Target on Our Backs
Page 51

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.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold onto the phone.
Blood covers my hands and it smears all over my phone. I can't get the fingerprint authentication to work to open it, and the fucking numbers just don't want to work. Why won't they work? I punch them frantically but it keeps saying it's wrong, they're wrong, so I hit the 'emergency call' button.
Because this?
This is an emergency if I've ever seen one.
T he blaring of an old, familiar pop song rouses me from my nap. The second I hear it, I jolt upright, startled. Poison. Bell Biv DeVoe. Groaning, I dig around in my pockets.
The ringtone's a lot better than the last one, but I'm already sick of hearing it.
Grabbing the phone, I pull it out and glance at the screen, sighing. Karissa.
I hit the button to answer the call. "Why aren't you home yet? I'm starting to get lonely here."
Silence. Sniffling.
Men are talking in the background.
There's a siren in the distance.
I hear a police radio.
Shit.
"Karissa?" Panic brews inside of me. "Answer me, sweetheart."
There's a ruffling, the phone moving, before a voice breaks in. "Mr. Vitale?"
"Yes," I say. "Who the fuck is this?"
"Detective Jameson," he says, "with the NYPD—"
"Homicide division. I know. Why do you have my wife's phone?"
I can feel it, can feel it pecking at my core, the anger, the devastation, the goddamn fear.
No. No. No.
"I just want to notify you that there was an incident this evening—"
"Don't do it," I say, my voice cracking, interrupting him.
Don't you do it.
Don't you say it.
Don't make a notification over the phone.
Don't make a notification, period, because I refuse to believe you need to notify me about anything. Tell me this is all a mistake, tell me you just happened upon her phone, but don't you tell me the one thing… the one fucking thing… a homicide detective would notify someone for.
"Don't tell me something happened to her," I say, "not unless you want the world to burn."
He hesitates.
He knows I mean it.
He's dealt with me enough.
He made the notification twenty years ago in the hospital.
Showed up in that room, as I lay in that bed, and told me Maria was gone.
I knew it already then, knew I lost her.
But I refuse to believe that will ever happen again.
I refuse to let it.
"Your wife's being seen by a medic right now, but she seems to be just fine," he says. "As I said, though, there was an incident, and she asked that you be notified."
"Where are you?"
"Well, we're at Corlears Hook Park but—"
I don't let him finish, hanging up and shoving my phone in my pocket before running out the door. Corlears Hook. What the hell was she doing there? It's not near NYU. It's not on her path home. It's nowhere she should've been.
Traffic is a mess.
A nightmare.
I speed around cars, cutting through lanes and running red lights, even driving the wrong direction, all in the name of getting there faster. I sideswipe a parked car but keep going, cursing under my breath, hoping nobody got my license plate number for it. For most, it would be nothing more than a fine, a slap on the wrist, but they'd find a way to send my ass upstate for life for it.