Torture to Her Soul

  I shake my head. I don't believe it. I can't. Karissa wouldn't double-cross me. She wouldn't rat me out.

  She wouldn't do that.

  She loves me.

  Ray gathers up the pictures, shoving them back in the envelope before pushing it toward me. "Here, you keep them. Call it a souvenir. I don't need them anymore."

  I ignore them, not breaking eye contact. "What do you expect me to do?"

  "Nothing," he says as he relaxes back in his chair. "Love her or leave her—I don't care. It doesn't matter anymore. You say it's done? Then it's done. I'm not going to tell you to kill her. What happens now is up to you. It's your skin. You do whatever you have to do."

  I snatch the envelope from the desk and stand up, walking out without saying another word to him. I pass the waitress, dropping my bottle right on her tray. Kelvin stands at the entrance to Cobalt, looking at me curiously as I approach. He expects me to go right by without acknowledging him and is caught off guard when I grab his collar and slam him against the wall. It knocks the breath from him, and he inhales sharply, fear shining from his eyes.

  "Don't go near her," I tell him, my voice a low growl. "I don't want to catch you ever following her again."

  "But I was… I mean… he ordered me to!"

  "I don't care," I tell him. "He might kill you for not following orders, but if I catch you within a mile of her, I will kill you. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir." His voice trembles. "Got it."

  She's in the kitchen.

  I stand in the doorway, still, stoic. She's cooking, again. The scent of the food is strong and makes my stomach churn.

  It's not hunger.

  It's sickness.

  She didn't hear me come inside, hasn't noticed me standing here yet, giving me a moment to collect myself as I watch her. She seems at ease. Happy, even. She flits around in front of the stove, wielding a spatula, a smile on her face. I wonder if she's proud of what we have, of what we're building, or if she's only happy right now because she thinks I'm not around.

  I clutch the envelope in my hand at my side, not wanting to believe the evidence it contains. Looking at her, I feel myself ripped in half, my loyalty skewed. Rats die. That's just how it is. Loose lips get sewn shut before they're tossed right off the ship.

  There aren't any exceptions this time.

  There can't be.

  Why do I always have to make her mine?

  I've killed men for less than what these photographs show. I've cut their throats in their sleep for even thinking of talking to the police. But the thought of killing her, of even hurting her, guts me. I may as well stick the knife through my own chest, rip out my heart with my bare hands and watch its last beat. It's been a long time since I invested in someone the way I've invested in her. Last time, it killed me emotionally. This time, it might finally be physically.

  Because failing Ray's test doesn't mean bad marks.

  It means certain death.

  Johnny Rita couldn't kill me, but Ray, I think, could.

  Ray could bring the whole world down upon me.

  And he would.

  It's her life or my own.

  It's crueler than an order.

  He's forcing me to choose.

  Her death would be my fault, my choice, solely on my hands, and I'd have to live with it every day. It would be there in the morning when I awoke and still be there at night when I tried to sleep. I'm a murderer. I won't sugarcoat the label. I wear it with pride. But this?

  This is suicide.

  Karissa turns, startling when she spots me standing there. Gasping, she grasps her chest, dropping the spatula in surprise. She gapes at me, and I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, fear she tries to shove away as she put that smile back on her face. It's forced now, though. There's no more happiness.

  "Naz?" she says. "Are you okay?"

  "Why wouldn't I be, Karissa?"

  "I, uh… I don't know." She reaches down and picks up the spatula again. "You look kind of, uh…"

  "Kind of what?"

  "Upset."

  Upset.

  That's putting it mildly.

  Inside, I'm a fucking mess.

  "I'm fine," I lie. Blatantly. She can tell I'm not fine. "How are you?"

  "Fine." She eyes me warily. "Seriously, are you okay? Did something happen?"

  Did something happen? Yeah, something happened. My gaze shifts to the envelope as I shake my head. "Do you trust me, Karissa?"

