No, I see pity.

Pity.

Fuck his pity.

"She wouldn't do it," I say. "It's a misunderstanding."

Ray says nothing to me before grabbing his phone and dialing a number. As soon as the line picks up, he mumbles, "Come in here for a second, will you?"

Moments later, there's a knock at the door. It opens, and in walks Kelvin. He glances between us nervously before focusing on his boss. "Sir?"

Ray motions toward the photographs. "Is this a misunderstanding?"

"No, sir," he says right away. "I followed her straight from the house in Brooklyn… she was inside the police station thirty, maybe forty minutes, before that detective walked her out. They stood out front for a few minutes, maybe five. I couldn't hear a lot of what they were saying, but he told her to come back if she had any more information."

As soon as he finishes, Ray motions toward the door, and out Kelvin goes again, leaving us alone.

"You had her followed," I say. "You had him tail her."

"I'm surprised you didn't," Ray counters, not an ounce of remorse in his words. "So unlike you to be so trusting. It's a good thing I wasn't snowed. That girl has Rita blood pumping through her veins. You think you can believe a word she says to you? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Vitale."

I shake my head. I don't believe it. I can't. Karissa wouldn't double-cross me. She wouldn't rat me out.

She wouldn't do that.

She loves me.

Ray gathers up the pictures, shoving them back in the envelope before pushing it toward me. "Here, you keep them. Call it a souvenir. I don't need them anymore."

I ignore them, not breaking eye contact. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Nothing," he says as he relaxes back in his chair. "Love her or leave her—I don't care. It doesn't matter anymore. You say it's done? Then it's done. I'm not going to tell you to kill her. What happens now is up to you. It's your skin. You do whatever you have to do."

I snatch the envelope from the desk and stand up, walking out without saying another word to him. I pass the waitress, dropping my bottle right on her tray. Kelvin stands at the entrance to Cobalt, looking at me curiously as I approach. He expects me to go right by without acknowledging him and is caught off guard when I grab his collar and slam him against the wall. It knocks the breath from him, and he inhales sharply, fear shining from his eyes.

"Don't go near her," I tell him, my voice a low growl. "I don't want to catch you ever following her again."

"But I was… I mean… he ordered me to!"

"I don't care," I tell him. "He might kill you for not following orders, but if I catch you within a mile of her, I will kill you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." His voice trembles. "Got it."

She's in the kitchen.

I stand in the doorway, still, stoic. She's cooking, again. The scent of the food is strong and makes my stomach churn.

It's not hunger.

It's sickness.

She didn't hear me come inside, hasn't noticed me standing here yet, giving me a moment to collect myself as I watch her. She seems at ease. Happy, even. She flits around in front of the stove, wielding a spatula, a smile on her face. I wonder if she's proud of what we have, of what we're building, or if she's only happy right now because she thinks I'm not around.

I clutch the envelope in my hand at my side, not wanting to believe the evidence it contains. Looking at her, I feel myself ripped in half, my loyalty skewed. Rats die. That's just how it is. Loose lips get sewn shut before they're tossed right off the ship.

There aren't any exceptions this time.

There can't be.

Why do I always have to make her mine?

I've killed men for less than what these photographs show. I've cut their throats in their sleep for even thinking of talking to the police. But the thought of killing her, of even hurting her, guts me. I may as well stick the knife through my own chest, rip out my heart with my bare hands and watch its last beat. It's been a long time since I invested in someone the way I've invested in her. Last time, it killed me emotionally. This time, it might finally be physically.

Because failing Ray's test doesn't mean bad marks.

It means certain death.

Johnny Rita couldn't kill me, but Ray, I think, could.

Ray could bring the whole world down upon me.

And he would.

It's her life or my own.

It's crueler than an order.

He's forcing me to choose.

Her death would be my fault, my choice, solely on my hands, and I'd have to live with it every day. It would be there in the morning when I awoke and still be there at night when I tried to sleep. I'm a murderer. I won't sugarcoat the label. I wear it with pride. But this?

This is suicide.

Karissa turns, startling when she spots me standing there. Gasping, she grasps her chest, dropping the spatula in surprise. She gapes at me, and I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, fear she tries to shove away as she put that smile back on her face. It's forced now, though. There's no more happiness.

"Naz?" she says. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be, Karissa?"

"I, uh… I don't know." She reaches down and picks up the spatula again. "You look kind of, uh…"

"Kind of what?"