Target on Our Backs
Page 64

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."
Company.
More men.
More guys like him.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice shaking. "What do you want?"
He glances at me. "What do I want?"
I nod.
"I want your husband dead."
I inhale sharply.
The answer doesn't shock me, but it hurts. It fucking hurts.
"But it doesn't really matter what I want," he continues. "What matters is what the boss wants."
The boss.
Of course he's working for somebody else.
They always are, aren't they?
"So what does your boss want, then, if he doesn't want him dead?"
"Oh, I never said he didn't want him dead, but the boss? He's taking a play out of your husband's handbook. See, me? I'd make it quick and easy. Shoot up your house, kill him without ever getting out of the car. I like a good drive-by. It's timeless. But I guess somewhere along the way, this turned personal, and the boss wants Vitale to get a dose of his own medicine. Steal his pride, his hope, his dignity. Then after he's got nothing left, we take his life. Because without the rest of those things, it's not really worth living, is it?"
He turns to walk away, limping a few steps.
"So that's what Lorenzo wants, huh? To toy with him?"
He pauses, glancing at me, genuine surprise flashing across his expression. "Lorenzo?"
"That's your boss, isn't it? Lorenzo Gambini."
I've caught him off guard. I can see it in his eyes. He stares at me like he isn't sure how to respond. The man obviously likes to talk a lot, but I've rendered him speechless.
"Lorenzo Gambini," he echoes before shrugging and turning to leave again. "Doesn't ring a bell."
I scowl at the door when he opens it and shuffles outside, leaving it open a crack so he can peer back in and keep an eye on me. It's the only way in and out that I can see. To escape, I'd have to go right through them.
I don't know how many of them there are.
I hear a few voices, fragments of a conversation. I can only make out part of what they're talking about, but very little of it makes any sense to me. They talk about trees and Park Enforcement, like any of that is relevant, before someone mentions a crime scene and something sparks inside of me. I look around the room I'm in, feeling like I'm going to be sick.
The park near the East River.
Could it be?
They keep on babbling as my captor periodically glances back in at me, like he thinks he's going to catch me in the act of doing something. I'm not sure what the hell I could do in this situation. It's so damn dark and my head is still pounding and I'm so woozy it's taking everything in me just to sit up straight. I hear more words, something about cigars and borrowing a lighter, before someone yells to douse a fire before they blow us all to smithereens. I don't know… it's all beyond me… until I hear them say his name.
"Anything from Vitale?"
I don't know the voice that asks that… have never heard it before that I can recall. But it's the hulking man who responds.
"I called him on the girl's phone," he says. "Shouldn't take him long."
My phone. Of course. It won't take Naz long to track me using it, and it seems they're banking on that fact. I don't know what to do with that information, though, if I'm supposed to be hopeful, or if I should be terrified this is all a trap. I try to remind myself that Naz is smart, too smart to let them have the upper hand, but he's just a man… a flawed man… a man that probably doesn't even have a plan.
How the hell are we getting out of this one?
They talk some more. I don't know about what. Endless babbling that goes in one ear and out the other, as my eyes scan the small space around me. I see headlights again eventually as the car leaves, the door opening, my captor waltzing back in.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
I count in my head as I close my eyes, trying like hell to stay calm, to keep my heart from racing. It feels like it's going to give out on me any second. Each inhale brings about a swell of nausea as bile burns my throat. There's something wrong. I can feel it deep in my bones. I feel intoxicated, yet suffering from the worst hangover… dizzy and desperate, my head damn near explosive.
I don't know what the hell the man did to me to get me here, but it can't be good.
It can't be good for the baby.
I wrap my arms around my stomach, holding myself together one lungful at a time. Inhale. Exhale. Just keep breathing.
I remember those words.
Remember Naz repeating them.
You'll be okay… just keep breathing.
The man paces the room in the darkness, his hands shoved in his pockets, his knee buckling every few steps. He's in some pain, I can tell it, and he's getting nervous.
He should be nervous.
He's right, maybe… and maybe Giuseppe was right, too. A leopard doesn't change its spots. That's what he told me. That's what they all say. For everything that is undoubtedly different about Naz these days, a few things will never change.
Naz won't give up.
He won't give in.
He's not going to let anyone bully him.
He's not going to let somebody else win.
The old Naz will come for me.
I have no idea what the hell he's going to do to get us out of this, but I don't doubt for a second that somehow, he will.