Don't look.
Don't think.
Don't breathe.
Don't.
I chant it in my head, tears streaking my cheeks as he leads me right out the front door. His car is parked nearby. We don't pass another living soul, and I'm grateful for it.
Something tells me a witness tonight won't live to see tomorrow.
I cry to myself the whole way to Brooklyn, my body shaking and teeth chattering. I clench my jaw to keep from making any noise. Bile burns my chest, my throat, scorching my insides, sending me up in flames. I nearly lose it a few times in the car, and Naz says nothing, his gloved hand reaching over and grasping the back of my neck. His touch is firm as his fingers knead the muscles. It eases my headache and calms the fire raging inside of me, but I only cry harder.
Why does his touch affect me this way?
Those vengeful hands killed a man tonight, they took the life of another, and yet they soothe me like nothing ever has before.
I hate myself for it.
When we get to the house, he presses a button on the visor, the garage door opening. He pulls the car in before closing the door again, cutting the engine. He sits there, staring straight out the windshield, his voice detached. "I should kill you."
Despite my attempt to stay silent, I whimper at those words.
"I should wrap my hands around your neck and steal your last breath," he says. "Bleed you dry, drain you of every last drop of that filthy Rita blood. You drugged me… betrayed me… so you could run off, put yourself at risk. You lied to me, when I've done nothing… nothing… to hurt you!"
His voice raises, anger seeping into the words.
"I should kill you," he says again, opening his door. "I fucking wish I had it in me to do it."
He steps out, slamming the car door behind him, and heads straight inside without waiting for me. I break down as soon as he's gone, sobbing loud and hard, gasping as I try to catch my breath. It rushes out of me, purging like a flood, as the tears fall and my chest caves in until there's nothing left inside of me.
Nothing at all.
I fold into myself, curling up on the seat, getting lost in the darkness, in the silence, until my eyes dry on their own and my muscles stop fighting the stiffness, succumbing to the anguish.
An hour passes.
Or two.
Maybe it's even three.
I feel like I've been beaten to a pulp, my bones brittle and on the verge of shattering when I finally step out of the car.
I go inside.
There are no lights on in the house, and I don't hear him, but I seem to know instinctively he's in the den. He always is. I consider going upstairs, going somewhere else, anywhere else, but I'm weak.
I'm weak, and I'm scared, but I'm not a coward. I may have Rita blood in me, but that's not all I am. I'm that man's daughter, but I'm not him. And maybe that makes me stronger than I think.
I stroll that way and peer in. I don't find him at his desk, as I expect. He's sitting on the couch, his head down, cradled in his hands, the gloves discarded on the cushion beside him, lying with a small black gun. I've never seen it before, never even knew he owned a gun. Exhausted, and terrified, I slink to the floor right there in the open doorway, leaning back against the doorframe.
I'm at his mercy now.
"How did you know?" My voice is scratchy, but it surprisingly still works. "How did you find me?"
"Your phone."
I stare at him in the darkness. "My phone?"
"I tracked your phone. I knew it was only a matter of time before you led me right to them."
"You used me." I don't know why that stings so much, but it stirs up my guilt, like it's my fault this all happened. "You used me to find them."
"I tried not to involve you," he says. "I did everything I could not to drag you into it."
"How can you say that?"
"Because it's true." The hard edge, the hint of anger, is back in his voice, as he raises his head to look at me. "It would've been so simple to force you to lead me to your mother, and it would've been easy to get rid of both of you. I could've ended this in a day. But then I saw you, I watched you, and I realized…"
"Realized what?"
"That you had no idea who you were," he says. "You had no idea where you came from. And I shouldn't have cared… it shouldn't have mattered… but you reminded me of someone else, someone who died because of who her father was."
"That's why you couldn't kill me," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I remind you of her."
"No, I couldn't hurt you because you remind me of her," he says. "I would've still killed you… but you would've never seen it coming. You wouldn't have suffered, not like she did. So I did everything I could not to involve you, so you never would've known. I had Santino steal your school files, I followed you, I searched addresses, but your mother was smart. Had you not moved here, had you not walked into Santino's classroom, looking exactly like a woman we all used to know, I probably never would've even caught her trail."
The guilt from a moment ago amasses until it makes it hard to breathe. "Then why didn't you kill me?"
"You know why."
"Because you fell in love with me." My voice is so quiet I'm surprised he hears it. "You still got your revenge."
