Torture to Her Soul

  "Yeah, well, music never really goes out of style, especially Tupac," she says with a smile. "Now that I did learn from Melody. She knows the lyrics to every 90s rap song, but I don't think the girl would know what the hell an investment portfolio is, regardless of what her father does for a living."

  Karissa goes back to reading then, focusing on the old book. I watch her as she flips a few pages before curiosity gets the best of me. "Why do you like it so much?"

  "Music?"

  "No, Peter Pan."

  "Oh, uh… it's just sort of always been my favorite. Since we moved around all the time, I never really had many friends, never had anyone to talk to. Whenever I got close to someone, my mother would freak out… guess she thought I'd spill who we really were, even though I didn't even know… but she was so afraid of you catching up to us, I guess."

  She doesn't say it with anger. Doesn't say it with sadness. She speaks matter-of-fact like it's just a truth she's come to accept.

  "And there's something magical about the idea of escaping, of never growing up or having any responsibilities," she continues. "When I was young, I thought it was all real, that there was a whole world out there my mother kept me from. I used to open my bedroom window at night, leave it wide open, just in case." She smiles wistfully, her gaze still fixed to the book, although she's not reading anymore. "My mother caught me, though, and told me to stop, but of course I didn't listen."

  "Of course."

  "So yeah, that's when she started nailing all the windows shut," she says. "I always pried the nails back out, though, but I remember getting mad and yelling about how much I hated her for locking Peter Pan out, and she just told me I was being ridiculous. She said if anything were to come in my window, it wouldn't be something from a fairy tale."

  She turns her head to look at me. "Now that we've gone all Freud on my life, why's Twelve Angry Men your favorite movie?"

  "Ah, well, I'm afraid it's not nearly as fascinating of an explanation. It just intrigues me how if you plant a seed, people will cultivate it. It's not hard to get them to believe whatever you want them to believe."

  "You mean like you convincing me you were Prince Charming?"

  "I did no such thing. I told you point blank I wasn't a good man. And I've told you the same thing multiple times since."

  "Reverse psychology," she says. "What did you expect me to think?"

  "I expected you to believe what I said."

  "Yeah, well, actions speak louder than words," she replies. "You say one thing and then do another, and I guess I trusted what you did instead of what you said. I fell in love with the man who swept me off my feet, who acted like I was special to him."

  "You were," I say. "You are special to me."

  "I know." Her voice is flat. "I'm a Rita."

  I stare at her, surprised that she'd say that. She is a Rita, there's no denying that fact, but she's so much more than that to me. You'd think after all this time she'd grasp that fact, considering I tell her every time it comes up, but I get it now, I think. Nothing I say will ever mean more than what I do for her. She watches, like me. She touches, like me. She learns from seeing and not from listening.

  Reaching over, I cup her chin, tilting her head until her eyes meet mine. "Let's go somewhere, get out of this house... out of this city."

  She looks skeptical. "Go where?"

  I shrug. "Wherever you want to go."

  She seems not nearly as confident as I feel about that idea. "I don't know."

  "Come on." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. "We'll spend some time together, no distractions, no worries... just you and me. I'll show you how special you are."

  "I'll think about it."

  With that, she looks away from me again, pulling from my touch to focus on the book in her lap, conversation over.

  Finished.

  Done.

  Karissa concedes.

  It doesn't take much coaxing.

  All I had to say was the magic word: Italy.

  Two days later we're in the back of the town car, bags in the trunk, on our way to the airport. It's early in the morning, the sky outside still dark. Karissa stares out the side window, laughing dryly to herself when we pass the sign welcoming us into New Jersey. "Did you know?"

  I glance at her, raising an eyebrow in question. "Did I know what?"

  "The last time we went to this airport, when I asked you what was in New Jersey and you gave me all those bullshit answers," she explains. "Did you know that's where my parents were? Did you know what was really in New Jersey then?"

  "Ah, no," I say. "I had no idea."

  "Really?" she asks. "Because when I told you where I'd been that day, you seemed to know exactly where the house was… exactly where to find them."

  "I recognized the address."

  "How?"

  "Because I'd been there before," I say, hesitating, not sure if I should go on, but I can tell from her expression she's going to ask more questions if I don't just put it out there. "I tracked your father there years ago."

  "What happened? When you found him, I mean…"

  "Nothing much," I say. "Your mother had already left him, and I wasn't ready to kill him yet. I wanted him to suffer like I had. He ended up settling into his little suburban life while your mother jumped from city to city."

  "Did you ever find her again? Did you find us?"

  "Yes," I say, "but I was always too late. I'd show up after you were already gone, find a few things that your mother left behind, tracks she forgot to cover, but she got better over time. Smarter. I lost her trail about three years ago, after Syracuse, and didn't pick it up again until you showed up in the city."

  Karissa stares at me the entire time I'm speaking, looking me dead in the eyes without flinching.

  It's quiet for a few minutes as she stares at me in contemplation, before she asks, "When did you change your mind?"

