Page 8 of Dirty Secrets

I brought a bag of things over to Cesare’s yesterday. When his brothers came by to visit him, I slipped away to gather my things. Raniero gave me a spare key and said if I needed any help, let him know. He also offered to pay for an in-home nurse, but I figured Cesare wouldn’t like that. Having his best friend here to help would be nice, though.

The fridge is sparsely stocked, and I make a mental note to go to the grocery store after work tomorrow. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours at the hospital. I could call out tomorrow, but it’s Friday. I should probably show my face and make sure that Bluemont hasn’t burned down in my absence.

The shower turns on upstairs, and after a few seconds, I hear Cesare start to sing in Italian. I’m not sure what the words mean, but they bring a smile to my face. He always sings in the shower, and it’s one of the more wholesome habits that endear him to me.

I turn on some music to give him some privacy and start trying to scrape together a meal out of what he has in his fridge. I guess we were both at the grocery store before the shooting happened, so it makes sense that he’s out of a lot of items. I chop the remaining vegetables in his fridge—spinach, carrots, and a yellow bell pepper. I find a Mason jar full of homemade pasta sauce and throw that into a pot to start simmering. There’s a cup of bowtie noodles in his cupboard and a half-eaten box of penne, so I put a pot of water on the stove to boil before tossing them in. It isn’t much, and there’s no protein, but it’ll be good enough.

While I’m bopping along to some Justin Bieber, Cesare eventually appears in the entryway of the kitchen. He has the sling on his left shoulder and leans against the trim with his right. “Smells good. What are you making?”

“Just some pasta and vegetables. You don’t really have much food. I’ll get some stuff after work tomorrow.” I found some garlic in the fridge and sauté it with the carrots and bell pepper before adding them to the sauce.

“You’re going to go shopping for me?” He asks with a curiously raised eyebrow and a half smile. “That’s domestic of you.”

I shrug my shoulders because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. “Is it alright if I sleep on the couch? I already brought some things over yesterday, but I figure I should tell you that I’m going to be here.”

Cesare pushes off the wall and walks to the counter beside the stove. “You don’t have to stay, Kes. I can take care of myself, really. If all else fails, I can call one of my brothers to take care of me.”

“I know.” I avoid making eye contact with him by stirring spinach into the pasta sauce until it starts to wilt. “But I’ve got it for now. It isn’t like you wouldn’t do the same for me if the shoe were on the other foot.”

It takes him a few seconds, but he starts to nod. “I guess you’re right. Alright, you can stay. But do me a favor and sleep in the guest room. That couch will wreck your back.” Before I can respond, he leans forward to press his lips to my cheek. “If I haven’t said it already, thank you for being here.”

My face gets hot, and all the blood rushes to the tip of my nose. If the doorbell didn’t ring, Cesare would see my embarrassment and ask questions. But instead, he heads for the front door.

“Hey. I think that’s Luca’s car!” He yells back as he passes through the living room. A few seconds later, I hear Luca’s voice. He’s followed by his wife, Sloane, who enters the kitchen with three large freezer bags in her arms.

“This was a genius idea!” Sloane announces as she shoves the bags into Cesare’s freezer. “With Nicolette due in a few weeks, I was able to make some meals for her, too!”

Conversation returns to normal, and my face stops feeling like I’m standing in front of a fire. The blush wears off, and I thank Sloane for her help. Soon, the house is filled with Valentis, and Cesare’s freezer is packed with crockpot meals. And nobody is any wiser about my previous embarrassment besides me.

6

CESARE

It’s odd having Francesca around all the time, but odd in a good way.

Everybody dreams about living with their best friend. Some people dream about it in high school; others do it when they get older. You think you’re going to have the time of your life, and then you start arguing because one of you is more organized than the other, or someone leaves butter knives on the counter in case they want to make a second slice of toast. But it isn’t like that with Kessa and me.

She’s up at 5:30 every morning to get ready for the gym. She’s back at the house by 6:45, and the coffee pot starts brewing a few minutes later. While she takes a shower, I get up and around to make breakfast. She likes a toasted bagel topped with avocado and scrambled eggs. I make her a cup of coffee when I hear the shower shut off, and five minutes later, she’s downstairs in a pantsuit and her red locks pinned high. We sit and chat for half an hour about what we’re going to do for the day before going our separate ways. We are a well-oiled machine.

Dinner is an easy affair most nights. Kessa had all my brothers and their wives prepare meals for me to dump in a crockpot. She pulls the next day’s meal out to thaw before heading to work, and I put today’s dinner in the crockpot before meeting up with my brothers. By the time we get home, the house smells delicious, and dinner is already made.

It’s the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in, and it isn’t even a relationship. Or, frankly, healthy. But I look forward to her being around, and I’m dreading the day she decides to leave.

“I think you could probably come out of that sling in another week or two,” the doctor announces at my two-week check-up. “Then we’ll get you into physical therapy and try to increase your mobility. Have you been feeling any pain?”

I have an untouched bottle of hydrocodone at the house. “Not really. I’ve been taking Tylenol and Ibuprofen, though, as suggested.”

The doctor nods his head in agreement. “They work like gangbusters for pain and inflammation. But if you’re in extreme pain, take the hydrocodone I prescribed. If you don’t, you’re just asking for reinjury.”

And if I do, I’m asking for a pain relief addiction. I took hydrocodone after my wisdom teeth were removed, and they made me feel loopy and happy. If I had an addictive personality, I might have struggled to stop taking them. “I’m okay for now, doc. You think I’ll get full mobility back?”

He gives me a half-hearted shrug. “Yes and no. You’ll never have the reach you did before getting shot, but with enough PT, you’ll be fine. You’ll still be able to reach above your head, but you might not be able to do a push-up. Which is fine because there are plenty of other exercises you can do to stay in shape.” I don’t know if I believe him.

My phone rings as I’m leaving the doctor’s office, and Mateo’s face pops up on the screen. “Hey,” I greet, “what’s up?”

“I found the guys.” No preamble, just straight to the point. “They ran to Florida if you can believe it. I don’t know what they were going to do down there, but my guys have them. They’re on a plane headed back to Kansas.”

“Good. They’re going to pay for what they did.” I had to tell my brothers what happened. We waited until we’d left the hospital, of course, but I explained the whole situation.

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