"Good for him."
"Good for me, too," he says. "He still runs it all through the grove, so I get a piece of it... and dare I say, I think it's good for you, too."
"Are you trying to recruit me? If so, you're wasting your time."
"This isn't a sales pitch."
"Then get to the point."
He shakes his head, eating another wedge of the orange. "This client of his lives here in New York. Old guy, high profile, been smoking these particular cigars for years, since back in the day, when he got them from my stepfather. He's a bit of a recluse, though, doesn't like to go out, so he sends someone else to pick them up for him and deliver them straight to his house in Long Island."
As soon as he says that, I know exactly who he means. There's only one man around who would sell his soul for a decent Cuban. "Genova."
"Bingo."
He stops there, like any of this even means anything. So, what? His cigars are illegal? What about the man's life isn't? "Well, I appreciate the info. If I ever want to buy him a gift, I know where to get it."
I turn, annoyed, and take a step toward my car. I don't have the patience for this. He's wasting my time.
"Whoa, you're not going to ask the magic question?" Lorenzo looks at me, cocking an eyebrow. "Not going to ask who he sends to pick them up?"
"Okay, I'll buy it... who?"
"A big guy, I'm talking massive. My friend says he's got a memorable name, like that guy in some sitcom, but he goes by the nickname of—"
"Fat Joe."
Son of a bitch.
Again, he smiles. "Bingo."
I wish I could say I was surprised, or even that I was disappointed, but this is right up Genova's alley. The bastard has been toying with me.
"I need a favor, Lorenzo."
"I just did you one."
"I need another," I say. "I want a meeting with the five families."
"And you think I can help you with that?"
"I think you think you can," I say, "and that just might be enough to make it happen."
He considers that as he tosses some of his peel to the ground. "I'll see what I can do."
I knew he would.
Curiosity will always win out when it comes to Lorenzo. Besides, I'm sure he enjoys the challenge. That's why he's here, after all, why he even made the move to New York City. He does what the world tells him is impossible to do. Maybe it's just a game at this point, or maybe he's out to prove something to himself. To prove he's not one to ever back down.
It isn't going to end well for somebody, that's for certain.
I don't want to stick around and watch it play out.
But people, they're making it hard for me.
They're making it hard for me to live my life.
"So," Lorenzo says after a moment. "What do you want this meeting for?"
I glance at him. "I guess you'll find out."
Sudden noise breaks the silence. My phone. I pull it out of my pocket and glance at it, my muscles tightening. Her name is flashing on the screen. Karissa.
I press the button to answer and bring it to my ear. "Karissa? What do you need, sweetheart?"
Silence.
It's deafening.
It screams louder to me than any words.
"Karissa?"
Still nothing.
All at once, I know it's not her. It's like a feeling wafting through the line, the air wrong, too tense, too heavy. Someone is there. I can sense it. Someone's listening, someone's breathing, someone's existing on the other end of this call.
But it's not her.
Not again.
"Who is this?"
I don't expect anyone to answer me.
And for a moment, they don't.
But after a strained breath, a long exhale, I hear the words. "You're lucky I don't feel like killing anyone today."
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away, staring at it as the call ends. You're lucky I don't feel like killing anyone today. I know those words. I've said them. I can feel the blood drain from my face, can feel it rushing through my body, bitterly cold, replaced by an ice in my veins.
"Ignazio, you okay there?" Lorenzo asks. "You're looking kind of pale."
My vision blurs. Everything goes black around the edges.
I sway, damn near passing out, as it all seems to hit me at once.
Anger. Fear. Adrenaline.
It rushes through me, a toxic cocktail of emotion that nearly knocks my feet out from under me. Lorenzo reaches out, grabbing a hold of my arm, but it's too much. He's touching me. His tainted hands are on my skin.
I snap.
Grabbing him, I throw him back against the townhouse so hard he gasps from the surprise of it all. The orange drops from his hand, rolling along the sidewalk, as I pin him there. He doesn't fight. He doesn't struggle. He just stares at me, his expression blank, like he's not bothered at all.
"So help me God, Lorenzo, if this was all you…"
I can't even finish those words.
If this was all just a game.
A ruse...
I shove him again, knocking him hard against the brick, before I turn around and walk away, moving as fast as my legs will carry me. By the time I reach my car, I'm already at a sprint.
I drive home, speeding through the streets. It's dreary out, middle of the afternoon, but the darkened clouds make it feel much later. Everything is cast in gloomy shadows. It makes the hair on my arms bristle.
Everything feels hollow, more silent in the dark.
I pull the car into the driveway when I make it home, and throw it in park before pausing, my hand gripping the key in the ignition.
The garage is wide open.
The side door is, too.
My hair bristles even more.
Cutting the engine, I reach under the seat, feeling around for War & Peace. I get a grip on it, pulling it out, and flip the pages open, grabbing the concealed gun.
The first thing I notice, when I step into the garage, is the blood on the concrete. No. No. No. It's not much, a few drops, but it doesn't belong here. It's not mine, and I hope like hell it's not Karissa's, but the alternative is there's somebody else here bleeding.
