Page 21 of The Fixer

No matter how much I wanted it, or how much he deserved it, I couldn’t force a smile. “Times have changed,” I told him, rubbing at an ache in my chest.

“But my loyalties haven’t. You need me, you call. I’ll come running. I don’t care what you told me back at that bar. This isn’t about laying low and keeping our noses clean. This is about doing what needs to be done. We’re in this together. For life.”

“D’Angelo said—”

Santini leaned in close, his voice a harsh whisper. “Fuck D’Angelo.” He jabbed his finger against the top of the box. “He doesn’t have the fuckin’ balls to tell me himself that this is the end? Then this isn’t the end. The end of this war doesn’t mean it’s the end of this life. We still have needs. We’ve still got our lives. And there are still people out there who need us to take care of them.”

While my thoughts turned to Eliza, I knew he meant something else. The world was full of all kinds of people, and in the D’Angelo Syndicate, it was our job to take care of the bad.

That elusive smile quirked one side of my lips. “Don’t be caught saying that too loud.”

Santini’s eyes narrowed before he glanced up at my ear, where I usually wore my comms during a job. “We got a problem with your friend?”

“Not a chance,” I promised. Mateo Medina might have earned himself a place in the Syndicate, but his were loyalties I’d never question.

Santini raised his chin, his lips pressed flat as he gestured to the box under his arm. “You want me to take this to Saul’s?”

Saul, my uncle, had followed in the family business. He owned a funeral home and crematorium not far from the Medinas’ place. The furnaces had proved more than useful, and during the short-lived war on the Silvas, the destination had become like a second home.

“Not yet,” I told him, rubbing my jaw and tossing a glance over my shoulder, into the quiet apartment behind me. “I need to…”

“Yeah. What’s that about?”

I shook my head. “I’ll tell you as soon as I figure it out myself.”

“You do that.”

With the door closed and locked behind Santini, I cast a glance around the apartment. Along with removing Mr. Jingles and her mess from under the couch, we’d cleaned up the food Eliza had left out and scrubbed the wood floors to clear any potential traces that might have remained behind. An unfamiliar ache sat inside my chest at the thought of her locking herself inside her room, but the clean-up was something I wouldn’t leave for her.

Not after everything she’d been through already.

Satisfied that the job was done, I crossed the small living room, through Eliza’s bedroom, to the locked door of the bathroom where she hid. She’d been in there, crying quietly, from the moment I arrived, and I refused to force myself in, to force her to come out and deal with the mess of yet another loss. But I needed to know she was okay. I needed to go to her, to see the glittering gold in her eyes, the sad, shy smile on her face, the cinnamon freckles that dotted her skin.

I needed her, and I only hoped she might need me, too.

Pulling an oblong hunk of metal from my pocket, I unfolded my lock pick and let myself in. Eliza was curled up on the floor of her shower, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms tucked under her head. Those beautiful eyes were closed, and a temporary peace graced her features.

My life had often been dominated by action. By the need to do, to move, to get things done. But seeing Eliza asleep gave me pause, and for a moment, all I could do was stare.

For a moment, I dared to dream. To imagine myself in a different world, to fantasize about the things I wanted to do.

But only for a moment.

Those dreams and fantasies were more dangerous than the life I lived, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that to her.

As gently as I could, I lifted Eliza from the tub. Her weight in my arms was pure and solid and left me feeling complete. But as I lowered her to her bed, something inside of me hollowed out.

She stirred from her slumber. A curl of her hair tumbled over her face, and I reached a finger out to brush it away. The peace that had settled upon her suddenly ripped apart, a fissure forming as reality rent and sliced.

“Jet!” She scrambled up, jerked back, scurried over the mattress until she was pressed to the head of the bed.

And that, right there, was an oil rig drill bit grinding through my chest.

I stumbled back with the force of it, gasping for a breath too far out of reach.

Lifting a hand to my chest, I rubbed at the ache that had become a throbbing pain.

I wouldn’t.