STORY 3: THE FIXER

Chapter One: The Witness

The blood was still wet on the pavement when Poesy turned the corner.

She stopped. Her heels clicked once, twice on the concrete, then went silent. The man on the ground wasn’t moving. The other man standing over him held a gun, barrel still smoking in the streetlight.

Their eyes met.

Poesy’s heart slammed against her ribs. She should run. Scream. Do something other than stand there like an idiot.

The man with the gun pulled out his phone.

She ran.

Her apartment was four blocks away. She made it three before a black car pulled up beside her. The back door opened.

“Get in.” The voice was calm. Cold.

Poesy kept walking.

The car crawled along next to her. “You can get in the car, or I can make you get in the car. Your choice.”

She looked. The man in the back seat wasn’t the shooter. This one wore an expensive suit, dark hair slicked back, face carved from stone. She knew who he was. Everyone who worked for the organization knew Dmitri Castellane.

The fixer.

“I didn’t see anything,” she said.

“Get in the car, Poesy.”

Hearing her name in his mouth made her skin prickle. She got in.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t even look at her. Just gave the driver an address and stared out the window.

The safehouse was in a part of the city she didn’t recognize. Old building, narrow stairs, a door with three locks. Dmitri opened them all and gestured her inside.

The apartment was small. Clean. Impersonal. Like a hotel room that forgot to have personality.

“You’ll stay here,” Dmitri said.

“For how long?”

“Until I figure out what to do with you.”

Poesy’s stomach dropped. “I told you. I didn’t see anything.”

“You saw Victor put two bullets in Sergei’s chest. You saw his face. You can identify him.” Dmitri’s eyes finally landed on her. Gray. Flat. “That makes you a problem.”

“I won’t talk.”

“Everyone talks eventually.”

“Then why not just kill me?” The words came out sharper than she meant. Fear always made her mean.

Something flickered across his face. Too fast to read. “Because I don’t kill people who work for us. Even the ones who see things they shouldn’t.”

“How generous.”

His jaw tightened. “There’s food in the kitchen. Bedroom’s through there. Don’t try to leave. There’s a man outside the door.”

“What if there’s a fire?”

“Then you burn.”

He left before she could respond.

Poesy stood in the middle of the apartment, shaking. She’d been so careful. Saved every dollar for two years. Three more months and she’d have had enough to disappear. Start over somewhere the organization couldn’t find her.

Now she was locked in a safehouse with a man who could make her vanish with a phone call.

She laughed. Bitter. Of course this was how it ended.

 Chapter Two: Confined

Dmitri came back the next morning with coffee and pastries.

Poesy was on the couch, still wearing last night’s dress. She hadn’t slept.

“Eat,” he said, setting the bag on the table.

“Not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

She glared at him. He stared back, expression blank. After a long moment, she grabbed a croissant and bit into it. Flaky. Still warm. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“I’m working on it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“So I just sit here while you decide if I live or die?”

His eyes went cold. “You’re alive right now. Be grateful.”

“Grateful.” She laughed. “Sure. Thank you so much for kidnapping me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you. I’m protecting you.”

“From who? Your own people?”

“Yes.”

The answer surprised her. She studied his face, looking for the lie. Found nothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because Victor doesn’t leave witnesses. If I hadn’t picked you up, you’d already be dead.”

The words settled over her like ice water. He was right. She knew how this worked. Loose ends got tied up. Permanently.

“So now what?” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

“Now you stay here. Keep your mouth shut. Let me handle it.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

“You don’t have another option.”

He left again. The locks clicked behind him.

Poesy threw the croissant at the door.

-----

Three days in, she was losing her mind.

The apartment was too quiet. Too small. She’d paced every inch, counted every tile in the bathroom, memorized the pattern on the ugly couch.

When Dmitri came by that evening, she was ready for a fight.

“I need clothes,” she said before he could speak. “And my phone. And something to do before I lose it completely.”

“No phone.”

“Then books. A TV. Literally anything.”

He looked at her. Really looked, for the first time since that first night. She was still in the dress, wrinkled now. Her makeup had smudged under her eyes. Her hair was a mess.

“I’ll bring clothes tomorrow,” he said.

