Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes #3)

by J. M. Darhower

  "Is that how you decided a major?"

  "Ah, no… never found myself in that position," he says. "Never went to college. Never even graduated from high school."

  "Really? Why not?"

  "There was nothing school could teach me that I cared to know," he says. "I found a better teacher out in the real world. I learned how to survive… how to thrive… and that was what mattered to me."

  "So what do you do for a living? I mean, if you don't mind me asking…"

  "I took over the family business."

  "And what exactly is your family's business?"

  He hesitates, a small smile tugging the corner of his lips. I think maybe he doesn't intent to tell me, but after a moment he simply says, "Produce."

  Produce.

  Like… farming?

  "So, you grow things?"

  "Sure. Well, the workers do… I more so just sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labor, so to speak. Not a bad position to be in."

  "I bet," I say, turning back to my catalogue. "Sadly, I'm a bit lacking on the family front, so I wasn't lucky enough to inherit any business… or anything, really… so I'm on my own here."

  From the corner of my eye, I see his face cloud with confusion. "No family?"

  "Well, I mean, I have a husband." Holding my hand up, I wiggle my ring toward him. "And I've got a father-in-law now. He actually owns this place. Otherwise, no… I had a mother, but she died over a year ago, and my father, well, he was a real piece of work. I never knew him, and he's dead now, anyway, so it doesn't really matter. I heard he had a mother that was still around, but I'm pretty sure she wants nothing to do with me considering she wanted nothing to do with him."

  "And that's it? No brothers or sisters? No aunts or uncles? No cousins?"

  "Nope, no nothing. Not that I know of, anyway. I mean, it's hard to say, considering until a year ago I didn't even know my own last name."

  "How did you not know your own last name?"

  "Long story," I tell him. "But it boils down to my parents changing their names."

  "Like, witness protection or something?"

  "Or something," I mumble. "Like I said, long story, but it doesn't really matter, since I'm a Vitale now. I don't have to worry about whether or not I was ever a Rita to begin with. Family's about more than blood, anyway. That's what my husband says."

  He stares at me.

  And stares at me.

  And stares at me some more.

  He stares at me like he can't quite understand what the hell I'm going on about, and really, I can't blame him. It's certainly a convoluted story. I'm not even sure why I bothered to tell him that much, why I'm even talking to this guy, except that I feel bad for the way I reacted to him earlier.

  Ugh, does it make me an even worse person that I'm humoring his company out of guilt?

  "Fascinating." He holds his hand out toward me. "I'm Lorenzo, by the way, and you are…?"

  I take his hand, shaking it. "Karissa."

  "Pleasure to meet you, Karissa," he says. "You're certainly one interesting girl."

  He lets go, pulling his hand away, and sits back in his chair, tinkering with his watch again when my food is finally delivered. The boy slides it onto the table in front of me, giving me a small smile, before scampering away to deal with others. I look down at my sandwich, my stomach growling, before I glance at the guy across from me.

  I debate for a moment before saying 'fuck it' and pick up my sandwich, taking a bite of it. It's rude to eat before everyone else is served, but it's not like we're here together. We're just sharing a table.

  The food is good, so good I damn near moan. It's an Italian sub, yeah, and maybe you can get them all over the city, but nothing tastes quite like the ones here. Giuseppe cooks with love, and that always rings through with his food.

  I devour it in just a few minutes. Not even five, and the damn thing is gone. Lorenzo sits across from me, not paying attention, acting like I'm not even at the table with him anymore. He pulls out a phone and is typing away on it, texting or emailing or doing whatever the hell it is people who work in produce do on their phones. Getting up, I walk over to the trashcan, throwing my trash away, when the door to the place opens, a breeze filtering through. My eyes look that way just as the door closes, and I see the back of Lorenzo as he disappears outside.

  Guess he got his food to go.

  Sitting back down, I shove the catalogue back into my bag, as the whistling in the deli grows louder, closer to me. Standing up, I put my bag on my back when Giuseppe pops up in front of me. "Did you finally get smart?"