  "Uh…" She hesitates, tossing the spatula in the sink. "I'm trying to. I trust you won't hurt me, if that's what you mean, but as far as really trusting you… I don't know. I guess I do. Why?"

  "Just curious," I say, strolling into the kitchen. "And do you think I should trust you?"

  "Of course."

  "Because I started to," I say, "and that wasn't easy for me. It took a lot for me to give you my trust again."

  "I know," she says, her voice quiet. "You can trust me."

  "So there isn't anything you want to tell me?" I ask. "Nothing you want to get off your chest?"

  Her brow furrows at my line of questioning. "No."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "No, nothing." Her expression is full of confusion. "What is this about, Naz?"

  Wordlessly, I stare at her, before opening the envelope and reaching inside. Holding it up, I pull out the top photograph, just far enough for her to see what it is. She stares at it blankly for a moment before her eyes widen with recognition. Her gaze darts straight to me, panicked, that fear returning.

  The knife in my chest is being twisted.

  "Where did you get that?" she asks. "Who took it?"

  "Kelvin. You remember Kelvin, right? The bouncer from the club? I suppose some of those times you felt like you were being watched, you actually were."

  Her eyes widen even further. "You had me followed? You said you didn't. You lied to me!"

  "I lied to you?" I ask incredulously, shaking the photograph in her face. "You told me I could trust you."

  "You can," she says. "That's not what it looks like. I don't know what he told you, but it's not what it seems."

  "It isn’t? Because it seems to me, Karissa, like you got caught talking to the police."

  "I didn't get caught. It wasn't like that."

  "It wasn't? Because I don't remember you telling me about it. I don't remember you coming to me."

  "That's because you were hurt," she says, shaking her head as she turns the stove off, abandoning whatever she's cooking. "Jesus, Naz, you'd just been shot! You had enough to deal with. I was trying to be strong… for you, for me… for us. I was trying, okay? And every time I left the house, every time I went somewhere, those detectives were around. So I talked to them."

  "You talked to them."

  "Yes, when you were injured."

  "When I was injured," I say. "You talked to them."

  "Ugh, stop that!" she growls. "Stop repeating me. I went there because they wouldn't leave us alone. I went there because you were hurt, Naz, because you'd been shot, and I wanted to know what they were doing about it. So I asked, and then they asked me to help you, so I told them what I knew."

  Anger, sometimes, is bitter cold.

  It's harsher than red-hot rage.

  There's the blue.

  "You told them what you knew?"

  "I told them who shot you."

  I step toward her, tossing the envelope beside the stove as I go toe-to-toe with her, backing her up against the counter. "You don't know who shot me."

  "Yes, I do," she says, her voice shaking. I can tell she's trying to hold it together. "I'm not an idiot. Just because you don't tell me things doesn't mean I can't figure them out on my own. I know who shot you."

  "And you told them."

  "I did," she says. "I told them, because it was better than the alternative."

  "What, exactly, is the alternative, Karissa?" I ask, looking down at her. "Tell me why you really did it. Tell me why you talked to the police."

&
nbsp; "I just told you why," she says. "If it went any further, one of you would end up dead. I couldn't just let that happen. So I told them my mother shot you, I reported her to the police, because I'd rather her be in jail than in a grave!"

  These words aren't what I wanted to hear.

  I hoped for a denial.

  A stitch of repudiation that I could cling to.

  I needed her to tell me it was a misunderstanding.

  That she would never talk to the police.

  But she's confirming one of my worst fears.

  "And the other stuff," I say. "Why did you tell them it?"

  "What other stuff?"

  "Come on, Karissa… you just told me you weren't an idiot. Don't act ignorant now. They know things… things they wouldn't know unless somebody told them. Things I did. Maybe I haven't flat out told you about them, but like you said, I don't have to. You can put it all together yourself. So tell me, sweetheart, did you tell them how much of a monster I am? How I killed your father… how I killed your professor?"

