"Yes," I whisper.
One of the last conversations I had with my mother, she mentioned running away there. Maybe she was onto something. It's about as far away from New York as we're going to get without leaving the country.
"Well," he says, "better start packing then."
* * *
Most of my life was spent living out of boxes.
No reason to unpack when, sooner or later, I'd just have to pack it all up again.
I never had much as a child, or even as a teenager, so it wasn't hard, living such a life of simplicity, to pick up in the middle of the night and just walk away. It's easier to disappear, to slip into obscurity, without dragging a lifetime of possessions along.
That's something my mother taught me.
But I have a lot of baggage now... literally, figuratively... and I'm not entirely sure how it'll all fit into our new life. Dozens of cardboard boxes clutter every room of the house, most of them still empty. It's been a few days since we made the decision to move, and I feel like I've been packing constantly since, but I've barely made a dent in any of our belongings.
Truth be told, Naz has accumulated a lot of shit.
Although, okay, whatever, I guess I have, too.
I used to be able to fit everything I owned in three boxes, but now I need more than that for just shoes.
Standing in the den, my eyes scan the massive bookshelves packed full of Naz's books. He's sitting at his desk, half-dressed, a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt. It's barely buttoned, not tucked in, the sleeves of it shoved up to his elbows.
He looks exhausted.
He probably is.
He walks around here, quiet, stoic, distracting himself by cleaning, scrubbing the same shit over and over. It's rare I catch him sitting down, like he is now, but even off of his feet, he still manages to look busy. How the hell does he do that? He's flipping through the newspaper, not paying me any attention, as I stress about how to pack up his books.
"You're stressing," he says, not looking at me, his eyes never averting from the newspaper.
"I'm not."
I'm lying.
"You're lying."
Ugh.
"It's just... this is a lot of books."
"I know."
"We're going to need, like, a billion more boxes."
"What for?"
What for?
What kind of fucking question...?
"For the books," I say. "You have a lot."
He slowly sets his paper down as he looks at me. "Doesn't matter. I'm not taking them."
"What? Why?"
"Because they're not necessary."
Somewhere out there, a bookworm's head just exploded. "How can you say the books aren't necessary?"
"Easily," he says. "They're not."
"I just... I don't even know what to say to you right now."
He laughs lightly, sitting back in his chair to regard me. "There's no point in taking most of it, Karissa. It's all unnecessary... it's just things. I started over from scratch once, and I'm more than happy to do it again."
"So, what, you'd just leave everything?"
"Not everything," he says. "I'd still consider taking you along."
"Funny." I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. "What would we do with it all?"
"Whatever you want."
"What did you do with everything last time?"
"Burned it."
I scrunch my face up at that. "What a waste."
He shrugs. "We could toss it, or sell it, or donate it, or just leave it. I'm not planning to sell the house right now. It can all just stay where it is."
The thought of it all staying here, collecting dust, oddly makes a pang in my stomach start to grow. It's one thing to pick up our lives and relocate them elsewhere, somewhere far away from here… but it's another to just walk away without it all, to leave who we were behind.
"Look," he says, standing up and strolling toward me. "Say the house is on fire, and you've only got a minute to grab what's important to you. What's irreplaceable. What do you go for?"
"This sounds kind of philosophical," I point out. "You're not going to quiz me about this later, are you? Make me write a paper or something? If so, I'm totally gonna fail this. Can I phone a friend?"
A smile tugs his lips. "Just answer the question."
I think about it for a moment. What would I grab if I only had a minute? "Pictures. I don't have many, but I'd like to, you know, keep a few."
He nods. "Understandable."
"Killer," I say. "I'd want my dog."
His cheek twitches. "I'm not surprised."
"You... do you count?"
"No, I'll get myself out."
"Then that's it, I guess."
"Photos and the mutt," he says. "That's what we take along."
I scrunch up my nose at him. "What about you? What would you grab?"
"Nothing."
I look at him incredulously. "Nothing?"
"It's all replaceable," he says, stepping toward me, his hands finding my hips. Leaning down, he kisses me, softly, sweet little pecks.
"Except for me?" I murmur against his lips.
I can feel him smiling against my mouth. "Even you."
Rolling my eyes, playfully scoffing, I shove away from him when he says that, but he keeps a hold on me. Laughing, he gazes down at me, one of his hands drifting from my hip and skimming along my stomach. He presses his palm flat against my shirt, over my belly button, as his eyes shift that direction.
He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.
I can see the flit in his eyes, the spark, the restrained excitement. He's trying like hell not to get his hopes up. Naz isn't the kind of guy who lives his life in a cloud of optimism. He looks at the world and sees the darkness shrouding it. But light is peeking through the cracks in his armor, and it's warming some of that bitterness he's held onto.
"We should get going," he says quietly, "get this all over with so we can move on."
Frowning, I push away from Naz. "I'll get my shoes."
"Good."
"You should probably wear some shoes, too, this time."
"I'm already on it."