  My brow furrows at the question. "What?"

  "Did you finally get your wits about you and leave my son?"

  "What? No, of course not… why would I?"

  He shrugs. "Saw you sitting here with someone who certainly didn't look like Ignazio."

  "Oh." I'm almost embarrassed and feel my face heat at what he might've thought when he saw that. "No, the guy just needed somewhere to sit, you know, since it's packed in here, so we shared a table."

  "Huh."

  Huh.

  Jesus Christ, I hate that word.

  I hate it when Naz uses it, and it's even worse when Giuseppe does. He sounds like maybe he doesn't believe me, like he thinks I'm lying about that. "I'm serious… he just said he needed somewhere to sit."

  "I believe you," he says, holding up his hands. "It's just kind of funny."

  "What's funny?"

  "The fact that he needed somewhere to sit, yet he didn't even eat."

  "Oh, I guess he decided to take it to go or something. Nothing weird about that."

  "No, except he didn't order anything. He just came in, sat down, and then he left again. That's why I figured he was with you… wouldn't be the first time you brought someone in who refused to eat."

  Giuseppe reaches over, patting my back, and offers me a smile before moving on to some other customer, the conversation dropped. I glance at the table, confused by that, before shrugging it off.

  Guess he just needed to take a load off for a few minutes.

  Doesn't really matter, so I shove it from my mind, heading outside. Cabs linger in the neighborhood, but I ignore them, heading for the subway to take it to Greenwich Village, using the time to think.

  I've got a decision to make, and I've only got an hour left to make it.

  * * *

  "And you're absolutely sure about this?"

  The advisor's voice is skeptical as she regards me across the small, brightly lit office. The fluorescents makes my head hurt, and I squint a bit as I look at her. It feels almost like I'm caught in a pair of headlights and I'm not sure which way to run.

  "I'm sure," I lie, because truthfully? I'm not sure at all. I could be making the biggest mistake of my life. Hell, I probably am making the biggest mistake of my life. I should probably feel shame… I should probably be ashamed… but I feel nothing but a strange sense of relief.

  And, ugh, annoyance at the bright ass lights.

  Really, is this a goddamn interrogation?

  "Well, if you change your mind, Karissa, it can easily be reversed in registration," she says, rearranging my paperwork in a folder before handing it to me, "but otherwise, I suppose we're done here."

  "Thank you."

  I don't wait to hear if she says I'm welcome.

  It has been a weird day, and honestly, at this point, I'm just ready to go home.

  It's five o'clock on the dot, probably the worst time in existence to try to get home to Brooklyn. The streets are crowded, and the subway will be packed. I call the car service as I stroll down the block, toward the nearest intersection.

  "It'll be about a thirty-minute wait," the dispatcher says.

  I sigh, pausing, and glance around at the sea of cabs flying by all around me, most of them darkened, not in service. I'm about to tell her that's fine, that I'll just wait, when a cab suddenly flips its light on right in front of me.

  "Never mind," I tell the dispat
cher, hanging up the phone, as I throw my arm out. The cab halts suddenly and whips over toward me. I jump in the back of it before someone can try to steal the damn thing. Thank God.

  "Brooklyn," I mumble, before rattling off the address, settling into the back. It whips back into traffic, and I glance up toward the front, my brow furrowing. It takes only a second, as my eye gloss over the license hanging from the dashboard, for recognition to dawn.

  Abele Abate.

  I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror, and he smiles softly but says nothing, weaving in and out of lanes as we head south. Traffic is heavy, so I settle into the seat, opening my folder to look over the paperwork.

  Term Withdrawal

  Leave of Absence

  No, I'm not sure about this at all…

  But I've been struggling, ever since everything that happened… struggling to find my footing, to find meaning in any of it anymore. It's hard to walk into those classrooms, to face those people, to know they look at me and think those things about me. So maybe I'm not sure about leaving New York… yet… but I think I'm right about leaving NYU.

