Page 3 of The Fixer

I liked her. Not even twenty years old, and yet there was a fight inside of her I couldn’t help but admire.

My smile dropped. I only hoped her dream wasn’t squashed like mine.

Aunt Sera turned away as the staff brought out dinner plates, covered in shiny silver domes, and placed them before us. Conversation on our end of the table quieted as those domes were removed, revealing a dinner fit for a king.

Or a last meal.

After cutting into the chicken spiedini, I twirled my fork, gathering some of the angel hair pasta and amogio sauce. Beside me, Sera prattled on at my uncle, Saul, on her other side, while Zee ate silently, and Clara stared longingly at her wine glass. For a moment, everyone quieted, eating their food. Then, from near the head of the table, Mateo sucked in a sharp breath, followed by a loud, wet cough as he fumbled to set his glass down.

Zee was out of his chair in an instant, Clara forgetting her drink as she followed suit. All eyes turned to Mateo as he coughed, hand gripping his chest. And all minds surely turned to the bullet that had pierced him there only two months before. The bullet I hadn’t been able to stop.

Queenie and Lorenzo reached for my friend as Paulo rose from his chair, ready to help. But as everyone’s attention was on him, Mateo’s watery eyes turned to me.

Our gazes locked, and I knew he knew.

Lifting his hand from his chest, Mateo pulled his attention from me, placating the table with quiet words that he was okay as his other hand reached for the earpiece I knew he had hidden in his ear. He adjusted it, swinging his eyes to me once or twice as everyone else settled back into their seats.

Despite the superb quality and taste, I had no appetite for the fare on my plate. All I wanted was to head out to the country, to the Medinas’ warehouse I was no longer allowed near, so I could blow off some steam. Barring that, I’d settle on drowning my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

Mateo excused himself from the table to clean himself up, and I shifted my food around my plate, taking small bites between long gulps of my wine. As those around me finished and the staff started clearing the dishes for dessert, Paulo stood at his spot at the head of the table. He gave a meaningful look to Mateo, and the man gave a nod as he regained his seat.

Few would know what that nod was for. Few knew that it was Mateo, all those years before, that I entrusted to help me sweep the house for bugs that might allow those who didn’t want the best for D’Angelo’s syndicate to listen in. With the changes that had taken place, with the knowledge that Mateo was the one behind so much of my success, Paulo had taken that control from my hands and placed it directly in Mateo’s.

Paulo turned back to the table, then tapped his fork against the bowl of his wine glass.

“My family, my friends. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Thank you for all you do. We wouldn’t be where we are today without every single person here at my table.”

The man raised his glass, toasting the room, before bringing it to his lips. When he continued, his face looked grave.

“We’ve been through a war. One that we won. One that brought down one of the biggest threats to me, to each of you, and to our allies. By taking lives, we have saved countless more. Some of us have suffered,” he said, his gaze finding first Mateo, then Rolly, before shifting to my end of the table. “And some of us have more sacrifices to make. But we will be stronger for it.”

Those gathered at the table murmured their agreement, some raising their wine glasses in the air while others raised them to their lips. I twisted the stem of my empty glass between my fingers, wishing for something much, much stronger than a glass of wine.

“While the war with the Silvas was successful, it has brought us, as a whole, under the watchful eyes of the authorities. Because of that, I’m asking everyone here, and everyone in the Syndicate, to do everything possible to lay low. We cannot afford to draw more attention, not after all that has happened.”

Paulo lowered his gaze to the table. Glanced at his daughter as Queenie reached for his arm. He answered her smile with a small one of his own, then straightened where he stood.

“Be vigilant,” he said to the room. “Keep your eyes open and your mouths closed. Go on about your lives as if the war did not affect you, and never tell anyone different. We will make it through this, and because you put an end to Marius and Carlo Silva, the world will be a better place.”

I didn’t touch my dessert. Didn’t join the conversation and celebration around me. With my glass refilled, I drowned my sorrows until my wine was gone. And as thankful as I was for the quiet at my end of the table, the awkward silence became too much.

As soon as I could, I rose from the table and began saying my goodbyes. There were things I needed to do. People I needed to talk to. A world I needed to live in for one more moment before it was gone. I said my goodbyes, then headed through the crowd gathering near the front door.

A hand gripped my shoulder, stopping me from reaching for the handle. Mateo pulled me back, leaning in close, voice quiet and knowing.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmured, a man with all the answers, and I swallowed hard at the bitterness the night had left in my throat. “You’ll do what you have to, just like you always do.”

I could only hope that was the truth.

2

Jet

It was everything I never wanted. The acidic scent of chemicals lacing the slightly musty air. The wallpaper and drapes that felt like they were a century old, the carpet newer but just as worn, the whole lot of it covered in an ancient dust that refused to be wiped away. Then there were the people loitering about, looking for a place to lay their grief, each trying to pretend theirs was greater than anyone else.

My skin itched with it. Like the smell had worked its way into my body, the irritation something that didn’t leave me when I left here. Like that scent was just the precursor to the hell that was yet to come.

Fake smiles and side-eyed glances. Wringing hands and carefully weighed words. Excuses and platitudes handed to me like they were a gift I was supposed to accept and love.