She glances at me when I speak. "Do you want me to step out?"
"No," I say, standing up. "You keep doing whatever it is you're doing. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I use the side door and head out into the empty garage, making sure to shut the door behind me. I pace the cement, toeing a small oil stain in the middle of the garage, pondering what could remove it as I call a few connections. I put the word out that I'm looking for a Jeep Waggoner, giving them the license plate number in case it will help with verification.
"Fifty grand," I tell them, nearly cringing at my own offer. It's a hefty amount to pay as a reward, but I'm hoping it'll entice them to scrutinize every car they pass. "Nobody confronts her. Nobody touches her. Fifty grand for an address, and I'll handle the rest myself."
I put the word out to about a dozen heavy-hitters, people I've trusted in the past to keep things quiet while getting the job done. I hang up for the last time thirty minutes later and slip my phone in my pocket as I head inside, going straight for the laundry room to get some detergent.
Tide.
I scrub the stain in the garage for damn near an hour, on my hands and knees. I don't stop until every spec of it has faded, my hands scraped and bleeding from the concrete rubbing them raw. Afterward, I head back inside, going upstairs to shower, to wash away the remnants of the day.
Once I'm clean, I make my way back downstairs wearing only a pair of gray sweats. I hear noise in the kitchen, the banging of pots and pans.
Karissa's cooking.
I step in the doorway, pausing, and lean against the doorframe to watch her. She seems more confident now than before, moving around fluidly, those earbuds in her ears. The counter is covered with supplies, a pot of something boiling on the stove, a cast iron skillet sitting beside it.
She turns, her gaze briefly flickering my way as she heads for the fridge. She pulls out a stick of butter and sets it on the counter, turning my way once more, offering a small smile. It's cautious, wavering as she pulls the earbuds out and drapes them around her neck.
Her mouth opens, and closes, before opening yet again.
I know what she's going to ask before she can even find the words to say anything.
"Are you, uh…?" She pauses, her expression hopeful as she motions toward the stove. "You wouldn't happen to be hungry, would you?"
"I might be," I say tentatively.
"Well, I thought I would… that I could… you know… make something."
My gaze shifts from her to the mess she has already made. "I see that."
She doesn't come out and ask me.
She says nothing else, matter of fact.
She turns away, going back to what she was doing, but leaves the earbuds out so she can hear me, in case I have something to say. I watch her for a few minutes as she tosses cubes of potatoes into the boiling water, watching as she pours some oil into the frying pan. After she has going whatever it is she needs on the stove, she grabs some iceberg lettuce from the fridge and slaps it down on the counter, on top of a chopping board.
She grabs a small, serrated steak knife and jams it down the center of the head of lettuce. She yanks it back out, and I cringe, shaking my head as I push away from the doorframe. She tries another tactic, going at it from the side, and barely misses stabbing herself with the knife.
"What are you doing with that lettuce?" I ask, strolling over to her, plucking the knife right out of her hand before she severs a finger. "Other than massacring it, obviously."
She glares at me, trying to grab the knife back, but I move it out of her reach and toss it in the sink.
"I'm making a salad," she says, grabbing the large bowl from the counter and waving it toward me as if to make her point. "Or I'm trying to, anyway."
"Trying is right," I reply, reaching past her and grabbing a 10-inch straight edge Chef's knife. I wave it toward her, taking a page from her book. "This is the knife you should use."
I flip the head of lettuce over, cutting off the end, and remove the outward layer, tossing it in the trashcan. I cut what's left straight down the center before sectioning it into quarters, quickly cutting it into smaller pieces and tossing them into her bowl. It's finished in under a minute and I turn to her, raising an eyebrow. "What else you got?"
She's still just standing there, gaping at me. It takes her a moment to respond. "Uh, um… here."
She grabs some tomatoes and sets them in front of me.