Ten minutes later, we've both got our shoes on, the two of us in the car, on the way to Manhattan. I've put it off as long as possible, but the time has come to go in and give my official statement about the attack with the cab. The lawyer told Naz if I didn't show up this afternoon, tomorrow they'd be at my door, prepared to escort me in.
That's the last thing I want.
The police station is busy when we get there. The lawyer is already waiting, a necessary formality, or so I'm told. They lead me back to the homicide division, to a small interrogation room, where Detective Jameson and Detective Andrews already wait.
"Mrs. Vitale," Jameson says, smiling in greeting as I sit down across from him, the lawyer right beside me. "I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to come talk to us today. I know you've probably got more important things to do."
I almost tell him he's welcome, thinking he's genuine, when the lawyer clears his throat, chiming in. "Cut the passive aggressiveness, Jameson. She's here. Get on with it."
Jameson shrugs it off, turning to me. "Let's go over it again. What happened that day? Start with you getting in the cab."
"I got in the cab to go home, I wasn't really paying attention... we were driving for a while, and when I looked up, we were going the wrong direction."
I go through it, leaving out big chunks, but repeating exactly what I told them happened the day in the park. As soon as I finish, Jameson shakes his head, leaning back in the chair, as Andrews scoffs. "You're leaving something out."
"I'm not."
"It doesn't add up."
I go over it three more times. They've got me so flustered I almost slip up. The lawyer realizes it, I think, because when they start to hound me again, he speaks up. "She's told you what she knows. She's given you her sta
tement. We're done."
Jameson reaches into his file and pulls out a blank piece of paper, sliding it across the table. He sets a pen on top of it. "Write it down."
I do.
I write it down.
My hand is cramping and my head is pounding by the time I'm done. I sign the paper, confirming it's all true, before walking out. Naz is sitting in the lobby, impatiently drumming his fingers on the arm of a chair.
He stands up as soon as he spots us.
He knows right away I'm upset. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just..."
I don't know exactly what's wrong.
I feel like I've been raked over some coals.
I want to cry.
Ugh, I'm so damn emotional.
"Typical Jameson and Andrews," the lawyer chimes in. "You know how they are."
We leave, and I'm quiet on the drive back, leaning against the door and closing my eyes, wishing my head would stop pounding. We're almost to the house when the silence is shattered, a song ringing out.
Naz's phone.
He grabs it, looking at the screen, his brow furrowing. I watch him as he hesitates before answering. "Hello."
The call lasts only a minute.
He barely says anything except for a strained, "I'll be there."
When we reach the house, he pulls into the driveway, putting up the garage door, but he doesn't pull the car in. I know it right away. I know he's leaving.
He walks me inside, though. He lingers for a moment. He waits until I'm settled in the den before he drops it on me.
"I've got something to take care of," he says quietly. "You'll be okay here by yourself?"
I hesitate. "Sure."
"If you need me for anything… anything… don't hesitate to call me," he says. "I'll have my phone on me, and I mean it, Karissa… anything."
"I'll be fine." I smile reassuringly. "I'm just gonna pack, maybe start piling some boxes up in the garage so they're out of the way."
"Just don't overdo it."
"Yes, sir."
He nudges me before walking away. I hear Killer faintly growling in the kitchen where he's been sleeping as Naz passes through, but it's feeble, like the dog's not sure if it's worth the effort to give him hell today.
It's ten, maybe twenty minutes later, when I hear the side door from the garage open. The growling picks up almost instantly, but this time the dog pours his heart into it.
That was definitely quick.
"Relax, Killer," I say, walking into the kitchen. "It's just Na—"
Naz.
Not Naz.
Holy shit, it's not Naz.
It takes only a second for that reality to strike me. The kitchen is dim. It's a cloudy afternoon. It's a man, massive, with broad shoulders and a husky build. He's probably six and a half feet of solid muscle. His leather jacket clings tightly to his biceps, like the seams around the arms are going to burst. He's twice of me and not at all my Naz.
It was supposed to be Naz.
Not whoever the hell this is.
He's maybe six feet away from me, not close enough to reach me yet, but he's still too close... too damn close... close enough for me to smell him.
My nose knew something was wrong before my eyes did.
The scent is strong, like he's wearing piss that's been bottled as cologne, a woodsy chemical odor that makes my nose twitch. I get a good whiff and oh god, it's disgusting. It nearly takes my breath away.
My chest burns as panic sweeps through me so fast, so intense, that I almost gag, trying hard not to breathe it in.
I stare at him. One second. Two seconds. Three. He knows I'm here. He's already spotted me. He doesn't seem to be at all feeling the panic I'm feeling. His scruffy face is etched with a nasty kind of calm, his eyes a dark pool that lead to no soul. Some monsters hide in plain sight, wearing a mask around others, but I suspect this guy is the kind of monster that doesn't mind that everybody sees his true colors.
He's not even fazed by Killer's growling as the dog viciously bares his teeth.
A few more seconds... ten, maybe twenty... before he takes a step toward me. That's the only warning I need to send me into motion, fight or flight kicking in. There's no way I could ever take down that hulking figure, so I'm going to get the fuck out of there.
I run.
