Page 53 of The Fixer

Events are speeding along faster than I can keep up. I look at Rosa. “It’s up to you, principessa.” Today, she’s wearing a simple white tank top and a bright orange skirt, big golden hoops in her ears, the merest hint of lip gloss on her lips, and her lustrous hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks like sunshine personified, and I wish I were home, lifting her up on her sewing table, spreading her legs, and feasting on her. My cock stirs in interest at the idea, and I grit my teeth and try to calm down.

We pretty much fucked in every room in the house this weekend. I couldn’t keep my hands off her. There had been a small part of me that hoped that sleeping with her once would get her out of my system, but that myth has been thoroughly debunked over the last three days. The craving has only grown stronger.

Rosa bites her lower lip in a now-familiar gesture. “Let’s do it.”

Tomas wandersinto my office a few minutes later. “Did you have to breakbothhis wrists?” he asks with a roll of his eyes.

It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s talking about.Groff.Was that only four days ago? It feels like an eon. “Yes,” I reply. “I absolutely did. How did you find out about that?”

“I went to see him on Saturday.”

I tilt my head. “What did you do, Tomas?”

He shrugs. “What I always do. I offered a stick and a carrot. I told him if he stepped foot in Venice again, I would have him killed, and then I bought out his share in the gym.”

“You paid his asking price? A million euros for a half-share in a small gym?” It’s not unusual for Tomas to throw money at a problem, but buying a share of a business is extremely unusual. “Why?”

“A million two,” he corrects. “I don’t like rapists.” Almost as an aside, he adds, “Interesting woman.”

“Who is?”

“Alina Zuccaro.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “You’re looking a little shell-shocked, by the way.”

He bought the gym for a woman.Interesting.I’d give him a hard time about it, but Tomas is deeply private and never discusses his personal life. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s talked about a womanonce,and that was only when we were both very drunk.

“Rosa and I have set a wedding date. October sixth. Clear your schedule.”

He jots down the date on his phone. “That’s coming up quick,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

I don’t know. “I never thought I’d get married again.”

He surveys me thoughtfully. “You don’t look broken up,” he says. “You look content. Congratulations, Leo. I’m happy for you. Truly happy.” His expression turned serious. “Have you told Francesca? You don’t want her to be blindsided by this news.”

Oh fuck. Francesca. If Violette is mailing invitations tonight, I can’t afford to put this off. I get to my feet, not looking forward to the next few hours. “I better go see her now.”

Francesca livesin Murano in a red stucco house with gray shutters. I knock at her front door, and she opens it, her expression neutral as she surveys me. “Leo.”

“Can I come in?”

She steps aside, and I enter, ducking my head under the doorjamb. She waves me to the couch, but I don’t sit. I don’t want to be here. Looking at Francesca’s face is painful. There was only a year between the sisters, and this is what Patrizia would have looked like if she’d lived. Her black hair would have had a few strands of silver woven through it, the way Francesca’s does. Her body would have softened into womanhood, her hips comfortably wide, and there would have been laughter lines around her eyes.

I haven’t seen Francesca in three years. Maybe four. I used to see her more often but after that last time. . . She had a fight with her husband, drank a few too many glasses of wine, knocked on my door, and made a clumsy, drunken pass at me.

I never get involved with married women. I tell myself it’s because getting between a couple is messy and complicated because maybe I am, like Rosa, a little bit of an idealist about marriage. But Francesca caught me at a bad time. It was the anniversary of my wedding, I was grieving, and she looked so much like her sister. . .

So when she kissed me, I kissed her back.

But it wasn’t Francesca I wanted; it was her long-dead sister.

I regained my senses before we slept together, but it was close. Ever since then, I’ve given her a wide berth, and she’s done the same.

“How are Alphonso and Beatrice?” I ask politely. “Beatrice is what, twelve?”

“Thirteen,” she replies. “She’s a teenager now, as she enjoys pointing out. They’re both well.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I was just going out.”

“I won’t keep you.” I take a deep breath. “I’m getting married next month. I wanted you to find out from me.”

“You’re getting married,” she repeats. Her mouth twists, and tears well up in her eyes. “Well, isn’t that fantastic? My sister is dead, and if that’s not enough, you’re trampling all over her memory.”

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