Page 4 of The Fixer

The expectations.

The obligations.

Every last bit of it weighing down on my shoulders, smothering me like quicksand.

This was worse than death. I was stuck. There was no living, no decaying, no moving on from this life.

I’d been sentenced, my judge, jury, and executioner the same man: Paulo D’Angelo.

“The war with the Silvas has brought us unwanted attention we can’t afford.”

I tugged at the knot in my tie. Smoothed a hand down my chest as my eyes connected with my sister’s. Her smile was a barely concealed grimace, and she ducked her head as she hurried past me, moving on to the other side of the room. Toward the open casket. The group of mourners dressed in black, gossiping now that the deceased could no longer hear.

“You will call off your crew. Tell them there will be no more killing. No more disappearances. No drawing attention to themselves or to me.”

My throat constricted, the mere memory of D’Angelo’s words like a hand crushing my windpipe. The only upside was the way it kept that musty air from leaching into my lungs.

Across the room, between me and where my sister had disappeared, my father stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Beside him, my cousin, Edoardo, and another mourner stood talking.

That itch grew, my skin on fire. The need to rip off my clothes, to bare myself to a cold winter day, was as fierce as it was impossible. Not when the heat and humidity of the late August afternoon left trails of sweat trickling down my back.

“After you give them their final orders, you will not contact your crew. You will not contact the Medinas. You will stay away from everyone connected to my syndicate. For the time being, anything that needs to be done will have to go to the Ruin.”

I tugged at my collar again, trying to breathe, trying to vent some of the heat away from my burning skin.

A woman, silver hair straight and sleek as it fell down her back, turned from the casket and wobbled on her heels as she stepped away. Her slim hand dabbed at her cheeks as tears rolled down them, dripping from her chin as she tried to avert her gaze from the other mourners gathered around. I moved toward her, intending to offer my assistance, intending to help her conceal or hide or clean up. To fix whatever needed fixing. Only, a half-step into my path, two of my father’s staff intercepted the woman, one with a box of tissues, one with an extended arm.

“You will work for your father in his funeral home in New York.”

Settling back into the spot I’d been standing since the first mourners showed up, I scratched at the bead of sweat that had come to rest just above my waist, lifting the back of my suit jacket to try to get some air.

There was a problem with D’Angelo’s plan for me. My father needed no help at the home. He was fully staffed, and having another man at the table, taking the food out of the mouths of his trusted workers, was one thing he wouldn’t do.

So here I was. Standing at the head of the hallway leading to the kitchen and the restrooms, watching as my father’s staff did the jobs they were hired to do. I was unneeded. Unwanted.

Unmourned in this death I’d been cast into.

It wasn’t my life alone that D’Angelo’s words had condemned. My men, my crew, were suffering, too. I couldn’t forget the hurt I’d seen in Santini’s eyes when I told him. When I’d met him for one last drink, defying D’Angelo’s unspoken order for a phone call that would end it all.

I couldn’t do that to my friend.

And I couldn’t get the pained sound he’d made out of my head.

“Where will you go?” I’d asked him as he hovered over his glass of whiskey, looking like he was going to hurl.

His hand shook nearly as much as his head as he raised his glass to his lips. “Don’t know.” He took a long sip. Then another. Then finished the glass. With his shoulders hunched, his gaze turned to mine. “Back to the restaurant, I suppose. Though it’s the last thing I want to do.”

I knew that feeling. The same one that had been swirling around inside my gut since D’Angelo dropped his bomb on my life.

Angelo Santini’s uncle owned a restaurant. One my friend was supposed to be employed at. One he hadn’t stepped foot inside of for years. And the questions I’d seen in his eyes were surely mirrored in mine.

How could you go back to the mundane after you’d lived the life we did?

How could he go back to working in his uncle’s restaurant? How could I go back to the funeral home? How was such a switch possible after what we knew?

For as long as I could remember, there was only one thing I’d wanted to do: Work for Paulo D’Angelo. I’d followed him around every time I saw him, on wobbly legs as a toddler, with silent steps as a teen. Looking for a way to help him. To fix what needed fixing. To get me out of the life I was born into, to get me into the life I was destined to live.

I carried out his orders. Learned to anticipate his needs. Began to take care of things he didn’t know needed to be done until after I’d already finished them.