Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

"Nope, no nothing. Not that I know of, anyway. I mean, it's hard to say, considering until a year ago I didn't even know my own last name."

"How did you not know your own last name?"

"Long story," I tell him. "But it boils down to my parents changing their names."

"Like, witness protection or something?"

"Or something," I mumble. "Like I said, long story, but it doesn't really matter, since I'm a Vitale now. I don't have to worry about whether or not I was ever a Rita to begin with. Family's about more than blood, anyway. That's what my husband says."

He stares at me.

And stares at me.

And stares at me some more.

He stares at me like he can't quite understand what the hell I'm going on about, and really, I can't blame him. It's certainly a convoluted story. I'm not even sure why I bothered to tell him that much, why I'm even talking to this guy, except that I feel bad for the way I reacted to him earlier.

Ugh, does it make me an even worse person that I'm humoring his company out of guilt?

"Fascinating." He holds his hand out toward me. "I'm Lorenzo, by the way, and you are…?"

I take his hand, shaking it. "Karissa."

"Pleasure to meet you, Karissa," he says. "You're certainly one interesting girl."

He lets go, pulling his hand away, and sits back in his chair, tinkering with his watch again when my food is finally delivered. The boy slides it onto the table in front of me, giving me a small smile, before scampering away to deal with others. I look down at my sandwich, my stomach growling, before I glance at the guy across from me.

I debate for a moment before saying 'fuck it' and pick up my sandwich, taking a bite of it. It's rude to eat before everyone else is served, but it's not like we're here together. We're just sharing a table.

The food is good, so good I damn near moan. It's an Italian sub, yeah, and maybe you can get them all over the city, but nothing tastes quite like the ones here. Giuseppe cooks with love, and that always rings through with his food.

I devour it in just a few minutes. Not even five, and the damn thing is gone. Lorenzo sits across from me, not paying attention, acting like I'm not even at the table with him anymore. He pulls out a phone and is typing away on it, texting or emailing or doing whatever the hell it is people who work in produce do on their phones. Getting up, I walk over to the trashcan, throwing my trash away, when the door to the place opens, a breeze filtering through. My eyes look that way just as the door closes, and I see the back of Lorenzo as he disappears outside.

Guess he got his food to go.

Sitting back down, I shove the catalogue back into my bag, as the whistling in the deli grows louder, closer to me. Standing up, I put my bag on my back when Giuseppe pops up in front of me. "Did you finally get smart?"

My brow furrows at the question. "What?"

"Did you finally get your wits about you and leave my son?"

"What? No, of course not… why would I?"

He shrugs. "Saw you sitting here with someone who certainly didn't look like Ignazio."

"Oh." I'm almost embarrassed and feel my face heat at what he might've thought when he saw that. "No, the guy just needed somewhere to sit, you know, since it's packed in here, so we shared a table."

"Huh."

Huh.

Jesus Christ, I hate that word.

I hate it when Naz uses it, and it's even worse when Giuseppe does. He sounds like maybe he doesn't believe me, like he thinks I'm lying about that. "I'm serious… he just said he needed somewhere to sit."

"I believe you," he says, holding up his hands. "It's just kind of funny."

"What's funny?"

"The fact that he needed somewhere to sit, yet he didn't even eat."

"Oh, I guess he decided to take it to go or something. Nothing weird about that."

"No, except he didn't order anything. He just came in, sat down, and then he left again. That's why I figured he was with you… wouldn't be the first time you brought someone in who refused to eat."

Giuseppe reaches over, patting my back, and offers me a smile before moving on to some other customer, the conversation dropped. I glance at the table, confused by that, before shrugging it off.

Guess he just needed to take a load off for a few minutes.

Doesn't really matter, so I shove it from my mind, heading outside. Cabs linger in the neighborhood, but I ignore them, heading for the subway to take it to Greenwich Village, using the time to think.

I've got a decision to make, and I've only got an hour left to make it.

* * *

"And you're absolutely sure about this?"

The advisor's voice is skeptical as she regards me across the small, brightly lit office. The fluorescents makes my head hurt, and I squint a bit as I look at her. It feels almost like I'm caught in a pair of headlights and I'm not sure which way to run.

"I'm sure," I lie, because truthfully? I'm not sure at all. I could be making the biggest mistake of my life. Hell, I probably am making the biggest mistake of my life. I should probably feel shame… I should probably be ashamed… but I feel nothing but a strange sense of relief.

And, ugh, annoyance at the bright ass lights.

Really, is this a goddamn interrogation?

"Well, if you change your mind, Karissa, it can easily be reversed in registration," she says, rearranging my paperwork in a folder before handing it to me, "but otherwise, I suppose we're done here."

"Thank you."

I don't wait to hear if she says I'm welcome.

It has been a weird day, and honestly, at this point, I'm just ready to go home.

It's five o'clock on the dot, probably the worst time in existence to try to get home to Brooklyn. The streets are crowded, and the subway will be packed. I call the car service as I stroll down the block, toward the nearest intersection.