  The color drains from her face.

  She knows I did it, but I never blatantly confessed to her before.

  "I didn't say anything."

  "So you didn't tell them I was coming after your family? You didn't tell them about the man at the body shop? You didn't tell them about the man who didn't come home from Vegas with us?"

  "I didn't," she whispers. "I swear."

  "And you expect me to believe you?"

  "Yes."

  "Why would I?"

  "Because I'm telling the truth."

  I want to believe there isn't more, that she didn't spill every dirty detail, but the evidence is stacked against her and she's already confessed to part of it. I want to believe in her.

  I'm not sure I can.

  "I didn't do it," she says. "Whatever they know, it didn't come from me. I didn't tell them anything about you. I told them my mother shot you. That's all. I swear. I wanted to stop all of this. It didn't want anyone else to die! I thought if they arrested her, she'd be safe. I thought you'd be safe. I was trying to save both of your lives!"

  "And you endangered yours in the process yet again," I say, laughing bitterly as I back up a step. I need some room to breathe… to think. Running my hands through my hair, I growl with frustration, trying to purge the aggression that's building beneath my skin. "Do you know what happens to people who rat? Do you know what we do to them? Christ. You're supposed to lawyer up—that's what you do. You keep your mouth shut and they go away. Because that man? Jameson? He doesn't give a shit about me. He doesn't care about your mother, or you. He doesn't care about anything. All you gave him was validation. You gave him the justification he wanted to continue. The only person you helped is him."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "It doesn't matter," I say, cutting her off. "Don't say it unless you mean it. How many times have I told you that? Huh? You said it, and now you have to stand by it. And now I have to…"

  Her voice trembles as she asks, "Have to what?"

  Turning, I head for the door, not answering that question.

  What am I supposed to say?

  Now I have to decide who else will die because of this?

  There are worse things than being alone.

  Being lonely, for one.

  It's torture, being in a room with someone, breathing the same air, but feeling miles away. The isolation you feel, sharing a bed with someone you can't connect with, is insurmountable. Some people get off on casual sex, they relish in the physical pleasure, but that's never been enough for me. I've slept with a few women since my wife died, casual flings that ended as quickly as they started.

  I got nothing out of it.

  Afterward, I'd lie in bed beside some woman as she bathed in a post coital glow, coated in sweat and body fluids, and feel nothing but desolation. Disgust. It reeked of desperation.

  It was always the loneliest moment of my life.

  Until now.

  Karissa's lying in bed beside me, both of us wide-awake. I could reach over and touch her if I wanted, run my rough fingertips along the curves of her soft frame, but succumbing to the temptation feels a lot like surrendering. Sex, with her, always had passion, toeing the thin line between love and hate. Touching her tonight would be dangerous. I could just as easy condemn her as I could forgive her, wrapping my hand around her throat and forgetting to let go.

  Sighing exasperatedly, I sit up, my feet hitting the floor beside the bed. I run my hands down my face. I'm exhausted, physically and mentally, but I'm not going to get any sleep.

  The moment I stand, her voice calls out to me. "Ignazio?"

  Not Naz. Ignazio.

  I think she knows that gets to me.

  "Not right now," I say as I head for my closet. "I can't do this with you right now, Karissa."

  She says something else, but I don't stick around to hear it. I grab a suit and walk out, putting it on and pulling myself together as I head downstairs. It only takes me a few minutes, and I slip on my shoes in the den, grabbing my keys before heading outside.

  I lock the door behind me.

  I need some space.

  I need some answers.

  I need to fucking think.

  It's five in the morning, and there's not too much traffic on the streets as I drive around the outer boroughs before heading to Manhattan. I'm not sure where I'm going or what I'm even doing, ending up in Hell's Kitchen before dawn. I drive through the old neighborhood, the streets I ran growing up. The streets where Johnny Rita was my best friend, where Carmela was like a sister to me, where I fell in love with Maria.

