting the silence swarm me, before somehow ending up in Hell's Kitchen around dawn.

  A hint of light touches the morning sky, the temperate already warm… it's going to be a sweltering day.