I dice them quickly, getting rid of the excess juice and seeds, and toss the tomatoes into the bowl. Before I can say a word, Karissa drops some cucumbers in front of me. I stare at them before cutting my eyes at her, seeing the smile playing on her lips as she turns her focus on the pot on the stove. She keeps shoving vegetables my way, even after the salad is done. Onions and green peppers, fresh thyme and oregano, things she needs for whatever she's cooking.
When all that is done, she sets a block of cheese on the counter. I eye it peculiarly before cutting it into perfect cubes. "What's the cheese for?"
"Dunno," she says, reaching past me and grabbing a cheese cube, popping it in her mouth. "I just like watching you do that."
Laughing, I toss the knife in the sink, stopping before she invents something else for me to cut up. "My father showed me how to use a knife when I was a kid. I spent my summers in the back of the deli with him."
"That's sweet," she says.
"It's only because I was free labor. He was too cheap to ever hire anybody."
"Still, I'm sure it was nice getting to spend time with him."
"Yeah, it was," I concede, wiping down a section of counter, cleaning up my mess. "It was the only time he ever recognized me for something good. Usually it was 'Ignazio, you disappoint me' or 'Ignazio, be a man', but those days he'd look at me and say, 'Ignazio, my son, you did good today'. It was nice to hear that."
"So he taught you how to cook?"
"He did."
"So why don't you?" she asks. "If you're worried about everyone poisoning your food, why don't you just cook for yourself?"
"Good question," I say. "Maybe I've got a death wish."
Before she can respond, I give her a smile and walk away. "I'll be in the den if you need anything, Karissa."
She doesn't stop me.
I'm thankful for it.
A few minutes pass—five, maybe ten—before I hear her cursing. Seconds later, I faintly smell smoke. Sighing, I lean back in my chair, hands clasped on the back of my head, my eyes closed.
I don't know what's happening, but I'm sure she can handle it. If not, she knows where I am.
Eventually, her cursing tapers off, and all goes quiet. I get lost in the peace for a moment until I hear her voice. "Naz?"
Opening my eyes, I look at her in the doorway. The tentative expression is back. "Yes?"
"If you're hungry, the food is finished."
She fidgets like a nervous child awaiting punishment. I nod in acknowledgement. "I'll be there in a minute."
It's a small concession on my behalf, but to her it's everything. Her face lights up, eyes sparkling. I get a glimpse of her radiant smile as she leaves the room, easing my worries.
I'm offering her my trust again.
When I walk into the dining room, she's already seated at the table, in the same chair she always sits in with or without me. I take the seat across from her, eyeing our plates warily. Steak with loaded mashed potatoes and a bowl of salad.
"We can switch plates, if you want," she says quickly. "Or not, either way. We could even go halfsies, you know... like, share."
"It's fine," I say, pushing back my natural paranoia. "So you made steak."
"It's your favorite," she says. "I remember you telling me that."
"It is."
I pick up my fork and knife and immediately cut into it. The outside is seared nicely while the inside is dark pink, borderline rare.
"I wasn't sure how you like it, and well, honestly, I don't think I could cook it a specific way. I had
all these notes but when it came down to it, I kind of just threw it on and hoped for the best."
I cut off a small piece and pop it in my mouth.
I don't think she could ever look happier than she does at the moment. She takes a bite of her own, chewing as she tries to contain her smile. There's nothing sinister about the pull of her lips.
We eat and chat, like a normal couple doing normal things. I've eaten meals personally prepared by world-renowned chefs, but none ever meant quite as much as what's on my plate. She poured her soul out and offered it up, and it isn't perfect, but it was made for me.
I don't waste any of it.
I crack open a bottle of wine afterward and we drink heartily, the alcohol loosening her lips as she relaxes, talking about any and everything. By the time the bottle is empty, she's pretty well lit. I can see it in her eyes as they glisten under the lights of the dining room.
She gets up to take care of our plates but I reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her before she can take them away. Prying the dirty plates from her fingers, I shove them down the table, ignoring her feeble protests as I pull her onto my lap. She straddles me, her skirt riding up, her arms wrapping around my neck. My hands graze her knees before slowly running up her thighs, settling just beneath the material of her skirt as I lean forward, softly kissing her.
