Torture to Her Soul
Page 14

Karissa is awake now… or up, anyway. I don't think she slept much either, if at all, as we lay in bed all night, lost in the darkness.
Smothered by the silence.
Drowning in the bitter truth.
The scent of coffee clings to the air in the kitchen. It has been two weeks—fourteen long mornings—since I brought that machine home.
She finally touched it.
Karissa stands by the counter in a pair of underwear covered by one of my white t-shirts, her back to me. I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her. I can make out the profile of her face, seeing her passive expression. She holds a small white cup, one I assume she dug out of the cabinet with the other china I've never used. Steam rises from the top as she lightly blows into it before taking a small sip.
And another.
And another.
"Good morning."
She turns at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flits my direction and she freezes, eyes scanning my face and down my chest, admiring her handiwork. I expect her to walk away, to blow me off like she usually does when I try to start a conversation, but instead she strolls my way.
Her feet stall after a few steps, and she lingers in front of me, a mere foot between us. I remain quiet, stoic, as she holds her cup out, wordlessly offering some.
My chest tightens.
It's an olive branch, I realize, but one I don't take.
She sipped it, so I don't think there's anything wrong with it, but I remember exactly what happened last time I thought that.
After a second, she sighs, realizing I'm not going to touch it, and pulls her cup back as she walks away.
"Thank you for the coffee machine, Naz," she says quietly. "I appreciate it."
Ray's trying not to laugh.
I'm trying not to punch him in the face.
I slouch in the black leather chair at Cobalt after nightfall, nursing a bottle of cold pale ale, hoping the alcohol can soothe my frayed nerves, but it's pointless, given the way Ray's gawking at me.
I turn my eyes toward him and raise an eyebrow in silent challenge, as the corners of his lips spastically twitch. He's shit at keeping a straight face, and he most definitely can't hide his amusement today.
It dances in his eyes.
He's enjoying this.
After a moment, he loses the battle entirely and a small chuckle echoes out as he full-blown grins. "How you feeling, Vitale?"
At least he's not drunk yet.
Because if he called me Naz with that look on his face?
I would punch him.
Potential consequences be damned.
"Fine," I respond, taking a sip of the beer. It tastes extra bitter, or maybe I'm just in one of those kinds of moods. Karissa has me flipped upside down. I don't know if we're coming or going.
"Fine," he repeats, swirling his glass of scotch around, the ice cubes clinking against the side as he waves his drink toward me. "If that's fine, I'd hate to see the other guy."
He's looking for information, information he knows I won't volunteer, but he isn't stupid, not in the least. He'd be worried if he truly believed some guy got the best of me like this. The scratches are the tale-tell sign of a woman scorned, and only one woman could leave these marks on me and still live afterward.
Ray knows this, but he doesn't get it.
He doesn't get why Karissa is still breathing.
Why I haven't... why I won't... why I can't… kill her.
He laughs again, this time a sharp edge to it, as he takes a sip of the dark liquor. "Such a waste."
I glare at him, hoping he's talking about the wasted opportunity and that it isn't an insult aimed at me.
Unlike the other guys he keeps around, I never took an oath to be here. I was never inducted into the organization he runs, never vowed my life to the things they do. I do them, all right. I do more than most of those other guys do. But I do it with an understanding, a mutual sort of respect, that it didn't take the prick of a trigger finger to forge.
I do it because he's like a father to me.
I do it because I want to.
I do it because long ago I decided this is exactly what I was meant to do.
So while I'm loyal, and Ray knows it, he can't treat me like he does those other guys. He can only push me so far. We wouldn't stab each other in the back, but there's nothing to keep us from someday stabbing in the front.
Nobody's truly safe.
My best friend proved that.
The thing is, I wasn't the only one who wanted Johnny dead.
Ray did, too.
He wanted the Rita bloodline destroyed.
He wanted them chewed up and spit out.
He wanted them to suffer like he did.
Like we did.
The only vow I ever took to him was that I would do just that.
That I would destroy them.
That I would get justice.
The only thing keeping Karissa alive—keeping Ray from outsourcing elsewhere, from putting a hit out on her life—is that he's not willing to cut ties with me. It's personal, and for the moment that outweighs any sort of business, but I'm not a fool.
It might not always be that way.
I'm sure Karissa thinks I'm a monster for forcing her to stay with me, and maybe I am. Maybe I'm a fucking despicable human being. I'm certainly not a good man. But she doesn't realize it's because of that she's still breathing. It's because of that she wakes up every morning to hate me another day.
She's alive because I couldn't bring myself to kill her, and nobody else is stupid enough to cross me by doing it.