I turn and sprint from the kitchen, my heart racing wildly, thumping so hard it's vibrating in my ears. He's right behind me, running, looming, as Killer starts barking, lunging at the man. It all goes down too quick. I don't know what's happening. Killer's biting, snapping, attacking the man, but it's not enough to stop him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He keeps coming.
I make it to the front door. The son of a bitch is locked up tight. I fumble with the chains and deadbolts for a second, but there's not enough time to get out that way. I dart a different direction. Back door's also locked, I know. I'll have to go back around to the side door, making my way out the garage.
I run. I fight. Hands grab me, tearing at me, throwing me around to try to get me to stop. He says not a goddamn word. He's grunting and growling in anger, trying to subdue me as he fights off the dog. A kick to the side sends Killer whimpering, but he doesn't retreat, lunging once more. Teeth clamp down on the man's leg, forcing him to let go of me.
He grabs a hold of Killer instead, throwing him across the room, into a living room table, knocking a lamp off. It crashes to the floor, and gives me enough of a distraction and dash out of the room. I run, as fast as my legs can carry me, but I'm no match for his strides. Two steps later, he's on me, grabbing my shirt, yanking me around by it, fisting my hair. I feel a tug on my neck as the chain on my necklace snaps.
He pulls me through the kitchen, limping, and opens the garage door, dragging me outside. Twisting me around by my hair, I flinch, pain ricocheting around my skull, as he forces me to look at him.
"You gonna play nice with me, little lady?" he asks.
I sneer. "I wouldn't play nice if you were the last man on earth."
The second I say it, he pulls out a red handkerchief and shoves it right in my face, covering my nose and mouth. I inhale sharply. Oh God, it burns. It reeks.
That stench.
That's it.
I struggle, I fight him, I try to breathe, but nothing I do can stop the darkness.
I can feel it.
It's coming quickly.
The pink-trimmed house is locked up.
Seems they found a body inside of it just the other night. It managed to grace the newspaper, barely getting a small blurb. Another hoodlum murdered in Bensonhurst.
Nobody seems to care anymore.
It was curious, though... they called it unoccupied. The house was empty when the police arrived. According to them, nobody had lived there for a long time. Lorenzo had moved out fast, right under people's noses, just like he'd move into it without raising any alarms.
Sounds like Lorenzo.
The black BMW isn't anywhere in the neighborhood. I park across the street and get out of my car, but I don't approach the house, standing on the sidewalk instead, waiting.
He'll show his face.
After all, he's the one who called me here.
"Shame, isn't it?" a voice says behind me. "I liked that place."
Turning my head, I spot Lorenzo as he appears on the stoop of an adjacent townhouse. The white cookie-cutter building looks like half the others on the block. "Seems as if you've already moved on."
He glances at the townhouse behind him, shrugging. "Actually had this one first. But that one across the street? I thought it was charming. Nobody was using it, so I figured, hey... why not?"
That, in itself, says all you'd ever need to know about Lorenzo. He takes whatever he wants, and he uses it, and abuses it, and then he walks away when it serves no purpose to him anymore.
"It was too pink for my liking," I tell him.
"It wasn't pink... it was peach," he says. "You must be colorblind."
"Must be."
He steps down onto the sidewalk, coming to a stop right beside me. He's got an orange in his hand, and he casually runs his fingertips along the thick rind. "Did you know oranges show up in something like twenty-two scenes in The Godfather saga? They're symbolic."
"For what?"
"Death," he says, holding his orange out to me. "Violence."
I stare at it for a second before turning away, looking back at the other house. "That makes no sense."
"I think the point is things are what we make of them." He shrugs off my snub and starts peeling the orange. "They mean what we want them to mean. We see what we want to see. Signs are all around us... you just have to pay attention."
"If there's some kind of threat in those words, I'm not hearing it."
He laughs. "No threat. Just making small talk."
"I don't like small talk."
"You never did."
"So why don't you get to the point," I tell him. "I doubt you called me here to share movie trivia."
He laughs to himself. "No, you're right... I called you here to help you out."
"And how, exactly, are you planning to help me?"
He seems to consider that... maybe reconsider... as he throws some of his peel to the ground. "I got a call from a friend down in Florida. He told me something interesting."
"What's that?"
"He's been working with these guys down in Cuba, you know... the import-export business. Started a long time ago, back when my stepfather was still around. They'd smuggle things in, anything there was a market for, and they'd store them at the grove for safekeeping. Made a pretty penny off of it back then."
I know all this.
He's telling me nothing new here.
"These days, there's not such a demand. They still do it, you know, still bring it in, but the way the economy is, nobody wants to pay. But this friend of mine, he's still got a few lucrative clients, guys willing to shell out the cash for something special."
He pauses to eat a piece of his orange.
"You got a point here?" I ask. "If I wanted a lesson on economics, I'd go to business school."
He ignores my comment and waits until he swallows before continuing on. "There's this one particular guy, he's got this thing for cigars... and not just any cigars. He wanted the top of the line, these special Montecristo ones. He was willing to pay a couple hundred bucks each. So my friend, he's been bringing them in every few months, making a killing."
Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes #3) Page 24