Her lips taste bitter, like the wine she drank.
But her words are sweet as she whispers to me.
"I love you, Naz," she says, the declaration barely a breath that I greedily inhale. "God help me, but I do. I love you."
It's the first time she's said that to me in months.
My left hand finds home on her hip, holding her there, while my right grazes the spot between her thighs, slipping beneath the fabric to stroke her clit. She moans into my mouth, kissing me hungrily, her fingers running through my hair. She's warm, and slick, my fingers caressing her before sliding right in. Her hips shift as she grinds in my lap, seeking more friction. I happily give it to her.
"That's it," I tell her as she fucks my fingers, my thumb stroking her clit every time she moves. "Take what you want from me."
She whimpers, her eyes closed, her pace increasing. "More."
"More what?" I ask, my lips finding her neck. "Tell me what you want."
"You," she whispers, her voice strained. "I want you."
"What part of me?"
"All of you."
I smile against her skin, nipping at her throat when she tilts her head back. "I'm right here, baby, and I'll give you anything you want. All you have to do is tell me what it is."
Her breath hitches when my thumb presses harder, rubbing her clit faster. She's getting close already. The woman has buttons I'm an expert at pushing, my hands tuned to every inch of her body. Just a few more strokes send her barreling right over the edge. Her body tenses, her face contorting with pleasure as she stutters out my name.
Standing, I lift her up and plant her right on the table, pushing her back onto it. She doesn't resist, her eyes opening and meeting mine as I grip the sides of her panties and pull them down her legs. I toss them on the floor and drop to my knees, knocking the chair away. My mouth meets her pussy, my tongue sweeping along her entrance before plunging in, tasting every bit of her.
It's Heaven.
She grinds her hips as her hands drift to her breasts, clutching them like she's holding on for dear life. I touch and caress, licking and sucking, fucking her with my tongue, driving her right back over the edge.
Once she relaxes from her second orgasm, I rise to my feet and stare down at her, splayed out on the table. Leaning down, I kiss her mouth, unable to stop my grin when her tongue sweeps along my lips.
"Thank you for dinner," I tell her, my hand stroking her outer thigh. "But I especially love dessert."
She grabs ahold of me when I try to pull away, wrapping her arms around me tightly. "I want you."
"I heard you before."
"I want you inside of me," she says, a flush overcoming her cheeks. "I want all of you, yeah, but right now I want you to fuck me."
Smirking, I pull her hands from around my neck as I peck small kisses on her mouth. "Whatever the lady wants."
I fuck her, right there, on the table. Fuck her on her back, on her side, on her stomach. I fuck her so hard her squeals turn to screams, then I fuck her slow and deep, moving agonizingly. She falls apart all around me, under me, over me, the tiny little threads that hold her together unweaving, leaving her stripped down to the core. She's uninhibited, intoxicated, and she's vulnerable to my touch.
I fuck her like I've never fucked her before.
And then I take her upstairs and I fuck her some more.
Afterward, we lay in bed, her body draped around mine, not a stitch of clothing covering either of us. Our skin glows from sweat and satisfaction under the gleam of moonlight streaming through the window. My fingertips absently trail her bare back, blindly drawing shapes around her scattering of freckles, as she sleeps soundly, her head on my chest. She doesn't even stir when my phone starts beeping on the nightstand beside me, somebody calling.
Carefully, I reach over and pick up the phone, glancing at the screen. Unknown Caller. I hesitate before answering on a whim. "Yeah?"
There's a moment of silence before a vaguely familiar voice comes on, one of the guys who runs point in upstate New York. "You know that call you put out earlier?"
"Yes."
"Well, I found her," the man says. "I'm looking at the car right now."
I hesitate, glancing down at Karissa, ensuring she's still fast asleep. Just a few hours. That's all it took for her to be found. She evaded me for years, but she's not running anymore.