  It left its mark on me in the best way possible, but I've left my mark on it, too, and the mark I've left hasn't been beautiful. There's a story I heard, right after I moved into the dorm, about the ghost of a young artist haunting one of the university buildings after he died in it, and I'm not a fool to think I haven't had a part in creating more legends for the future.

  The kind meant to scare others.

  The kind that taints the image of the school I love.

  The kind that turns good things dark.

  Sighing, I glance out the side window as we pass through an intersection. I get a glimpse of the street sign, barely a blurry glance, but my brow furrows at what I see. E. Broadway. We're heading east, through the Lower Eastside, when we should've stayed south, toward the Manhattan Bridge.

  My stomach twists and my heart seems to drop, my chest tightening from that knowledge. I try to keep calm as I glance toward the front of the cab, but panic is surging through me when I meet Abele's eyes.

  "Heavy traffic," he says right away. "Bad accident on Canal, so I'm taking a different route."

  That's logical, I guess.

  Maybe?

  I don't know.

  Fuck, how am I supposed to know?

  What I do know is Brooklyn is south from here, and the cab is pointed in a different direction. And that, Naz would say, is nonsense. Especially considering the driver doesn't look sure about any of this, himself. His eyes are darting between the road and the rearview mirror as he weaves through lanes, looking like he doesn't plan to turn south again anytime soon.

  Glancing behind me, I see a black BMW right on our bumper. There's another one a few cars back. I don't know if they're related, but I know enough to say that being tailgated for any reason is never good.

  Spinning back around, I watch as we near the end of the road.

  Right or left. They're his options. Left, north, will take us up toward the Williamsburg Bridge, while right, south, will take us down to the Manhattan one, where we should've gone to begin with. At this point, both directions put us out of our way, but at least, over one of them, I might make it to Brooklyn today.

  We reach the intersection and I hold my breath.

  Right. Left.

  Right. Left.

  Right. Left.

  He looks like he's going to go left, and swings over into the lane, but at the last second abandons his path and cuts cars off, ignoring the incessant horn blowing as he takes a right. I grip onto the seat, my heart hammering erratically, and look behind me, out the back window. The BMW hesitates, coming damn near to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection. The cab cuts down another street, doing a loop, before driving right toward Corlears Hook Park. He jumps a small curb, driving onto a path, going where I'm pretty fucking sure cars aren't supposed to go. He makes a few turns, cursing under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit…"

  "Look, whatever's happening, I've got nothing to do with it… so please, just let me out… slow down and I'll jump out… just, please…"

  "Shut the fuck up," he growls, whipping the car around. "I'm thinking!"

  He heads right for a concrete building. It's small, but big enough that he can pull behind it, out of view. He throws the car in park, and I go to say something, but there's no time.

  He's not quick enough.

  He's not slick enough.

  Whoever was after him, found him.

  Oh God.

  Before either of us can say another word, before I can try to run, to escape, a car whips around the building behind us, slamming right into the cab. BAM. I jolt, slamming into the back of the seat in front of me, my folder falling, papers scattering all over the cab floor, as my phone goes flying toward the front seat. I blink a few times as my vision goes black. It's only a few seconds before it all comes back to me. My head is pounding… pounding… pounding… and sounds are muffled… but I can see again.

  And what I see nearly makes me pass out.

  Men, dressed in all black, wearing ski masks surround us. Abele, frantic, cursing, locks the cab doors, but it's pointless. It's fucking pointless. A gun aims right at the window, pressing against the glass.

  Abele cries out, but it's barely half a word before they silence him.

  BANG BANG BANG

  Three shots, right to the head, no hesitation, the trigger pulled in quick succession. Glass shatters and blood flies, and I duck my head, curling up in the backseat, letting out a scream. It originates in my chest, and I try to be silent. I try to be compliant. I don't want to die. Fuck, I didn't do anything to deserve this, whatever the hell this is. But it's too hard, and I'm too weak to keep it inside. I scream, and the window above me is shattered, a gloved hand reaching inside, undoing the lock, before ripping the door open so hard he almost tears it off the hinges.

