Page 72 of The Fixer

He winched, though he didn’t look away. “She tried to fight back, but they had guns and all she had was a knife.”

Because Kosta didn’t like them? I couldn’t bring myself to ask it. The answer wouldn’t bring him back.

“She was taken by a deranged man. By the time Yanny and I found her, it was too late.”

A shattered breath ripped through my lungs. “He killed her?”

Jet shook his head, lips a grim line across his face. “She’s too strong for that. But he raped her before Yanny put a bullet through his head.”

Jet gathered my other hand, pulling them both to his chest.

“I can’t let that happen to you, Eliza. And I can’t lose any more men. This place? No one’s going to get in.”

Trepidation wound itself through me, tying up my heart and twisting my guts. The door to the house swung open, and an older woman stepped out. Long black hair streaked with gray was twisted in a braid hanging over her left shoulder. The woman clutched at the railing along the back deck, watching the two of us sitting in the car.

“That’s my mother,” Jet told me, and I hated the way the words strained through his throat. “She probably told the others to stay inside.”

“The others?”

Jet’s tongue prodded the corner of his lips and my anxiety stirred. He was keeping something from me, but rather than answer, he squeezed my hand.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

After grabbing my bag from the back seat, he took my hand and walked me up the steps. His mother turned to face him, and the look in her eyes nearly broke my heart.

“Jet.” She opened her arms, and his hand slid free of mine as he went to her, letting her wrap him in an embrace.

“I’m sorry, Mamma.”

“Hush.” The woman ran her hand over the back of his head. “None of that now.” She stepped back, hand raised to touch Jet’s face. But he jerked away, leaving the woman with pain etched on every inch of her face as he took a step back out of reach.

“Where’s Babbo?”

With her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a straight line, as if trying to hide the tremble his rejection had caused. She took a shaky breath, then told him, “He’s upstairs, taking a nap.”

Jet nodded, his lips pressed together just like his mom’s. Then he reached his hand out to me, pulling me by the hand to his side.

“Mamma, this is Eliza Westbrook.”

Her eyes—dark gray that held a lifetime of pain—took me in with a long, trailing glance. Before I could shift away my discomfort, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She extended her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Eliza. I’m Rachelle Pasternelo.”

It took a moment to extract myself from Jet’s grip before I could shake her hand. But when I did, I was covered in warmth, the woman gentle even though her grip was firm. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Why don’t you come inside, make yourself at home.” Rachelle gestured to Jet, but her son gave a pained look up the back of the house.

I went to his side, wrapping his hand in mine and pressing close. “It’s okay, sweetie. Everything will be okay.”

He turned to me, silver eyes catching rays of the afternoon sun that squeezed through the thick overhang of trees, shining like the lonely moon. Clutching me to him, he gave a tight smile and pecked his lips to my cheek.

Without a word, Jet pulled me into his parents’ house, though he stopped short once I’d gotten inside the door. Rachelle pushed in behind me, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she slipped around us and into the kitchen.

The full kitchen.

Four couples stood in front of us, blocking the way into the house. Jet pulled me close, keeping me from stepping back, from seeing around him, from doing anything but standing at his back.

“I thought I told you to give him some space,” Rachelle admonished, waving her hands to shoo the group away. “Go on, now. Back in the other room.”