  She's looking for an explanation, some sort of revelation that will justify this trust she's giving me. She wants to believe I'm a changed man, that the person she loves isn't the same monster she fears, but I've got not such admissions for her. I am who I am, and I do what I do, and I can't apologize for it.

  But goddamn if that look in her eyes doesn't make me wish I could.

  I wish I could be a better man.

  I wish I could do that for her.

  But I'm not, and I can't, because she's damn stubborn and I'm too fucked up to ever make a difference.

  Wishing is for fools.

  It doesn't change anything.

  "When did I change my mind about what, Karissa?"

  "About killing my mother," she whispers. "About killing me."

  Although her voice is low, it doesn't tremble. My instinct is to ask, 'what makes you think I've changed my mind?' But she speaks like she's fearless and I don't want to make her afraid of me.

  I won't kill her.

  I can't.

  Her mother, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.

  "I'm not sure," I answer. "I don't know when it happened."

  "Bullshit."

  I admire her bluntness and fight off a smile, knowing laughing at the moment will only cause her hurt. There's nothing funny about this situation. "It wasn't what I'd call a conscious decision. I saw you, I talked to you, I took you home with me… took you into my bed… and somewhere along the way I fell in love with you. And when the time came to actually see my plan through, I realized I couldn't do it. I realized I didn't want to. Maybe it happened later; maybe it happened the first time I laid eyes on you. I don't know, Karissa. All I know is it happened, and that's the truth."

  She holds my gaze for a few seconds before breaking eye contact, ducking her head as she turns away to look out the window again. We ride in silence after that, neither of us saying a word the rest of the trip to the airport. She doesn't talk to me when we get out of the car, doesn't talk to me when our bags are unloaded, and doesn't even talk to me as we board the plane. It's smaller
than the one Ray chartered during our trip to Vegas, but it's just the two of us now, so we don't need anything too fancy.

  Karissa veers as soon as she's inside, plopping down in a single seat off to the side by herself. I pause, wondering if I've upset her, before taking a seat across from her, putting some space between us.

  She doesn't look at me. Her eyes are fixed out the window, her elbow propped on the arm of the chair, her chin resting in her palm. I hate it when she drifts away. She looks lost, and I wish I could find her, bring her back where she belongs.

  I exchange words with the pilot, and within a few minutes we're up in the air. I relax back in my seat, stretching my legs out. It's going to be a long flight... a very long flight.

  Over eight hours from gate to gate.

  I watch Karissa as she watches the morning sky. It's starting to lighten outside, but the lights in the cabin are dim, casting her in soft shadows.

  Ten minutes.

  Twenty.

  Half an hour.

  Time drifts away slowly.

  It's an hour or so into the flight before I hear her voice again.

  "Do you regret it?" she asks quietly. "Do you regret loving me?"

  I don't answer. Not right away. I stare at her until she finally turns her head to look at me, until she breaks and can't keep her gaze away a second longer. In her eyes I see apprehension, the kind that tells me my answer might break her the way she once ripped me apart with the word red.

  "I have no regrets," I say finally.

  Her brow furrows. "None at all?"

  "None."

  "After everything you've done, you regret none of it?" she asks. "How can that be?"

  "Because you can't go back and change things once they're done. You can't rewrite history. Dwelling on it, wondering what could've been different, wondering how things might be in a perfect world, is a waste of time. Because this world isn't perfect, life isn't perfect, and it never will be. I'm only one man, and I only have one life, and I'm not going to waste it regretting my decisions and wishing I could change things that can never be changed. Wishing gets you nowhere, sweetheart. Believe me—I know. I wish and I wish and I wish and it doesn't make a goddamn difference. I lost my life in a single moment that a hundred years of regret wouldn't ever give me back. So no, Karissa, I don't regret anything."

  There's something in her eyes, something I don't expect to see: sadness. I don't know if she believes a word that just came from my lips, but it's clear what I said got to her. Her mouth opens, and she hesitates, before whispering, "Did you ever even grieve?"

  "Of course I grieved. I've spent two decades grieving."

  "No," she says, shaking her head. "You spent two decades plotting revenge. That's not the same thing. Anger's just a small part of grief. You can't just get angry and be done with it. You have to really feel it, Naz, or you'll never accept it."

  I can feel my arm hair bristling. She's clawing at me, getting under my skin.

  "You say you don't feel regret about anything, and maybe that's true. But if it is? I feel sorry for you."

  Those words are a punch in the gut. My expression hardens, my muscles taut. "I don't need your pity."

  "It's not pity," she says. "It's understanding. You don't like to hurt, so instead you inflict the pain on others. I get that now. But grief isn't something you can finish; it isn't something with a beginning and an end. Grief is something you absorb, something you accept. But in order to learn to live with it, you still have to live."

  "I am living."

  "You're avoiding," she says. "You're deflecting."

  The more she talks, the more pissed off I get. If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I'd pay a fucking shrink.

  She drops the subject, once again turning to look out the window.

  One hour down, seven more to endure.

  It takes the entire rest of the flight for me to push back my anger, for me to calm down enough to unclench my fists. She sleeps. I just stare at her, mulling over her words.

