Page 41 of The Fixer

“Where are we going?” She takes a reusable shopping bag from the kitchen and goes upstairs.

“My house. It’s the safest place, and I want to wake up in the morning with my woman in my bed.”

She rolls her eyes as she packs her leather jacket and dress from the night before, along with a couple of the outfits I got her. Sometimes she’s so sassy that it drives me to do crazy things, like grab her ass extra hard. My fingers dive into her supple flesh, spreading her cheeks slightly as I appreciate how good they feel in my hands. They’re two pieces of heaven on earth.

She goes up on her tiptoes to bite my lip. I catch her in a kiss that quickly consumes us. She melts into my body, and as I wrap my arms around her, I know one thing for sure.

Her stalker can come for her, but he’ll never have her. Whoever is dumb enough to fuck with what’s mine can meet a bullet from my gun or the blade of my knife. No one will ever part me from the perfect woman I’m holding in my arms.

Maddalena has been under my protection for over half the day so far, relaxing on the couch while she reads a romance book on her phone. I’ve already ordered her a new tablet to read from and a leather cover. She also took the liberty of calling Van Auso, her favorite designer under her father’s protection, so that a shopper could pick her out a new wardrobe. The sick fuck stalking her destroyed every piece of clothing she owned. It only took them two hours to curate an entirely new collection for her.

Rather than compromise a safe location or have the clothes pass through multiple hands, I decide to take Maddalena there. I know she won’t want to stay with me if she feels trapped in the house. I also know she’s badass enough to take care of herself.

How can she not when she’s carrying two holstered guns, three knives, and bear mace?

Regardless, I still want to bring an extra set of eyes. Before French moved to America, he was an operative in a secret international security organization. He’s known for his deadliness with a knife, but his real skill lies in his awareness of his surroundings. He’s extremely observant without being obvious, and one of the very few people I would trust with both my and Maddalena’s lives.

Me: What are you doing right now?

French: Eating cereal while listening to an audio book. Comma ça va?

Me: Talked to Don Vettore and I’m handling Maddalena's security from now on. She’s staying with me.

French: You talked Don Vettore into letting you protect his only daughter? His precious, dangerous, murderous princess? I’m surprised you’re still alive. That man is scary AF.

Me: Her apartment got destroyed, and she doesn’t have clothes, so we are picking up some stuff from a personal shopper. Want to play bodyguard?

French: Yeah, Max told me about that. Between us, her apartment has to be completely gutted and redone. She won’t be back there for a long time. Meet you at your house in an hour.

She’ll never go back there when I have my way about it. I may be one sick, fucked up individual, but the idea of her apartment being totaled made me way too happy. Because that meant she could stay here with me, where she belonged.

“French said he’ll meet us in an hour at my house.” The light turns green and I drive us out of the Bronx to my brownstone in SoHo.

“Okay.” Her voice is distant as she stares out of the window.

I take her hand in mine and rub my thumb over her inner wrist. She turns her head to me at the contact, and she’s so beautiful, I need to remind myself to concentrate on the road.

“Soon enough, we’ll find your stalker. This whole thing will be over and we’ll move on to the real fun. The torture.” I waggle my brows to cheer her up.

“What does that say about us that we look forward to torturing someone?”

“That we share similar interests, have questionable sanity, and both grew up in organized crime,” I comment, only half joking.

“What was your childhood like? Sometimes I feel like I know you well, and other times like this I’m reminded we only met less than two weeks ago.”

“Oh, I was your run of the mill street urchin,” I joke. Talking about my childhood always makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. “I had a mom, but she was a prostitute who forgot about me more than she took care of me. She had some addiction issues. I wandered the streets a lot and kept running into Fox, who was a high ranking member of The Brigade at the time. He took me in when I told him I was looking for food. He’s the closest thing I have to a father.”

“Awww, Fox is such a Daddy. He’s a silver fox now. I’m curious what he looked like back then.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she giggles at her own corny joke.

As much as I appreciate her humor in such an awkward situation, a tide of jealousy rises within me. Even though I know I’m being over the top, I can’t help it. The idea of her even thinking about other men being attractive makes me want to rip her seatbelt off and fuck her brains out in this cramped sports car in the middle of a crowded street. The cars honking at us to get a move on and the rageful New Yorkers cursing us out can be the soundtrack as I publicly claim her.

I shake my head to dispel my daydream. After we find her stalker, we’ll look into exhibitionism. Something tells me my little kitten will love it.

When we park in front of my house, she takes in the facade’s architecture—faded brownstone brick, large windows, and crown windowsills. There are flower boxes on the first floor windows and potted plants on the stoop. By any account, it seems like a perfectly normal person’s home, because I pay good money for someone to keep it up this way.

I walk her up the stoop and type the code into the locked panel on the door. I scan my thumbprint on it, then let us in and lock the door behind us. Her eyes bounce all around the foyer and open-concept plan on the first floor. I scan the house’s security feeds on my phone, then give her a quick tour of the house. Her favorite room is the master bedroom’s ensuite bathroom. She smiles when she sees the sunken bathtub, which has granite tiles, whirlpool jets, and a towel warming rack just off to the side.

“Can you imagine soaking together…reading one of those filthy books while I finger you underneath the soapy bubbles? I bet you anything it's better than what you read.”

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