Page 3 of Dirty Secrets

“Even you?” I ask with a waggle of my eyebrows.

Cesare shoots me a knowing look before answering. “Even me, Kessa.”

As long as I’ve known the Valenti family, I’ve known they’re not like other families in Manhattan. You would think with five sons that Cesare’s mom would have had to work, but she was a proud stay-at-home mom that made pasta from scratch and spent her Sundays making sauce. Their father gave them a beautiful home, paid for their college degrees, and never worked out of an office. I knew the rumors about their family doing bad stuff to get where they are today, but Cesare isn’t like that. “How’s the physical therapy office coming along?”

Despite always seeming to have a hand in the family business, Cesare has branched out like his brother, Luca. While Luca went into politics, Cesare started using his degree in kinesiology. The two of them make a decent living away from their brothers, and I admire Cesare for separating himself from Raniero. His older brother is a great guy, and he’s donated quite a bit to Bluemont Elementary since I started working here, but I know that his practices are a little darker than I’d prefer to get involved with.

“There’s been some setbacks on the building’s renovations. New code laws have gone into effect since the building was originally constructed. If I want to renovate, I have to adhere to current codes, which means bringing a lot of stuff up-to-date. The HVAC system, for instance,” he says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “HVAC back in the early 1900s wasn’t a thing, and I’m being quoted several thousand dollars if I want it installed properly.”

I wince just thinking about what it will cost to get everything up to code. I don’t know how people own businesses or run restaurants when it sounds like more money goes out the door than comes in. “You can’t just invest in some fans and call it good?” I joke as we turn onto the canned vegetables aisle.

Cesare throws a few cans of green beans into his stuffed handheld basket. “If I thought I could get away with it, believe me, I would.” He starts shifting around his items to put the cans on the bottom so they don’t bruise his fruit.

“Just put your basket in my cart.” He can’t ever plan anything. I’m still surprised that his brothers left him in charge of planning Luca’s bachelor party.

“You sure?” He’s already setting the basket in the largest part of my cart, moving my things to the back. “Because I can carry it. I knew what could happen.”

I wave him off as I toss a few cans of beans into my cart. “I think I’m going to make chili this week.” Cesare points out that I can’t have chili without cinnamon rolls. “Obviously. That’s a given.” We had a foreign exchange student in junior high that had no idea what to expect when they came to Kansas. The biggest shock was lunchtime when the cafeteria would serve chili and cinnamon rolls side-by-side. He was blown away by the notion that midwesterners ate breakfast and lunch together. I always think about that when we serve it at school.

“Anyway,” Cesare changes the subject, “what happened at school today that has you so stressed out? Do I need to fight a child? I’m not afraid to fight a kid, Kessa.”

He always knows how to make me smile. “Fighting is the problem,” I tell him about the four kids that wound up in my office this morning. “I thought if I got them one-on-one, they’d rat out the person that started all this, but they didn’t! Everyone stuck together and said nothing, even when I suspended them for two days. I think there’s some kind of elementary school fight club, Cesare, I really do. How else do you explain this?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, Kes. I’d say kids just being kids, but I agree; I think one of them would have rolled on his buddy if that was the case.”

“The parents are going to crucify me. I’m going to have a revolt on my hands. I’m going to lose my job and—”

Cesare cuts me off with a raised hand. “No,” he adds patiently, “you’re going to be fine. A few kids fighting is a normal occurrence. Now when a whole grade starts throwing hands, you might need to worry about a parental uprising.”

The rest of our conversation is cut off by the sound of gunfire coming from the front of the store. Terror rips through my chest as Cesare grabs me and pulls me to the ground.

“Everybody on the ground.” A voice yells from the front of the store. “Don’t even think about calling the cops, or we’ll fucking shoot you.”

I’ve been through a dozen active shooter drills at school, but nothing prepares you for when oneactuallyhappens. And when you’re at a grocery store, you can’t run into a classroom and lock the door. “Cesare,” I whimper.

“Shhh.” He grabs my hand and starts pulling me to the back of the store. “Don’t make a sound.”

A round of gunfire goes off, followed by a volley of screams. “No, we should just lie down,” I argue.

But then he gives me a look. And there’s something in his eyes that makes me believe he knows what he’s doing. “Stay behind me,” he whispers. “And don’t let go.”

People are crying, and I hear two male voices ordering people around. I don’t know what will happen when they get to us, but I don’t intend to find out.

2

CESARE

Iknew that Kessa would be at Dillons today. Every Tuesday night, she goes grocery shopping after school and orders a pizza from Papa Murphy’s. While her pizza bakes, she puts away her groceries and does her dishes. Francesca Scot has become the kind of woman that lives and breathes by her weekly schedule.

That’s why it was so easy to hire some guys to shoot up the joint. They’re the cleanest guys I could find with the cleanest guns money could buy. I’m talking bankers and CPAs that have never worked a hard job a day in their lives. Assuming they stick to the plan, they won’t even face jail time when this is all over. They’ll get out of here before the cops arrive and go on their merry way with a story to tell their grandchildren.

I didn’t account for human nature, though. Human fucking nature will ruin us every God damn time.

* * *

The plan was for me to lead Francesca to the back of the store, into the warehouse, and be just on our way out the door when the shooters showed up. A few gunshots, a few threats, and then they were going to be on their way before the cops showed up.

But we barely make it to the warehouse door when we’re stopped by a man in a mask. He’s wearing all black and a pair of gloves to conceal his fingerprints, just like I told him to do. Instead of rushing past us to make it outside in time, he fires a few rounds into the wall of dairy beside us. “Slow your roll, Tex,” he calls from a few aisles away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

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