“And books?”

“And books.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

The next day, he came back with a suitcase. Inside were jeans, shirts, underwear. All in her size. The books were thick. Classics. The kind that took time to read.

“How did you know what size?” she asked.

“I know everything about everyone who works for us.”

“Creepy.”

“Necessary.”

She picked up one of the books. Crime and Punishment. “Really?”

“You don’t like Dostoevsky?”

“I didn’t figure you for a reader.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

After that, he started staying longer.

At first it was just a few minutes. Checking on her. Making sure she had what she needed. Then it was twenty minutes. An hour. He’d sit in the chair across from her while she read. Sometimes he brought his own book. Sometimes he just watched her.

“This is weird,” she said one night.

“What is?”

“You. Sitting here. Don’t you have people to murder or whatever?”

“I don’t murder people.”

“Right. You just clean up after the people who do.”

His jaw worked. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He set down his book. “You think I wanted this life?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“I wanted to survive. Same as you.”

The comparison stung because it was true. She’d made her choices. Same as him. Different paths, same destination.

“Why don’t you leave?” she asked.

“Where would I go? You don’t just walk away from this.”

“You could try.”

“So could you. But you’re still here.”

“I was leaving. I had a plan.”

“Had?”

“Three more months and I’d have had enough saved. Then you locked me in here.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Where would you have gone?”

“Somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows my name.”

“That’s not a plan. That’s a fantasy.”

“Better than no plan at all.”

“I have a plan for you.”

Her breath caught. “What kind of plan?”

“The kind that keeps you alive.”

“Care to share?”

“Not yet.”

She threw the book at him. He caught it, reflexes too fast. For a second, something like amusement crossed his face.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Here we are.”

The air between them shifted. Thicker. Charged. Poesy’s pulse kicked up.

Dmitri stood. “I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to do something I’ll regret.”

“Like what?”

He looked at her like she’d stabbed him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to stay.”

Her heart hammered. “Maybe I do.”

“Poesy.”

“What? You’re going to lecture me about bad decisions? Really?”

“I don’t touch the workers. That’s my rule.”

“I’m not working right now. I’m locked in your safehouse. Pretty sure that makes me something else.”

His hands clenched into fists. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You already have. What’s a little more?”

-----

Chapter Three: Breaking Point

He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react. One second he was across the room, the next he was right in front of her, his hand gripping her chin. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make her breath stutter.

“You want me to hurt you?” His voice was rough. Raw.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t want this.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “I want lots of things I can’t have.”

“Why can’t you have me?”

“Because once I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

He kissed her. Hard. Angry. His mouth crushed hers, teeth catching her lip. She gasped and he took advantage, tongue sliding against hers. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes and something darker.

She grabbed his jacket, pulled him closer. He groaned into her mouth, his hands moving to her waist, her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard.

“This is a mistake,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

“I’m not a good man, Poesy.”

“I don’t want a good man.”

His control snapped. He kissed her again, backing her toward the bedroom. They hit the wall and he pinned her there, his body hard against hers. She could feel him, thick and ready against her stomach.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled against her neck.

“No.”

His laugh was dark. “Stubborn.”

“You have no idea.”

He bit down where her neck met her shoulder. Not gentle. She cried out, arching into him. The pain bloomed into pleasure, sharp and sweet.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What else do you like?”

“Find out.”

He did. His hands mapped her body, rough and claiming. He pulled her shirt over her head, unhooked her bra with practiced ease. When his mouth closed over her nipple, she moaned.

“Quiet,” he said. “The guard outside doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Make me quiet.”

He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her sounds. His hand slid down her stomach, popped the button on her jeans. When his fingers slid inside her underwear, they both groaned.

“So wet,” he breathed. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the car.”

“Liar. You wanted this before that. I saw the way you looked at me.”

He had. She’d noticed him months ago. The way he moved through the club like he owned it. The way everyone got out of his way. Power and danger wrapped in an expensive suit.

“I thought about you,” she admitted.

“Yeah? What did you think about?”

“This. Your hands on me.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He circled her clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate. She rocked against his hand, desperate.

“Please,” she gasped.

“Please what?”

“More. I need more.”