"No, I didn't. I punished him, instead."
"What's the difference?"
"Depends on who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
"He didn't suffer," Naz says. "Not as much as I did."
I want to tell him I don't think he would have suffered either way, but I don't think it's worth the breath. Killing us wouldn't have affected John as much as I think Naz believes. Not all men hold the ones they love so closely. If my father could so easily walk away, could live his life surrounded by white picket fences in suburbia, knowing his family was struggling to live, removing the burden of us from his world would've just been a blessing.
Naz knows that deep down inside. He's told me himself—only a coward leaves his family. Nobody mattered more to John than himself.
Maybe that's what stopped Naz, the truth that my father didn't really care about me. Maybe it wasn't love that saved me. Maybe it was the lack of it.
I don't know.
"I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed.
I hate it.
I hate him.
"I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't… you said you meant it… but I know you do."
"But I love you, too… I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I still love you somehow. It's just… how can I feel both ways?"
"Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate… it's not a far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive, sweetheart. You never had a chance."
A chill flows down my spine as he stands up. I watch him warily when he turns my way, seeing the darkness lurking in his eyes. "What am I supposed to do now?"
He steps toward me, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. I watch incredulously as he drops it on my lap, stepping right over me like it's nothing. I glance down, blinking with surprise when I see that it's my engagement ring.
"You set a date for the wedding," he says. "That's what you do."
Vitale.
He traces the name again and again, the rough texture of his hands skimming along my back. It's as if he's branding me with his touch, claiming me as his with the signature of his fingertips, an ironclad contract forged with blood, sweat, and tears.
My tears, usually.
It was almost my blood, too.
According to Greek Mytholog
y, people were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Four hands to touch with. Two mouths to speak. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.
I learned that from Plato's Symposium during my time in Santino's class.
It's a beautiful concept: your soul mate, a part of you, existing in the world inside of another body. People spend their entire lives searching for the one, the one who can complete them, but I never had to look. Mine started chasing me before I was even born.
I once thought the reality couldn't be as fascinating as the fantasy, but I was wrong. So very wrong. It might be the case for other people, but they don't know Ignazio Vitale. They haven't met him. They haven't seen what I see in his eyes.
He's my other half.
Maybe the stories got it wrong, I think.
Maybe Cinderella didn't live happily ever after.
Maybe, come midnight, she wanted to run away.
Maybe her prince wouldn't let her.
Mine didn't.
Vitale.
No sooner I figure out what he's writing along my back, his hand leaves my flesh, the bed shifting as he rolls over, finally turning away from me. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, but it doesn't last long.
The moment he pulls away, I start to miss his touch.
For as much as I hate him, I also love him.
I love him.
I love him.
And I fucking hate that, too.
He's a monster, wrapped up in a pretty package.
But I find myself wondering at times like this, when I feel the distance between us, if maybe in his eyes, the real monster is me.
Coming Fall 2014
The thrilling conclusion to Naz and Karissa's story.
Acknowledgments
To Sarah Anderson, the only person who knew I was writing this book as it was happening. You endured my rants and supported the story since day one, somehow managing to not strangle me when I flounced the manuscript for like two weeks, declaring I was never looking at the damn thing again. You have the patience of a saint.
To my family, for their endless support and acceptance that some days, when the characters were talking, the dishes just weren't going to be done (or the laundry… or the cooking… or really anything). To my spawn, for occasionally surviving off of nothing but pizza for the same reason as above. I owe you a nice dinner (that someone else cooks). To my brother, the first person I ever signed a book for, and to his wife and kids… I couldn't ask for a better support system with you guys. My entire family rocks. Love you all.
To my mother, who would've probably read this book and then gave me "the look" that mothers give their children. I miss you. And to my father… if you read this book, let's never talk about it, okay?
To my best friend, Nicki Bullard, who keeps me sane through the insanity. I honestly couldn't ask for a better friend. You're the best "assistant" around. Here's to many more road trips and book signings and crazy memories in the future. Love you to pieces, bitch.
I want to give a special thank you the bloggers out there, who dedicate so much time to books out of love for reading. You all are phenomenal, and I wish I could name you all, but trust me when I say authors appreciate you more than you'll ever know.
(Special shout out to my wonderful street team, and to Heather Maven, for working tirelessly for the books she loves. Much love also goes to Author 101 on Facebook… you ladies are wonderful.)
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
Table of Contents
J. M. Darhower, Monster in His Eyes
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