And I don't like that just as much.
I step through the side door, right into the kitchen. The second I do, I hear the faint growling. It's weak and strained, over in the corner. My eyes dart that way, my stomach dropping when I see Killer.
He's cowering there, blood on his face. I don't think he's injured—not seriously, at least. He seems to be in one piece, but somebody else might not be. Carefully, I reach into the cabinet, quietly grabbing a few treats. I toss them to him, and he quiets to a whimper, but he doesn't eat them.
Not this time.
"Stay in the kitchen," I tell him. "Stay quiet."
Will he listen? I don't know.
I don't even know if he understands.
But if there's a chance anyone else is still in the house, I'm not ready to alert whoever it is to my presence.
The living room is wrecked. A lamp is knocked over, lying on the floor. Scanning the area, something shiny catches my eye, and I step toward it, looking down at it.
My world stops.
A necklace.
Karissa's necklace.
The one I gave to her.
The chain is snapped, the round crystal pennant reflecting the little bit of light streaming into the room. She never takes it off. She wouldn't take it off. She certainly wouldn't leave it here, broken, on the floor.
Not unless she didn't have a choice.
Reaching down, I pick it up, holding it up by the chain to eye the thing.
Carpe Diem.
I grip the necklace tightly, fisting it, as I tear through the house, looking for her. There's no more blood, and the rest of the house is in order, but there's no sign of her anywhere.
No fucking sign of her.
My hands are shaking. Anger merges with fear until the red I se
e turns blue. I feel cold. A shiver tears down my spine.
They're not going to take another life from me.
They can't have my wife.
They can't take her.
They can't steal my happiness.
I'm not going to let them.
Not now. Not ever.
Not again.
Not again.
"What happened?"
The sudden voice behind me makes my back stiffen and my grip on the gun tighten, but I don't turn around. I don't look at him. I didn't hear him sneaking up, but I'm not at all surprised he's here. Not surprised that he followed me.
"My wife," I say, my voice strained. "Somebody took her."
"Uh-oh."
Uh-oh.
Lorenzo says 'uh-oh', like that's an adequate response to what I just said. He'll be lucky if I don't give him a 'boo-boo' in the form of a fucking bullet to the head.
"For the record," he says, "it wasn't me."
"So you say."
Tucking the gun into my waistband, I pull out my phone, hoping like hell Karissa's is still on, wherever it is, so I can locate it.
"Look, Ignazio," he says. "I don't know how many times I've got to say it. I've got no reason to target you, or your father, or your wife, for that matter. It's not me."
The phone connects, and I look down at it, staring at the address.
It's an address I know… a place I've been to before.
"You want me to believe you, Lorenzo? You want me to trust you?" I start toward him, pausing right in front of him. "Then get me my meeting, like I asked."
I shove past him, hearing him call after me, following me out of the house. "Where are you going?"
"To get my wife back."
"How do you know where to look?"
I hold my phone up. "I've got a map."
"A map?" He laughs. Laughs. "You ever feel like Admiral Ackbar with the Death Star plans?"
I look at him, brow furrowed.
"You know... Return of the Jedi? It's a trap!"
I shake my head.
"Really? Nothing?" He scrunches up his face as if I disgust him. "How are we even friends?"
"We're not."
"Look, I'm just saying—"
"You're saying it's a trap."
"I'm saying this is awfully convenient, so either you're dealing with a bunch of idiots, or yeah... it's a trap. And these guys… they're not exactly brilliant, but they're not stupid, either."
He's saying nothing I'm not already thinking.
But it doesn't matter… I've got no choice.
Trap or no trap, I've got to go.
"Just get my meeting, Lorenzo."
He nods, walking out. "It's as good as got."
Killer tries to follow me when I leave, but I lock him in the house. If he gets loose, if I let something happen to him, Karissa will be distraught when she gets home.
Because she's coming home.
She is.
I'll destroy the whole world to make sure it happens.
And I know where to start.
It's dark.
So dark.
But the darkness wasn't gradual.
It was a sudden plunge into blackness, like the light was siphoned from around me. Gone. I was at home, terrified, fighting, then blink, and I'm here.
I don't know where here is.
The terror still flows through my veins.
Where the hell am I?
Scarce windows surround me, covered with old bars, the glass so grimy they might as well be tinted. I can't see out of them, and I know it's just as impossible for anyone to see in. I woke up lying on a cold concrete floor, pressed against a wall in the darkness.
It's like being trapped in a void.
A dirty, disgusting void. Ugh.
My vision is fuzzy.
The air smells funny.
My head is pounding like a fucking bass drum.
I came to just a moment ago... or maybe an hour ago, I don't know. It's all a big haze. Forcing myself to sit, I blink, and blink, and blink some more, trying to make sense of my surroundings, trying to push back my fears, but it's not helping.
Nothing is helping.
I'm confused.
"You must be confused."
The voice across the room startles me and I flinch, letting out a gasp of air, a shuttering breath. My chest burns, and I inhale sharply in response, as my eyes trail the sudden movement across the room.
A guy.
The guy.
