Page 57 of The Fixer

“So why the guards then? Valentina doesn’t have bodyguards following her around, does she?”

“She does not,” he admits reluctantly, still avoiding my gaze. “I’m just being paranoid, that’s all.”

The hair at the back of my neck stands up. Leo was perfectly forthcoming when I asked him about Simon, but he’s being oddly evasive about the bodyguards.

Leo’s keeping something from me, and I don’t know what it is. And as much as I want to push, I don’t. Because he’s not the only one with secrets. I have one, too, and I hate it.

27

LEO

Iused to get nightmares for years after Patrizia died. Over and over again, I saw her getting shot. I would sit on the floor in a pool of her blood, put her head on my lap, and rage helplessly as the love of my life died from a bullet meant for me.

The nightmares restart as soon as Rosa and I set a date for the wedding. The first time it happens, I sit up, my heart racing in fear, drenched with sweat. Rosa stirs next to me and opens her eyes. “Hey,” she says sleepily. “What happened?”

“Bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

She pushes herself up and leans her head on my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” God, no. My voice comes out harsher than I intended. I get out of bed, the images still vivid and disturbing. “I’m just going to get some tea.”

She gives me a concerned look. “I’ll come with you.”

“No need, principessa. I can manage tea.”

“Can you now?” she quips, swinging out of bed. “That’s good to know. You can make me some.”

But they don’t stop. Every night, I have the same fucking nightmare. I fall asleep with dread in my heart, and like clockwork, my dreams show up to haunt me.

They’re always the same. I’m in church, standing at the altar in front of family and friends. But this time, it’s not Patrizia’s family sitting in the front row next to my mother. It’s Rosa’s parents, beaming with joy. It’s Hugh Tran fidgeting with his bowtie and Angelica sitting straight, looking around with wide, solemn eyes. The old padrino of Venice, Domenico Cartozzi, is missing. Antonio Moretti sits in his place, Dante and Tomas flanking him.

The music swells. Everyone rises to their feet and turns to face the back of the church, where a woman stands, clad in white from head to toe, a giant bouquet of roses in every shade of pink clasped in her hands, a lace veil obscuring her face.

My bride.

I turn around, my throat tight with emotion, and watch her walk down the aisle toward me, slow and sure. She’s barely halfway when a guest throws herself in her path. “No!” Francesca screams, grabbing onto the hem of her dress. “Don’t do it, Patti. He will ruin your life.”

My bride pushes her aside in dismissal, but Francesca doesn’t relinquish her grip on the lace. It rips, the noise heard above the orchestra. The guests gasp in horror, but my bride is undaunted. Her wedding dress hangs in tatters, but she continues her serene glide toward me.

The priest, in his red and gold vestments, performs the ceremony. “Do you, Leonardo Cesari, take this woman to be your wife,” he intones. “In sickness and in health, for better or worse, until death do you part.”

“I do,” I vow.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

But before I can reach for her, there’s a disturbance. A tuxedo-clad man marches down the aisle, his face obscured. He lifts up his gun and aims it at the woman by my side, but his gaze is firmly fixed on me. “You should have known that this was a mistake,” he says. “You should have known better.”

Then he shoots her.

I lift the veil, but I already know what I’m going to see. Rosa, blood bubbling between her lips, clutches the gaping hole in her stomach and stares at me, life leeching out of those beautiful brown eyes.

And when we stop the gunman, it isn’t Max Guerra. It isn’t Rocco Santini. It’s never any of them.

No.The gunman is always me.

The nightmares are hell.Every night, they wake me up and leave me a sweaty, terrified mess. But as the days go by, something magical happens.

Rosa always wakes up, no matter how hard I try not to disturb her. She always asks me if I want to talk about it and never gets annoyed when I refuse to tell her. She insists on coming downstairs with me to the kitchen, where we drink tea, eat Vietnamese snacks, and talk about everything under the sun. When we get back upstairs, we make love, then lie side by side in a sated heap and talk some more. Andas our wedding nears, this quiet, liminal time becomes my favorite part of the day.

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