  Strong arms grab ahold of me, pulling me right from the back of the cab, yanking me around like I weigh nothing. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I can't seem to breathe. I'm hyperventilating, as he pulls me back against him, his hand wrapping around my neck, pinning me there, his gun pointed to my temple.

  Another car pulls up behind us. I can't see it, but I hear it… can hear the engine, the doors open, and footsteps against the concrete before a door slams. The guy holding me turns, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my vision blurring.

  I can barely stand on my own two feet.

  "Easy-peasy, boss," the guy holding me says with a laugh. "Told you it wouldn't be a problem."

  I open my eyes, blinking to clear my vision, even though I'm terrified to see. And the first thing I see, beyond the masked gunmen, is a familiar face regarding me. He looks me over casually as he approaches. There have to be maybe five, six guys dressed in all black, but he's still looking laid-back… jeans, t-shirt, sneakers.

  Lorenzo.

  The guy from the deli.

  He says nothing, stepping past me, glancing in the car at the dead cab driver.

  It's gruesome, but Lorenzo doesn't seem bothered by that.

  He turns back to me, looking me over again, and steps closer, so close that I can feel the warmth from his body. It's suffocating. He raises his hand, and I flinch, thinking he's about to hit me, when instead he brushes the hair back from my face. His hand cups my chin, his thumb stroking my cheek. I wince, his finger grazing over what feels like a cut.

  "She's injured," he says simply.

  "Yeah, guess some glass got her when I pulled her out," the guy holding me says. "Not a problem."

  "I told you not to get the girl hurt," Lorenzo says. "Problem."

  Before the man can respond, Lorenzo pulls out a gun from beneath his shirt, aiming it right past me. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He pulls the trigger.

  BANG

  I let out another scream as the masked guy drops. I drop. He takes me down with him, hard. I can feel the blood splatter hitting me as I collapse to the ground in sobs. Oh, God…
I'm so stupid. So fucking stupid. How could I not see him for what he was?

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Naz taught me better than this.

  "Please," I cry, the word breaking when I force it out. Please… please… oh, God, please… "Please don't hurt me."

  "You shouldn't beg," Lorenzo says.

  I can't help it. The word comes bursting out of me again. "Please."

  Lorenzo stares down at me, still clutching his gun. After a moment of silence, he raises a hand motioning past him. All at once, the men disperse. They rush back into the car, and Lorenzo stares at me for another moment, before putting his gun away and kneeling down.

  "I knew your parents," he says. "Carmela and Johnny… I knew them both, once upon a time. And I've got to tell you, sunshine… not having them around? You're definitely better off." He stands up then and steps past me. "Send my regards to your husband, Mrs. Vitale."

  I hold my breath, staring straight ahead, as the cars speed away, leaving me there crouching on the ground, beside a bleeding body. Trembling, I push away from the guy, crawling along the concrete back toward the cab. My legs are weak. There's no way I can stand. I look in the back of the cab, shoving my strewn-about papers around, blood from my hands smearing all over them.

  "Don't look," I whisper to myself, trying to ignore the blood. So much blood. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. I reach under seat, wincing as shattered glass jabs me, and start crying harder.

  I can't find my fucking phone.

  Pulling myself up, I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself on my feet, as I reach around, unlocking the passenger side front door. I move to the front seat, opening the door, and lose it the second I glance inside.

  Dropping to my knees, I heave. It's violent, and my stomach churns, purging everything inside of me. Oh God. Oh God.

  Jesus, fuck, don't look.

  Don't look.

  Don't look at the guy with his head blown off.

  Glancing at the floorboard, relief mixes with the adrenaline in my system when I see the hint of glittery pink peeking out from under the seat. My phone. Snatching it up, I crawl around to the front of the car, away from them, away from it, away from everything, and plant myself in the grass.