Target on Our Backs
Page 3

It's a mess.
People are running down the streets, shouting at one another, the neighborhood in utter chaos.
A drive-by shooting in broad daylight.
It's one of those things my mother warned me about, the horror stories of monsters that run these streets. Naz always told me never to be scared, that I had nothing to be scared of, but I am… I'm scared.
What the hell just happened?
I step back into the deli just as the police start to arrive. Giuseppe is finally moving around, helping people to their feet, trying to calm down his remaining customers. His voice is quiet, almost soothing as he talks, all traces of his anger gone out the door with his son.
Leaning back against the wall by the door, I slide down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees as the police descend upon the scene. I'm in a daze, listening but not hearing anything going on around me, the world just a big blur until someone calls for me.
"Miss Reed?"
I look up, seeing a familiar face staring down at me. He's so close his shadow covers me, swaddling me in a gloomy cocoon. It's ominous. Detective Jameson.
The last time I saw the man was when I'd been shot. He came to the hospital while I was in recovery, asking to hear my side of the story. It was as if he'd expected me to refute Naz's statement, to tell them he'd somehow done something wrong, but I couldn't. Naz, for as many times as he might've endangered me, saved me that day. The doctor had said it himself. Naz saved my life. The detective had gone away, saying his door would be open if I wanted to reconsider, but never once did I ever think about turning on the man I love.
Because even with everything that has happened, God help me, I do love him.
I love him more than I ever thought possible.
I clear my throat, surprised my voice works when I say, "Mrs. Vitale."
Jameson's brow furrows as he squats down in front of me, like he thinks maybe if he's more on my level, I'll somehow make more sense. "What?"
Holding out my left hand, I show him the ring on my finger. "I'm not Miss Reed anymore."
I can see it in his face when it clicks, his cool demeanor dissolving. Reaching out, he snatches a hold of my hand, tilting it to get a better look at the ring. It's simple, relatively speaking… as simple as Naz gets, anyway. Just a gold band encrusted with a few small diamonds.
It had been his mother's wedding ring.
"You… you actually married him." His voice matches his expression. "When did that happen?"
"A few weeks ago," I say quietly, pulling my hand away, not liking him touching me, and I know for a fact Naz wouldn't like it, either. He wouldn't like the guy even talking to me.
"Well, then, Mrs. Vitale," he says, standing back up, his unruffled façade back as he towers over me once again. "I'd like to ask you a few quick questions, if you don't mind."
"She does mind," a voice chimes in, butting into the small space around us. Giuseppe. The man's got a few inches on the detective. "Got any questions, you can ask me. She doesn't know anything. She was just here, eating. Innocent bystander."
Jameson narrows his eyes at the intrusion. "If that's the case, I don't see why she can't just tell me that."
"She's traumatized enough, having to have her lunch busted up by some schmuck," Giuseppe says, motioning behind him, toward my now flipped-over table, the food scattered all over the checkered floor. "Last thing she needs is some pushy no-good detective breathing down her neck about it, like she did something wrong."
I still wouldn't call either man an asshole, but I definitely see where Naz gets his intensity. Whoa. Even the detective seems to balk for a moment, silently contemplating his next move. Before Jameson can say anything else, someone calls for him from outside the deli, and he excuses himself to go join whoever it is.
Giuseppe watches the man walk out, shaking his head, before turning back to me. "You all right?"
I nod. "Thank you."
"Ah, it was nothing. If Ignazio gets mad at anybody for squawking, let it be me."
I stand back up, grateful my legs seem more stable now. "I don't know why that guy's even here. He's a homicide detective. Nobody died, right?"
Oh God, nobody did, did they? We were all fine inside, thanks to the windows, but out on the streets might've been a different story…
"Nah, everyone's fine," Giuseppe says, brushing off my concern. "Shaken up, maybe, but no spilled blood today." He pauses, looking around. "Not here, anyway."
"So why's he here then?"
"Why do you think?" Giuseppe looks back at me, raising his eyebrows, his voice incredulous like I should probably know the answer to that question. And I do. The second our eyes meet, it clicks. He's here because of Naz. That's why he's anywhere. Doesn't matter if it's his jurisdiction or not… the man's got a personal vendetta against Naz. "Isn't the first time they've come sniffing around here and it won't be the last, not as long as Ignazio's out there, walking around scot-free. They come by with their questions, and I tell them the truth."
"Which is?"
"That I haven't seen him, and I don't intend to."
Something strikes me then, something I hadn't really considered before. Giuseppe constantly keeps his son at an arm's length, and Naz figures it's because the man hates his guts. And not to say he likes the things Naz is involved with, but maybe, just maybe, part of Giuseppe does it so he can claim ignorance.
So he can't be used to hurt his son in any way.
Plausible deniability.
It's selfless, in a sense, like he's sacrificing any sort of relationship with his son to do what he can to keep him safe, and while I don't know Giuseppe as well as I'd like to, it seems to me like something he just might do.
"You should get out of here," Giuseppe says then, not looking at me, his eyes fixed through the fractured glass of his deli. "Use the back door, through the kitchen, so they don't try to stop you."
I hesitate, but something about the tone of his voice tells me not to argue. I don't think Giuseppe is open to negotiation on these situations any more than Naz usually is. The cops are so busy collecting evidence along the street that nobody is bothering to cover the back of the deli. I slip into the alley easily, undetected, hugging my still-aching chest as I quickly make my way past the graffiti-ridden Dumpsters, away from the scene.
A cab sits on the corner, parked along the street. I hail it as soon as I get close enough, grateful nobody else beat me to it.
"Brooklyn, please," I tell the driver, rattling off our address, my voice strained. I settle in, snapping on my seatbelt, keeping my head down, afraid to look out, feeling almost like I'm running from the police. Please don't come after me. The driver's young, in his mid-twenties, maybe. He flashes a set of bright white teeth at me in the rearview mirror as he pulls out into traffic.
If Naz has taught me anything in our time together, it's to always be aware of my surroundings, to watch and learn. More is caught than taught. He's told me that a few times. My eyes instinctively gloss over the cab driver's license pinned to the dashboard of the car. Abele Abate.
Unfortunate name.