Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

"I heard you."

"Yet you don't believe me."

No, I don't.

I don't have to verbalize that.

He knows.

"He means her no harm, either," Lorenzo continues. "My brother, he's smitten by the Carmichael girl. I assure you, it's purely coincidental. Has nothing to do with me or you. So I'm asking you not to mess that up for him. A favor for a favor. Leave my brother out of this, and I'll make sure nobody hurts what's yours."

"Fair enough."

He smiles the second I agree and tosses me his orange. I damn near drop it, not expecting it, and grip the fruit tightly in my palm. Lorenzo backs up a few steps, pointing at me. "Have it... it's yours. Straight from the grove in Kissimmee. I'm sure you remember. Best oranges in the world."

I glance down at the orange, squeezing it, and nod in gratitude. It's an olive branch he's extending. I don't trust him, but I know how to play this game.

I'll give him something, too. "Piece of advice, Lorenzo?"

"Yeah?"

"Do something about your car," I tell him. "You still have Florida plates. It sticks out like a sore thumb. Made it easy for me to find you."

He glances at the car, that look of surprise returning, like he hadn't even considered that. "How did you find me?"

I shrug, turning to leave. "Streets talk, remember?"

* * *

The second I open the front door of my house I hear the growl.

It's a low rumble, completely menacing. I don't have to look at him to know he's baring his teeth. It's the same greeting, every single time. He remembers what I did.

Unlike Karissa, he hasn't forgiven me yet.

Although, forgiveness may not be the word for it. More like she's choosing not to hold it against me when it comes to our relationship. It's complicated. Doesn't make much sense.

It is what it is.

But Killer?

He's holding it against me still.

For the moment, anyway.

Stepping into the foyer, I pause there, taking off my jacket as I stare at the mutt. Rolling my sleeves up, I waltz right past him, eliciting a small retreat out of panic. He follows me, though, still lightly growling, as I head into the kitchen and fix myself something to drink. I take a few swallows of ice water before reaching up into the cabinet, grabbing a dog treat.

I toss it at him.

All at once, the growling ceases. He gobbles it up, suddenly wagging his tail, before looking at me like he wants another.

In all, I toss him three.

Walking out of the kitchen with my water, still clutching the orange Lorenzo gave to me, I make my way into the den where the television plays.

It's the middle of the afternoon, but Karissa is fast asleep.

Sprawled out on the couch, huddled under a fuzzy black blanket, the remote lying on her chest as she snores quietly. I snatch up the remote before settling in on the edge of the couch cushion near her feet, careful not to disturb her.

Food Network.

Shaking my head, I quickly flip through the channels, stalling when I come across The Godfather on one of the cable stations. It's cut down and edited, diluted for the masses, but it's a hell of a lot better than what she'd been watching.

Setting my water down on the coffee table, I start peeling the orange, my eyes on the screen. Sonny Corleone's black car speeds up to the toll plaza, blocked in by another. The tollbooth worker? He ducks and hides.

Even he knows it's an ambush.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

A rapid succession of gunfire lights up the screen, annihilating the car with Sonny still in it. He climbs out, prepared to fight back, but he knows he's in over his head. Men like Sonny? Men like me? We know when it's too late.

Help comes, but not soon enough.

Spoiler alert: Sonny's dead.

If I ruined it for you, well, that's your own fault. The movie has been out longer than I've been alive. I've watched it a few times, mostly fueled by curiosity, picking out the shreds of accuracy that relate to my life. It might be cliché, but it's not all bullshit.

I've considered that might be how I die someday.

Wouldn't exactly be surprising, would it?

Except, unlike Sonny, I don't think I'd have a father show up to mourn me afterward.

Laughing to myself, I look away from the television as Sonny's father, the Don, weeps over him in the morgue. Yeah, not in my lifetime...

"You know, most people find this part sad, not funny."

As soon as I hear Karissa's voice, I glance her way, meeting her eyes as she regards me warily from where she lays. She's awake now, but barely. Her face is flushed, eyes bloodshot, with sleep-lines marking her cheek.

"It's not funny," I say, continuing to peel the orange. "I was just thinking about how, if that were me, Giuseppe would probably be dancing."

She rolls her eyes and shifts around on the couch, pushing the blanket off of herself. "He would not."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I mutter. "He's told me a few times that I'm already dead to him. I died two decades go. This?" I motion toward the television, where they've all already moved on, the plot moving forward. "This would probably just be a relief."

"You dying wouldn't be a relief to anybody." She pauses, her face scrunching up. She's not stupid. She knows I have enemies. "Well, I mean except for, you know, anybody who truly hates you, but that's not your father."

"If you say so."

"I do," she says, her voice stern. "So no dying. I forbid it. You've gotta stick around and grow old."

I wait for it, as soon as she says that.

As usual, she doesn't disappoint.

"Well, older, anyway," she mumbles. "You're already kind of old."

Smiling, I pull the orange apart, breaking off a wedge to eat. It's sweet and juicy. You can find navel oranges in any grocery store, but there's nothing quite like one pulled straight from a tree in Florida.

"I didn't know we had oranges," Karissa says, still eyeing me. "Hell, I didn't know you liked oranges."