He's passive now, his voice quiet and his words polite.

I rattled him.

When my drink is ready, I nod to Paul in greeting before walking outside. I stroll around the corner, to where my car is parked in the alley, and take a sip of the drink. Disgusting.

I throw it right in the Dumpster.

Paul gets off a few minutes later. I'm standing in the alleyway behind the café, leaning against the brick building beside Paul's car. He's too cheap to pay for street parking so he leaves it parked cockeyed not far from the Dumpster. He steps out, not paying any attention, phone glued to his ear as he rambles on to someone. He turns to head for his car, keys in hand, and gasps loudly, startled by my presence. The phone slips, crashing to the alley.

Before he can reach for it, I push away from the wall, stepping right on the phone, smashing it beneath my shoe. His eyes widen, horror flashing in their depths.

He doesn't have time to react before I grab a hold of him. Arms around him, my gloved hands grasp his throat, fingers going right for the jugular.

Ten seconds.

That's it.

Ten measly seconds and his body goes limp, falling unconscious in my arms. Karissa fights me in bed more than he just did. I drag him around the side of the Dumpster, where my car awaits, trunk already open. Picking him up, I shove him inside, grabbing a roll of duct tape. I unwind it, securing his wrists and ankles together before wrapping it around his head, covering his mouth and nose.

He'll be dead within minutes from oxygen deprivation.

Slamming the trunk closed, I toss the rest of the duct tape in the dumpster and climb back in my car, driving away from the alley.

Easy and clean, relatively painless, but that matters little to me. I won't watch him die, won't bask in the afterglow, but I would if I could.  If I had my way, I'd make it slow and excruciating, but I'm short on time.

I have somewhere to be.

Glancing at my watch, I sigh.

I'm already going to be late.

It takes nearly an hour for me to make it back to Brooklyn with traffic. I park the car in the driveway and head right inside, opening the front door and stalling. Karissa stands in the living room, wearing a red dress and a pair of high heels, her hair down and slightly curled. She's wearing make-up… a lot of make-up, her lips the same blood red shade as her dress. She's holding her phone to her ear and turns to me just as mine starts ringing in my pocket.

I don't bother looking. The moment she lowers her phone and touches the screen, mine silences.

She was calling me.

"I was wondering where you were," she says.

"I had something to take care of," I say, shutting the door behind me as my eyes scan her. "You look beautiful."

She fidgets with her clothing a bit. "It's your favorite dress."

I raise my eyebrows with surprise. "Is it?"

"Yes." She looks at me incredulously. "You said it was, anyway. It's the one I wore in Vegas."

"Ah, then definitely my favorite." I don't pay attention to what she wears, but that day was certainly one of my favorites. "So are you ready?"

"No." Her voice is firm, the word accompanied by the adamant shake of her head.

"No?"

"No," she says again. "I'm not going."

"You're not going?"

"No, I'm not," she says. "This isn't my thing, anyway. I don't see why I have to go."

"You don't see why you have to go?"

"Yes, so I refuse. Tell him I decline his invitation."

I stare at her for a moment. I can tell she's uneasy. I'm anxious enough at the moment without having to absorb her nerves also. "You want me to tell Raymond Angelo that you're refusing his request to attend?"

"Yes," she says, wavering for a second before continuing, "well, no… you couldn't put it another way?"

"What other way?"

"I don't know." She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Tell him I'm sick. I have the flu or something. I'm puking all over the place."

I wish I could, and I would if I could, but Ray is no fool. Her not showing up would be viewed as a personal snub, and I'm just now getting him to where he'll consider her existence as more than temporary.

I glance at my watch again. The dinner party starts in fifteen minutes.

"We won't stay long," I reassure her. "Let's just make an appearance to humor the man."

She scrunches up her nose but doesn't argue, heading right past me out the door. I follow her, locking up the house, and give a glance toward the trunk as I head for the car. She's already in the passenger seat when I slip inside, and I don't hesitate, starting the car up and pulling away.

I'm distracted during the drive, frequently glancing in the rear view mirror, listening intently for any sounds from the trunk. All is silent and still around me, except for Karissa's mindless chatter.

She's talkative today.

Nerves, I gather, but it does nothing to soothe my own. I drum my gloved fingers against the steering wheel as I wait at red lights, continuing to watch all around me, when her voice grows louder, practically growling. "Ignazio!"

I turn to her, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"That's what I'm wondering," she says. "I've been talking to you for the past twenty minutes and I don't think you've heard a word I've said."

"That's because I haven't."