  They're all dead now.

  All three of them.

  Depends on who you ask, I might have all of their blood on my hands.

  I pull the car in a spot along the street and get out but don't bother to feed the meter. I have no change on me. I stroll down the sidewalk, toward the old brick townhouse, oddly a shade lighter than the rest of the places on the block.

  It's dark, no lights on, but it doesn't matter.

  I have no intention of going inside.

  I hesitate in front of it, staring at the chipped paint of the black front door, before I take a seat on the grungy steps leading to it. I sit in silence under the dim outside light, gazing around the neighborhood.

  After a few minutes, the door behind me unexpectedly opens. I don't turn around, don't bother to look. I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. Footsteps descend the steps and pause on the sidewalk in front of me.

  My eyes slowly move up, meeting my father's steely gaze.

  "I've seen you more this summer," he says, "than I saw you the past few years."

  "I didn't come to see you," I say. "I figured you'd be at work already."

  "So, what, you came for your mother?"

  I can hear his anger in that question.

  "No, I'm not going to bother her."

  "So why are you here?"

  I hesitate before deciding to go with honesty. "I don't know."

  He nods, his harsh expression softening, like me not knowing makes perfect sense to him. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his khakis, stained from years of working in them. I gaze at him curiously, surprised he's lingering. I know it isn't because he enjoys my company. He's probably afraid I'll try to break in.

  "Funny, seeing you out here, sneaking around in the dark, given you've always been scared of it."

  The blunt way he says that makes me bristle. "I'm not afraid of the dark anymore."

  "Of course not," he says. "It's not the darkness that's terrifying, it's what you might find in it. And it doesn't scare you anymore, Ignazio, because it is you. You're what's terrifying in the darkness."

  He says it matter of fact, but he doesn't sound scared.

  I don't terrify him.

  To him, I'm just what's left of that little boy, the one who used a nightlight because he couldn't sleep in the dark. I'm a desecrated corpse.

  "Can I ask you so
mething?" I ask my father. He doesn't say anything, but his unchanged expression is as good as permission. "You ever talk to the police about me?"

  "Yes."

  No bullshit.

  No denial.

  I laugh bitterly to myself, shaking my head as I look away from him.

  "They come around sometimes, asking questions," he says. "I tell them we don't know nothing. I know your reputation, Ignazio, but it's not my business to repeat what I hear. That's between you and your maker."

  "You are my maker."

  He scoffs. "You know what I mean."

  "I know," I mutter, leaning back on my elbows. "So you never considered actually turning me in? You've threatened to a few times."

  "I never threatened to turn you in," he counters. "I just protect what's mine. I'm not a coward, Ignazio. You won't harm what I love. But the rest is on you. Has nothing to do with me. I don't seek out trouble. I don't want it. That's why I ask you to stay away."

  Nodding, I push off from the steps and get to my feet. "I probably shouldn't be here."

  I step down, stopping in front of him.

  "Is there a reason you're asking me that?"

  I consider just walking away, but what the hell? I need to get it off my chest, and his opinion of me certainly can't get worse. My father won't hold back and maybe, I think, the brutal honesty is what I need.

  "Karissa, the woman I was with that day..."

  "Johnny and Carmela's kid?"

  "Yes," I say. "She went to the police."

  "She rat on you?"

  "She swears she didn't."

  "And you don't believe her?"

  "I don't know."

  He stands there for a moment before taking a seat exactly where I'd just vacated. "Now answer me something, Ignazio... you say this girl knows the kind of person you are? That she knows the history between you and her parents?"

  "Yes."

  "And she swears she didn't rat on you?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  That question makes me stumble. "Why what?"

  "Why didn't she rat on you?" he asks. "Seems to me she has all the reason in the world to. We protect what we love. So why didn't she rat on you?"

  "That's a good question."

  "Why'd she talk to them? What was her explanation?"

  "She told them Carmela attacked me."