"There's a guy, he's new in town."
"I know that much."
"Joe, he didn't say who he was working for, and you know, Vitale… you know we're never supposed to ask! He kept saying 'my boss this, my boss that', but it's gotta be the new guy!"
"Does this new guy have a name?"
"They call him Scar, I think."
"You think," I repeat. "You better think right, or you'll come to regret giving me bad information, Armando."
"I'm sure," he corrects himself. "I'm positive that's it."
Scar. Huh.
"And Fat Joe's working for this Scar guy?"
I hate even asking that sentence.
My life has turned into a cliché Mafia movie.
"Has to be," Armando says. "Don't know who else would do it."
I stand there, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with this information, when Armando starts whimpering again, quietly begging for mercy. The sound grates on my nerves, and I step away, tossing the knife down on the top of my toolbox as I snatch up the roll of duct tape. I rip a chunk off and slap it over the bloody slit across his mouth, silencing him again.
"You're lucky, Armando," I say. "You see, I'm trying to do better these days, trying to be a better man, trying to be the man my wife thinks I can be, so I'm not going to kill you tonight. I'm going to give you a chance. If you survive until morning, I'll take you home; I'll drop you off right where I picked you up. You understand?"
He can't respond, not with his mouth taped again, but I take his muffled frantic mumbling for confirmation that he understands. Before, things would've been non-negotiable. Cross me, and you die. That was the way it was. But I can't do that anymore. I can't keep that up. If I'm not flexible, I'm not commendable.
And I'm trying to be commendable for her.
"But remember… you let my wife find you and the deal's off."
I slam the trunk closed, hearing his startled cry, but then he goes silent again.
The gutter rat wants to live.
Grabbing the knife, I head back into the house, making sure to lock up behind me. Killer retreats a few steps when he sees me, his chest rumbling as he starts growling.
In the kitchen, I reach up into the cabinet beside the sink, digging into the bag of pepperoni-flavored dog treats. I toss a few to the mutt, and he gobbles them up, too distracted by the treats to bother with me anymore.
I wash the blood from the blade and toss the knife in the dishwasher before heading toward the stairs, veering to the laundry room on my way. I pull off my sweatpants, burying them in a pile of dirty clothes, making a mental note to remember to do something about them later.
I head upstairs then, back to the bedroom.
Karissa is still asleep. It doesn't look like she's even moved an inch. I climb in the bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her to me.
It worried me today.
Thank God she's safe.
I just need her to stay that way.
She stirs then, briefly waking up, before nuzzling against me and going right back to sleep in my arms.
She starts dreaming again.
This time, though, she's smiling.
She wouldn't be smiling if she knew what I was thinking, if she knew where my mind was venturing, the things I was yearning to do. I'm trying, for her, I'm trying my damndest, but I'm not sure how much more I can give. She says retaliation is a choice, and maybe she's right. Maybe it is a choice.
But maybe I want to choose retaliation.
Is it so wrong to want vengeance?
I don't think so.
* * *
"Good morning."
Karissa's voice is a sleepy mumble, her words broken around a yawn. I glance over toward the doorway as she steps into the kitchen. Her hair is a tangled mess. She's wearing nothing but a too-big black t-shirt that I'm guessing she stole from the back of my closet.
Half of her wardrobe comes out of there.
"Morning." I'm not sure yet if I'm willing to call it good. I haven't had a wink of sleep and I'm probably not getting any until sometime tomorrow. "You're up early."
It's seven, maybe eight in the morning. Clocks are still quite scarce around the house, and I don't feel like looking at my watch, so I'm not entirely sure. I'm dressed for the day and have been since around four.
"Yeah," she mumbles. "Had a hard time sleeping."
I consider pointing out how much she actually slept last night, but I think better of it. "Pity."
"I know, right?" Karissa tinkers with the coffee machine on the counter, brewing herself a cup, as I unload the dishwasher, making sure everything, including the boning knife, goes back where it belongs. She watches me as she waits on her coffee, rubbing Killer's head as he nudges against her, wanting her attention. "Looks like you've been busy this morning."
I've done a load of laundry, burned a pair of pants, and scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom, all to distract me while waiting on her to wake up. "I suppose you're not the only one who had a hard time sleeping."
She regards me curiously, picking up her coffee cup when it's finished, blowing on the steaming liquid. "You know, it's still not your fault."
Pausing, I close my eyes, forcing myself to not react to that. I don't want to have this conversation again. She's starting to sound like a damn self-help tape with her constant reassurances. It's not your fault. After a moment, I press on with what I was doing and change the subject. "So, what are your plans for the day?"
"Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that."
I shoot her a look as she sips on her coffee. She's purposely trying to provoke me. "Care to elaborate?"
"I've got class most of the day," she says, pausing before adding, "Which you already know. Other than that, nothing much… might stop by and see Melody later on. Been a while since we hung out. You?"