I killed her husband.
I took her daughter.
I knocked her feet out from under her.
"Text me the address."
"Sure thing," he says. "And, uh, about that reward…"
"The minute I get what I need, you'll get what you want. Got it?"
"Got it."
I hang up, slipping the phone back on the nightstand. I don't look at it when it beeps with a text message. I don't want to know right now. Not today. Just one more night is all I need. One more night where I can pretend I don't have to do what it is I have to do. One more night of a clear conscience. Because come sun up, when I have to face reality again, I know I'm going to have to do the one thing I promised I wouldn't do.
I have to intentionally hurt Karissa.
I have to kill her mother.
Gathering her hair, I push it away, out of her face, as I rouse her from sleep. "Karissa," I whisper, shaking her slightly as I shift around in the bed. "Wake up, sweetheart."
She stirs, opening her eyes, and blinks a few times as she looks up at me. A sleepy smile overcomes her lips, that happiness coating her face. Blissfully ignorant. I remember how that felt. I envy it, for the moment.
I want it for myself again.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
"Nothing," I tell her, shifting her beneath me so I can hover over her beautiful frame. "There's absolutely nothing wrong. How could there be? I have you."
I didn't think it was possible, but her radiance grows. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me to her for a kiss, as I settle between her legs. I'm hard already. Again.
I push inside of her slowly, holding her tightly as I do, listening for the sound of her breath. The gasp of pleasure washes through me and I shiver, nuzzling into her warm neck.
I don't fuck her this time.
I can't.
I don't want to.
I make love to her, pouring my soul out to her like she did for me this afternoon. I trail light kisses everywhere I can reach, whispering how much I love her, the words ghosting across her skin. My nose brushes against hers as I stare into her eyes, drinking in the innocence.
"There's something about you," I say quietly. "Something I've sought for a very long time."
Her smile wavers,
her expression sobering. "I've heard those words before."
"I know you have." I'd told her this exact thing the night in her dorm room. "And now that I've found it, Karissa, I'm not sure I can let it go."
She reaches up, brushing her hands through the hair that wisps across the forehead, before she cradles my face. "Then don't."
The injury therefore that you do to a man should be such that you need not fear his revenge.
The quote from The Prince has always been one of my favorites. I've lived my life by it for as long as I can remember. It's a lesson I learned through experience, through bloodlust and bloodshed. It's a lesson that has kept me alive and led to many other deaths.
If you're going to hurt someone, make it fatal.
Don't wound. Kill.
Don't let them walk away.
It's a code those in the old country live by—you don't just kill a man, you kill his whole family. Orphaned sons grow up to be vengeful men. Widowed husbands come looking for blood eventually.
I sit in my car, once more in the small town of Dexter, just a few miles to the west of Watertown. My vintage copy of Machiavelli's book lies open in my lap as I thumb through the warped, water damaged pages in the darkness. I couldn't believe it, when I looked at my phone this morning and the familiar address of the flower shop in Watertown greeted me.
Carmela went back home, it seems.
I'm curious why, and I have a few theories: maybe because it's the only place Karissa would know to look for her mother, or maybe it's because Carmela has nowhere else to go. But I think it's more complex, like maybe she knows what's coming, and when it happens, she wants it to be on her terms.
She has the upper hand here.
Or so she thinks.
Through the woods, I can see the house. The Jeep Wagoneer was abandoned at the shop in town, the doors all locked up. I'm not sure if she went back here or not, but she's in the area somewhere, and I don't know where else she'd go at night.
She has no money.
She had no friends.
She probably wouldn't expect me to bother looking here, since I'd already cleared her out of the place.
I linger for a while, just biding my time, watching the house as my hands stroke the cover of the book. It's all quiet, and dark, appearing abandoned, and I'm close to second-guessing myself when there's movement in the yard. Shadows move, the grass disturbed, seconds before a faint bark cuts through the silence.