Torture to Her Soul
Page 72

It amuses me.
She seems so nervous.
Like I make her nervous.
Not in the way I'm used to with people. It's the kind of nervous energy that radiates off of her and soaks straight through to me, the kind that makes my chest tight at the sight of her. She doesn't have to try to be beautiful. It comes naturally.
But she tries, anyway.
She tries because of me.
The glass door to the balcony slides open. She appears there, wringing her hands together.
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" she asks. "The dress is too much. I shouldn't have picked it."
I sent her out on her own earlier--with an escort, of course, a translator provided as a courtesy by the hotel. I told her to pick a dress for tonight, that I'd made us plans, and acted as if I couldn't care less about what she did. I cared, though, and I would've rather gone with her, but I had business to attend to.
Business forced onto me by Ray.
One of his Sicilian contacts was in Rome for the afternoon, and Ray wanted me to meet him to get some files. I don't know what it's for, nor do I care.
Not my business.
It never is.
As much as I didn't want to leave Karissa alone, I preferred it to bringing her around those guys. We can be brutal in America, but the kind over here are savages.
I tried to call Ray, to tell him it was handled, but he didn't answer.
"You look beautiful," I tell Karissa. "It's not too much."
"Really? You like it?"
"I like you."
She smiles, looking down at herself. "But what about the dress?"
Sighing, I slip my phone in my pocket. "Let me tell you a secret, sweetheart."
She glances at me, her interest piqued. "What?"
"Most men, myself included, don't notice the clothes. We just notice how you look in them. The wrapping paper is nothing compared to the toy inside. So the dress matters not to me. It's pink..."
"Purple."
"And it's some sort of satin."
"Silk."
"Proves my point," I say. "It's just a dress. But you? You're beautiful. Dressed up, dressed down, not dressed at all. You're beautiful every way you come... especially when you come."
Her cheeks flush. "Thank you."
"No need to thank me. I'm just speaking the truth."
She twirls a bit, eyes down on her dress, before she looks at me. For the first time since arriving in Rome nearly a week ago, I'm wearing a black suit. I almost feel out of practice, like a different person pulled it on this afternoon.
I don't know how to feel being this man again.
"You look handsome," she says.
"I look like I always do."
"I know. Handsome."
I smile, stepping toward her, grasping her hip as I motion for her to go ahead of me.
There's a car waiting downstairs, a sleek black Mercedes limousine. Karissa eyes it peculiarly before sliding in the back when the driver opens the door for us. He greets her in Italian, and she smiles sweetly, avoiding responding. I return his greeting, climbing in after her, settling back into the leather seat as we get on the road.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asks.
"La Bohème," I respond. "Teatro dell'Opera di Roma."
"Say what?"
"To see La Bohème the Rome Opera House."
"An Italian opera?"
"Yes."
Her eyes light up excitedly. "What's it about?"
"It's a tragic love story, as most of them are."
"Is it good?"
"It's supposed to be. I haven't seen it, though, so I guess we'll find out."
The car takes us to the Baths of Caracalla, to the outdoor theater where they put on the shows in the summertime. It's a fair night, not a cloud in the darkened sky, the stars twinkling high above us. The ancient ruins tower high around the stage. Karissa stays right beside me, slipping her hand into mine as soon as we're out of the car. I glance at her, seeing her shy smile as she tucks in at my side.
Our seats are front and center, the best possible at the flat outdoor venue. We slip into them, and Karissa resists when I try to let go of her hand. I put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her toward me, as I relax in the seat as much as I can.
The opera's sung entirely in Italian, but it doesn't seem to inhibit Karissa in any way. She's enraptured, staring at the stage in awe from the very first note. Chills dance along her skin—I see them creeping up her arms as she absently fiddles with the material of her dress.
Halfway through, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket.
It stops periodically before starting up again, over and over. I can't hear it, the ringer off, but feeling it is driving me up the wall. I'm on the verge of losing my cool when it finally stops.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
I'm only vaguely paying attention to the show, my thoughts drifting, when Karissa slouches against me, sniffling. I glance down at her, confused when I see tears in her eyes.
"Are you okay?" I whisper, concerned.
"No."
I shift in my seat, grasping her chin. "What's wrong?"
Her brow furrows before something seems to strike her. She laughs, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's sad, Naz. She's dying."
I look from her to the stage, to the woman on her deathbed, the music haunting. Huh.