Target on Our Backs
Page 31

I flinch.
He notices.
A look of disappointment crosses his face.
"Empty threats will only get me killed," he explains. "It's one thing to go radio silent in the business. It's another to make the kind of promises I'm not planning to keep."
I get it.
I do.
I don't like talking about it, but I know it's true.
He's out... as out as someone like him can be. But that doesn't mean he's free of his own consequences. Doesn't mean the rules don't still apply to him.
It's a dangerous game he used to play.
I guess, in a way, he'll always have to play it.
"Yeah, I guess we don't want that," I mumble.
"I'm quite positive we don't," he says. "Besides, Melody's an adult. She doesn't need anyone meddling in her affairs. So unless this guy in any way endangers your life, what he does for a living is none of our business."
I scowl but don't respond to that assertion, even though I whole-heartedly disagree with it. She's my friend. Sure, she has to make her own decisions, but that doesn't mean it's not my business who she's hooking up with.
Friends look out for each other.
I turn my focus back to my paper, scribbling some more about perception, before packing my stuff up and putting it all away. I grab the book off the arm of the couch, the romance story written by Napoleon. "What's this about, anyway?"
"A soldier falls in love with a woman."
"Does it have a happy ending?"
He glances at me. "What do you think?"
I think not, because Naz would enjoy tragedy a hell of a lot more than he'd enjoy a happily ever after. Fictionally, of course.
I flip through the pages before settling in, tucking my feet beneath me as I open it at the beginning. It'll only take me like half an hour to read it, so why not?
"You don't happen to have any Nicholas Sparks on your bookshelf, do you?" I ask curiously.
"Of course not," he says, his voice tinged with disgust. "Although, A Walk to Remember was a decent film, so I might consider reading that book."
"Seriously?"
"Sure."
Shaking my head, I mutter, "I don't even know who you are anymore."
"I'm the same man I always was," he says, standing up. "Just a little less preoccupied with murder."
I scowl.
Again.
Naz starts to walk out but pauses in the doorway of the den. "A word of advice?"
"Uh, sure."
"Judge him by his actions and not your suspicions," he says. "Because if the only measure of a man's worth is what he does to make money, a lot of good men would be judged unfairly."
"Like you?"
"Not like me," he says. "Not sure how many times I have to tell you... I'm not a good man, Karissa, and try as I might, I probably never will be."
T he deli is once again open.
In fact, it only really closed for one day.
Repairs are underway, what looks like a decent remodel, but that's as far as it has gotten. The glass has been replaced, new locks and bars installed. There's no florescent neon sign out front, beckoning people in, but lights shine from back in the kitchen, so I know my father's here.
He probably never left, frankly.
Ever since my mother died a few months ago, her heart stopping in her sleep, he's stayed away from the home they shared as much as possible.
I have no idea where the man sleeps, if he even does.
He always said he'd sleep when he was dead.
The way he's going, I can see that happening.
I linger in front of the place for a moment, checking out the repairs, before heading for the alley that leads behind the building.
I shouldn't bother him.
I know I shouldn't.
He doesn't want to see my face anymore.
Can't say I blame him.
But something drew me here, early this morning, the sun barely starting to rise. Maybe it's some form of masochism where I get off on my father berating me on sight. It's probably sick, but I almost find it refreshing these days, someone not afraid to tell me what they truly think about me. Especially when Karissa is always in my ear, trying to convince me I'm a better man than I believe.
My father? He certainly doesn't think so.
He thinks I'm a callous, menial piece of shit.
He sees the ugly that still bleeds from me.
The ugly that Karissa just doesn't see.
He makes me feel like me.
"I thought I told you to leave."
His voice is flat, emotionless. He's leaning against the graffiti-riddled brick wall beside the propped open back door, a dirty white apron tied around his waist. Cigarette smoke surrounds him like fog as he breathes it in before letting it back out. Not sure when he traded the cinnamon toothpicks back in for the Marlboros... same kind he smoked when I was a kid. Maybe it was when he lost the love of his life.
Maybe it was when I started coming back around here.
"You did," I say, stalling in the alley near him. "I'm not very good at listening."
He lets out a bitter laugh. "You never were."
"Yeah, my mother used to say I inherited that from my father."
"You got a lot from me," he agrees. "Shame it was all of the bad and none of the good."
I nod, not disagreeing with that, and watch him as he continues to smoke. He draws the smoke in deep, holding it in his lungs before letting go of it, savoring every breath, cherishing the nicotine. I never understood it… picking up a habit that would kill you so easily.
But hey, what do I know?
I killed people for a living.
There's no quicker way to get you on Death's guest list than by meddling in his affairs and taking part in his game.
"So, when did you start smoking again?" I ask curiously.
"When someone tried to destroy my life's work," he says, motioning beside him, toward the back of the deli. "You figure out who that was?"
I'm surprised he's asking me that.
"I've got an idea."
He takes another drag of his cigarette before tossing it down and stamping it out. "Yeah, well, when you catch up to them, tell them they owe me ten grand. Had to wipe out my savings to get everything fixed."
"I—"
I would've paid for it.
Those words stall on my lips.
I know better than to offer.
He doesn't want my money.
He'd be offended by the offer, and I've offended the man enough as it is.
"I'll be sure to tell them."
He nods before turning, yanking open the deli door to go inside. It bangs against the cement block propping it open when it closes again. He didn't offer an invitation to join him. I didn't expect one. But that doesn't stop me from doing it anyway, from grabbing the door and stepping inside the kitchen where he is.
He's gotten straight to work, slicing tomatoes. I'm quiet, as I join him, but he hears me.
Senses me.
Knows me.
"Something you need from me, Ignazio?" he asks, frustration tingeing his voice. "Because I don't remember inviting you to come hang out this morning."
Or any morning.
"I just wanted to check to see how you were."