He slid two fingers inside her. She was so ready it was embarrassing. He worked her with steady strokes, his thumb still circling.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. He looked almost feral.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said. “Desperate for me. Begging.”

“I’m not begging.”

He stopped moving.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered.

“That sounds like begging.”

“Dmitri, please.”

“Better.”

He started again, faster now. The pleasure built and built until she was shaking. Right on the edge.

“Come for me,” he said.

She did. The orgasm tore through her, her body clenching around his fingers. He worked her through it, drawing it out until she was boneless.

When she came down, he was watching her. Something in his expression that looked almost tender.

“Bedroom,” he said.

“Bossy.”

“You have no idea.”

He picked her up like she weighed nothing. Carried her to the bed. Laid her down gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.

She reached for his shirt. He let her unbutton it, push it off his shoulders. His chest was scarred. Old wounds. She traced them with her fingers.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No. Does this?” She gestured at herself. At the body she’d sold, the skin other men had touched.

“No.” He caught her hand, pressed it against his chest. Over his heart. It was racing. “Nothing about you bothers me. That’s the problem.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because I’m going to want you again. And again. Until wanting turns into needing. And need is dangerous.”

“For who?”

“Both of us.”

He kissed her. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was trying to memorize her. His hands moved over her skin, gentle now. Learning her.

She pushed at his pants. He helped her get them off, then his underwear. She’d felt him against her but seeing him was different. He was thick, hard, a bead of moisture at the tip.

She reached for him. He caught her wrist.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because if you touch me right now, this will be over too fast.”

He reached for his discarded pants, pulled out a condom. Rolled it on with shaking hands. Then he settled between her legs, the head of him pressing against her.

“You sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

He pushed in slowly. The stretch was perfect, almost too much. She breathed through it, her hands on his shoulders.

“Okay?” he asked.

“More than okay.”

He sank in all the way. They both groaned. He held still, giving her time to adjust.

“Move,” she said.

He did. Slow at first, then harder when she urged him on. Each thrust hit deep, perfect. She wrapped her legs around him, changing the angle.

“God,” he breathed. “You feel so good.”

She couldn’t answer. Could only hold on as he took her apart. The headboard slammed against the wall. She didn’t care. Let the guard hear. Let everyone hear.

“Touch yourself,” he said.

She slid her hand between them. Found the spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. The combination of him inside her and her own fingers was too much.

“I’m close,” she gasped.

“Wait for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” His hand wrapped around her throat. Not squeezing. Just there. A promise. “Wait.”

The pressure made everything sharper. She was right on the edge, shaking with the effort of holding back.

“Now,” he growled. “Come now.”

She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, stronger than before. He followed her over, her name on his lips, his body shuddering.

They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard. His hand stroked her hair, her back. Gentle touches that didn’t match the man she thought he was.

-----

Chapter Four: Freedom

“I’m getting you out,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Out of the city. New identity. Enough money to start over.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you deserve better than this life.”

“What about you?”

“I’m already damned. But you still have a chance.”

Tears burned her eyes. “Come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll never stop looking. And if I run, they’ll know it’s because of you. They’ll find you just to hurt me.”

“So that’s it? One night and then you throw me away?”

“I’m not throwing you away. I’m setting you free.”

She kissed him. Hard. Angry. Sad. “I don’t want to be free without you.”

“You’ll forget about me.”

“Will you forget about me?”

His arms tightened around her. “No. Never.”

They made love twice more that night. Once with her on top, taking what she needed. Once with him behind her, his mouth at her ear, telling her all the things he’d do to her if they had more time.

In the morning, he was gone.

-----

A week later, a woman came to the safehouse. Handed Poesy an envelope. Inside was a passport, cash, and a note in sharp handwriting.

*Go somewhere warm. Somewhere no one knows your name. Live the fantasy.*

There was no signature. There didn’t need to be.

Poesy left that night. Flew to a beach town where the sun always shone and no one asked questions. She started over. Opened a small cafe. Made friends. Built a life.

But sometimes, late at night, she’d think about gray eyes and gentle hands and a man who’d damned himself to save her.

And she’d wonder if he ever thought about her too.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​