The one who was in my house earlier.
He stands in the shadows on the opposite side of whatever room this is, watching me. Oh God. He looks like a beast. He's staring me down, awaiting some sort of response to what he just said, but I can't get my voice to work yet.
Fuck, I can barely think.
He gives up waiting on me to answer and takes a step in my direction, his leg almost buckling as he does. "Don't hurt yourself trying to remember what happened. If you want to know, all you've got to do is ask."
"Who are you?"
My voice cracks, the question quiet when it leaves my lips on a shaky breath. He hears it, though, and limps even closer. He's injured. There's blood on his ripped khaki pants. Killer tore into him good.
Killer. Oh God, I hope he's okay.
"Let's just say I'm a friend of Vitale's."
I slowly shake my head, my vision blacking out around the edges, as I whisper, "he has no friends."
He's told me that, and I believe him, most definitely, if these are the kind of people who call themselves his friends. We certainly define friendship differently.
With friends like these, who needs enemies?
He laughs at that, still advancing toward me, that strange smell wafting through the air. It's sickly sweet. Acidic. My nose scrunches up, my lip curling instinctively as he crouches down right in front of me, close enough that I can see his eyes are bloodshot, like the blood vessels have burst.
Tears burn my eyes.
I look away.
His hand reaches out toward me, and I press my back against the wall, cowering away, but that doesn't deter him. Rough, red patches coat the skin around his palm and fingertips, rubbed raw and bleeding, like a chemical burn. He grasps my chin, roughly tilting it, squeezing my face to force me to look at him. A cry bursts from my chest, unable to be restrained, as tears start to flow from my eyes.
His calloused thumb wipes them away as a smile touches his lips.
He's enjoying this.
I try to pull away, to move away, but he's too strong and fuck, I'm weak. I'd drop the second I got to my feet. My legs are shaking, my head swimming. Even at my best and him at his worst, I couldn't outrun him.
"Please," I whisper, "just let me go."
His smile grows.
There's a spark in his eyes.
I think he likes it that I'm begging.
Ugh, sick fucker.
"Please," I say again. If it buys me time, if it buys Naz time to realize I'm gone, to come for me, I'll do it. Because he'll come for me. I know he will. He's promised, time and time again. I'll always come for you. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I've done nothing—"
His smile dissolves into a full-blown grin as he again laughs. This time it's sharp and loud, cutting off my words, as he grips me tighter. "You really think your innocent act is going to work on me?"
"It's not an act."
"Oh, but it is. You married a monster, little girl. Don't act like you don't know what he is, like you don't know what he does. He murders, in cold blood, and he makes it personal. That's why he uses his hands, why he uses a knife… why he suffocates, and strangles…" The man lets go of me and leans back, drawing his fingertips across his neck. "Why he slits throats."
My blood runs cold at those words.
"He likes to be up close," he continues. "He likes for you to look at him, for you to know who is stealing your final breath, like it makes him some sort of God, some angel of death, casting judgment while he
stares you right in the face. He doesn't just kill, little girl… he robs you of your dignity, of your strength, of your self-respect. He takes it all as he toys with you. He takes it all for himself. And then he kills you, after you've got nothing left. So don't act like you're innocent, like you're ignorant, because I know who you are. We all know who you are. You were one of the hunted. He was going to do the same thing to you. He wanted you to suffer, too. And you know that… you know it, yet you gave him your heart, you gave him your cunt, and now you have the nerve to act innocent about it, like you've done nothing to get yourself here?"
I look away from him again.
I feel like I'm going to throw up.
"I know he's not a good man," I say quietly, "but he's not a bad one, either."
"Bullshit."
He spits the word at me. Literally. He spits it. I grimace, gagging, feeling the saliva hit my cheek, inhaling that acidic odor that surrounds him for some goddamn reason. It's disgusting.
I can even smell it on me.
He stands back up and stares down at me. I still don't look at him, but I can feel his eyes. I can feel them pecking at me, boring into me, judging me the same way he says Naz does when he takes someone's last breath. And I've seen the look before… seen it on Naz's face, seen the cold, callous cruelty in his eyes. The day in the den, when he choked me on his desk, a day I know he could've easily killed me, a day I realize part of him wanted to. I've met the part of Naz that is a monster, but that isn't all of him, and I refuse to let anybody tell me differently. Maybe it's unhealthy, loving a man like him, staying with someone so dangerous, but I'm not his prey, and he's not my predator, and this man is fucking insane if he thinks he can poison me against him.
"He's different," I say. I'm wasting my breath. I know I am. But I need more time. I need a distraction. I need a way out of this. "You just can't see it."
"Different?" he asks incredulously. "Let me tell you something… there's nothing different about that man. You can capture a lion and teach it to do tricks, but you'll never change the nature of the beast. It'll still rip your fucking head off if you poke it the wrong way."
I start to respond, to refute those words, when a flash of light cuts through the room, illuminating the filthy concrete walls surrounding me for a brief moment before shutting off again. Headlights. My stomach clenches as the man glances toward the nearest window. "Looks like company is here."
Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes #3) Page 25