  As soon as the wheels are on the ground and we come to a stop, I'm out of my seat. Karissa doesn't hesitate. She follows me off the plane, clutching hold of her brand new passport.

  I had to call in a bunch of favors to get it for her.

  We head through customs, flashing our passports, and are waved right through.

  But Karissa hesitates.

  Her feet root into the ground, blocking the line. She stares at the worker in silence, eyebrow raised, her passport still extended.

  The man looks like he wants to strangle her.

  She's an infuriatingly stubborn woman, I know it, but she's my stubborn woman, and my hands are the only ones that will ever wrap around her throat.

  "Timbrare il passaporto," I say sharply, capturing the worker's attention. Stamp her passport. He scowls, digging in his drawer, and pulls out the small ink stamper. He pounds it against the first page in her passport before sliding it back to her.

  "Thank you," Karissa whispers, smiling with satisfaction as she starts to walk away. I nod my appreciation, and he returns the gesture before moving on to the others behind us.

  He just waves everyone else through.

  There's a car waiting in front of the airport, a driver holding a sign with Vitale printed on it. We're staying at a hotel deep in the middle of Rome, just a few floors tall with a handful of rooms, small but luxurious, the kind of place where you get privacy but all the amenities you'd ever want.

  Home away from home.

  As soon as we step inside the hotel, I'm greeted with warm smiles and kind Italian words. I catch most of what they say even though I'm distracted, my attention continually drifting to Karissa.

  She seems awestruck.

  Eyes wide, curious and cautious, as they drink in our surroundings. We're led up to our suite on the top floor, and I'm trying to shove back my hostility so not to put off their hospitality, but I'm aggravated and exhausted and I'd much rather be left alone right now.

  As politely as I can, I tell the workers to go the fuck away, shutting and locking the door behind them.

  The suite is fairly big, given the modesty of the place: an open sitting room with couches and chairs, a fireplace and a television opposite a small kitchen, a large marble bathroom, and a bedroom with a king sized bed and access to a private outdoor terrace.

  Karissa explores while I head straight to the bedroom and unpack my things in the small walk-in closet, feeling a bit better once I've found some order, some sense of control in my surroundings. I'm putting my last suit on a hanger when Karissa comes in.

  She pauses near the doorway, leaning against the wall as she gazes into the closet, looking at me. I cut my eyes at her, meeting her stare.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," she says.

  I scoff, smoothing the dark material before hanging up the suit. "Yes, you did."

  "But—"

  "You meant every word of it," I say, stepping out of the closet toward her. "Never take back something you meant. I'd rather you offend me intentionally if it's something you believe than lie to my face just to placate me. I might not like what you say, but you're one of the few I respect to say it. Don't ruin that by taking back your words. Own them. Respect me that much."

  "Okay."

  That's it.

  That's all she says about it.

  Okay.

  She's still looking at me.

  My anger still hasn't waned.

  I turn, prepared to walk away, when she lets out an exasperated sigh. "How long are you going to stay pissed?"

  "Who says I'm pissed?"

  "Me," she says. "I say you're pissed."

  I turn back to her, surprised she's pushing this issue, that she's pressing these buttons she knows better than to press. "You sure you want to do this right now? You sure you want to have this conversation?"

  "Yes."

  No hesitation.

  No second-guessing.

  She stares at me, awaiting an explanation.

 
Fair enough. I'll give her what she wants.

  "I'm going to stay pissed for as long as I am pissed," I tell her. "And I'm going to keep getting pissed as long as life keeps pissing me off."

  "Maybe when you're done being pissed about it all, you'll finally let yourself start grieving what you lost."

  "I have grieved."

  "You're not supposed to lie to me."

  Her accusatory tone sets me off. She thinks I'm a liar? That I lie to her? That's what she thinks of me? I've been teetering on a knife-edge all damn day and she just pushed me too much, too far, too fast.

  Before she can react, I grab ahold of her, pinning her against the wall, my body flush against hers, my hand around her throat. She gasps loudly, startled, the sharp inhale sending shivers through me, gunning straight for my cock.

  I'm hard. Instantly.

  I don't squeeze, my fingers resting at her jugular, forcing her to look up at me. I can feel her pulse. Her heart beats wildly. I restrain her there, staring down at her, tip of her nose to the tip of my nose. Her breaths are unsteady, her hands shaking as they grasp my forearms.

  I wonder if she's terrified or turned on...

  She could get away if she wanted, weasel from my grasp without much effort, but she doesn't move. Her eyes shine brightly, wide and alert, regarding me with anticipation.

  Staring at me with expectation.

  It's not a rebuff, as she shoves against me, her chest hitting mine. No, it's an invitation.

  No way will I decline.

  I shove her roughly against the wall again, pulling her head up further, forcing her onto her tiptoes. I smash my lips to hers, kissing her hard. Her hands claw at my forearm, nails raking against the skin, but it's just for show. She fights my presence but keeps me there, gripping tightly so I can't break away, as she kisses me back.

  The chills roll through me like waves, tingling from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet, making my cock throb in between. I'm pulsating to the rhythm of her heart as it pounds against my fingertips.