Torture to Her Soul(3)

I know she hates me.

I can see it. I can sense it.

It's written in the tension in her muscles, the way she folds into herself when I'm close, the flush of her body whenever I dare touch her. But I know she loves me, too. Because a fire wages beneath her skin, and not all of it is fueled by anger.

Every now and then she'll forget she's supposed to despise me, she'll forget she's not allowed to want me.

She'll forget I'm a monster.

And all she remembers in the moment, all she knows, all she cares about, is that I'm a man, a man who went through hell, a man who loves her, who swore he wouldn't hurt her, and for the moment she'll let herself believe it. She'll forget I'm the bad guy and remember what it felt like when she thought I was the hero.

The one who would drown so she could stay afloat.

That's what I cling to.

That's the glimmer I look for when I study her.

It's not there today.

She's scowling, every inch of her tense, her jaw clenched. She knows I'm looking at her but refuses to so much as even acknowledge I exist.

I smile, watching her.

She's trying to hurt me, but all I can think is she's so goddamn beautiful when she's pissed.

My cell phone ringing distracts me from the moment. I pick it up from the desk, not bothering to look at it as I answer. I know who it is from the sound it makes alone. "Yeah."

"Ignazio!"

Ray's already three sheets to the wind. His voice doesn't betray it, strong and steady as always, but he called me by my first name. He doesn't do that when he has his wits about him.

"Yeah," I say again, sitting up straight, dropping my feet to the floor.

"We're over at Cobalt," he says. "Come on over for a bit."

"Yeah," I say, standing up. "Okay."

I hang up, slipping my phone in the pocket of my black slacks. I could tell him no… I'm probably the only person who could deny an invitation from him without serious consequence… but the air in the house is too stifling for me to stay here. She needs space to get over whatever it is that has her so upset today. I know she'll be here when I get back.

She'll be here, because she knows if she isn't, I'll just track her down and drag her right back.

Slipping on my shoes, I fix my tie before grabbing my coat from the chair. I put it on, fastening the button as I start for the door. "I have things to do."

Karissa says nothing, doesn't even look at me, but she heard. The way her face twitches tells me so, as she bites down on the inside of her cheek.

"I might be late," I say, strolling over to the couch, stopping right beside where she sits. "Or I might not."

Another twitch. More silence.

I stand there for a moment, contemplating, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. I don't bother trying to kiss her lips. She won't resist me, she never does, but I'll get nothing in return today.

"Call me if you need me."

A grunt, soft and throaty, like she fought to restrain words and instead only offered the sound of annoyance. Annoyance at the fact that I'd dare think she'd ever need me? Or annoyance, because deep down, she realizes she already does?

Either way, I smile again, laughing to myself as I walk out.





The Cobalt Room is an upscale social club deep in Manhattan, not far from the campus of NYU. It's the sort of place people admire from the outside, a grand old structure that belongs in the pages of a historical magazine, but very few ever get to step through the door. It's membership required, by invitation only, and to get invited these days, you have to get through Ray.

He doesn't own it, but he certainly controls it. He runs most of his business out of a back office, tucked away behind the elaborate bar and swanky entertainment rooms. He hangs around out front, commanding the crowds with his open personality, but when you get pulled into the back, you know there's hell to pay.

I don't bother to flash my ID when I step inside. Kelvin, the man working the door, knows me—he's one of us, after all. He works here most afternoons for Ray, moonlighting weekends a few blocks away at the little nightclub called Timbers. He was working the door that night, the night Karissa went there with her friend, the night I decided to make my move.

Kelvin sent word as soon as she showed up that night. He recognized her face and knew she was my mark. They all knew, frankly… every one of Ray's men know exactly who Karissa is.

Kelvin nods, bowing his head as I pass, maybe out of respect but more likely because the guys don't like to look me in the eyes.

Few people do.

The street soldiers, cruel thugs who lie, cheat, kill, and steal, shy away, whereas little Karissa, half my size with barely any physical strength, never hesitated to stare me straight in the eyes, like she was reading my soul with just a glance. I thought at first she just didn't see it, didn't see what I was, but after a while I realized she saw it—she just didn't mind it so much.