Page 31

My eyes follow him as he stalks through the deli, heading straight to the back, disappearing behind a swinging door. I stare at it in silence, taking deep, even breaths to steady myself, willing myself to remain calm, to stay in this seat. Dead silence overtook the deli while he berated me. I'm certain Karissa wasn't the only one who overheard everything he said.

"Naz?" Karissa whispers, her voice shaking. I stare at the still swinging door, contemplating following him back there as I continue to drum my fingers against the table. After a moment, she reaches over, placing her hand on top of mine to still my movements. "Ignazio?"

My gaze shifts from the door to my hand—to her hand, on top of mine, nails painted pale pink, a stark contrast to her soft tanned skin—before I meet her eyes. She looks shell-shocked, a look I've seen time and time again, the look of someone who knows they witnessed something they shouldn't have… the look of someone worried how I'm going to react because of it.

"I'm fine," I say, clearing my throat when my voice catches because I know I certainly don't sound fine. "Are you done eating?"

Her brow furrows as she looks at what's left of her food, like she can't believe I'm even talking about it at a time like this. "Uh, yeah…"

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Then let's get out of here."

I pull my hand away and push my chair back, standing up. I smooth my suit coat as I wait for her to get to her feet, not looking at any of the other customers as I lead her toward the exit, leaving the money lying on the table. He can toss it in the fucking trash for all I care. I open the door for her, stepping out behind her, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth at the sound of the bell jingling above me.

"What just happened?" Karissa stops on the sidewalk, right in front of the deli, not moving when I try to get her to. "Who the hell does that guy think he is? Why would he talk to you that way?"

She stares at me, eyebrows raised, awaiting an answer. I'm not sure what she expects me to say. It's pretty self-explanatory, I think.

"I'm not his favorite person."

"Obviously," she says, waving toward the building. "I mean, what's the point in us stopping for something to eat if you can't even eat? Why would we come here? Why would you bring me here, knowing that?"

She's speaking loudly, making just as big of a scene as we endured inside, people walking by glancing between us curiously, wondering why she's yelling like she is.

I step toward her. "You asked me a question."

"I asked you a lot of questions, none of which you ever seem to want to answer unless it's convenient for you."

"Convenient?" Her use of that word rubs me the wrong way. Easy… convenient… why do people think these things aren't a hassle for me? "Do you think that was convenient for me, Karissa? You think I enjoyed being berated in front of all those people, that I got a kick out of having him tear me apart in public like that? Do you think I did that for the fun of it, for the hell of it? Because I didn't. I didn't enjoy a second of it. But you asked a question, you said you want to know me, so I showed you."

"Showed me what?"

"Why I don't see my parents."

The anger in her expression melts as she gapes at me, the wheels in her mind turning fast as she puts together the pieces of why we came to this place. It's all there, it always is, if she'd just fucking open her eyes and pay attention. More is caught than taught. But I don't have it in me right now to stand here patiently, to hang out on this dirty, cracked sidewalk while everyone in the goddamn neighborhood watches, waiting for her to get her shit together.

I wave down the street, toward where the car is parked.

"Can we go now, before I pass out?" I ask. "Or do you need to yell at me some more first?"

I see the flash of guilt as she lowers her head and starts walking. I sigh, shaking my head again, my eyes scanning the outside of the deli once more, lingering just a moment on the discoloration where the sign used to be, back when it meant something to the owner, before I single-handedly tarnished a name that used to make him proud.

Vitale's.

As soon as we're in the car, Karissa turns to me, rambling before I can even start the engine. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"

"Don't apologize."

"But I'm sorry. I really am. The things he said—"

"Are true," I say, cutting her off before she can dwell on it. "I'm not a good man, Karissa. I've told you that, your parents have told you that, and now you've heard it from mine, too. Don't apologize to me for it, because I'm not going to apologize to you. I'm not sorry for being who I am. You wanted to know, so I showed you, end of story. There's nothing left to say."

My words silence her. She turns away from me, shifting her body in the seat, and stares out the window the entire trip to Brooklyn. By the time we make it to the house, the sun is starting to set outside and I'm still not done with everything I need to do. I'm running on no sleep, exhausted mentally and physically, utterly emotionally spent.

I'm a mess.

Frustrated, I pull into the driveway and cut off the car, but I just sit there, not moving. My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, to the vaguely familiar car parked along the curb. I spotted it as soon as I turned onto the street.

Detective Jameson.

Just great.

I climb out, pausing, as the doors to the lurking car open and the familiar men appear. Detective Jameson approaches as his partner lingers behind, watching.

"Detective," I say when Jameson pauses in the grass a few feet away. "Is there a reason you're here?"

"Just thought I'd check to see how you were doing," he says. "Heard you were already back on your feet. Guess the incident at Cobalt didn't knock you down for long."

I just stare at him. He sounds casual, conversational, but I'm not stupid.

The detective's attention shifts to Karissa when she steps out of the car. "Miss Reed, nice to see you again."

She looks panicked and says nothing.

"Well then," Jameson says, looking away from her to turn back to me, his gaze skimming along the side of my car as he does, looking at the damage. "Tough break about the car."

"It’s not as bad as it looks."

"Still, I know a guy who could fix it for you. You might know him, actually. Name’s Josh Donizetti."

The detective pauses, raising his eyebrows like he’s waiting for some confirmation that I know who he’s speaking of. I do, of course, and he knows I do.