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I reach out with my right hand to touch hers. The feeling of her warm skin under mine eases my discomfort. “That should never have happened. You should never have been in that situation. If that man would have touched you, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“It was just a kiss.” She can barely raise her voice. “If it would have saved you from being here right now.”
“Don’t think like that, okay?” Frankly, the fact that the robbers deviated from the script is the problem. The second I have access to a phone, I’m going to have them killed. I don’t want them going to the cops or tracking me down, and I damn sure don’t want them to ever come near Francesca again. “It’s over and done with. We can’t change anything. I’m alive, and I’m okay. It’s fine, Kessa.”
“It’s fine,” she repeats. Suddenly, she isn’t the fiery, passionate girl from my youth that flipped me off when I asked her out. She isn’t the girl that slapped me in the middle of the amphitheater at lunchtime when she found out I’d fooled around with Kiersten Karminski. She seems smaller, a husk of her former self. I want to take her in my arms and tell her that no one will ever hurt her again.
But I’m the person that keeps hurting her. I’m the one that had her husband murdered. I’m the one who’s broken up all her relationships since. I’m the one that set those guys on us at the store today.
I can’t promise Kessa that no one will ever hurt her again because I can’t promise to keep myself in line. Francesca is the love of my life, and I know she belongs with me. I let her go once and she had a happy few years with Peter, but he’s passed now. It’s my turn for a happily ever after, no matter what it takes.
5
FRANCESCA
Cesare isn’t in the hospital long. Forty-eight hours after he’s admitted, a doctor gives him discharge paperwork, and they set a date for a follow-up visit. “I don’t want to wear this sling,” he informs the doctor.
“It’ll help if you wear the sling.” The doctor doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. I think everyone here is tired of Cesare’s complaints. He is the worst sort of patient, and even his favorite nurse is glad to see that he’s on his way out.
Cesare tries to move his arm, but it doesn’t do what he wants it to, and he gives an audibly frustrated sigh. “Doc, I’m a physical therapist. Trust me; I know what I need to be doing. I don’t need my arm in a sling; I need to use it so the muscle gets stronger.”
The doctor’s sigh sounds just as frustrated as Cesare’s, but for a different reason, I bet. “You shot through the nerves in your arm, Mr. Valenti. They need time to heal before you can start stretching them. As a physical therapist,” he starts sarcastically, “you should know that.”
I’m sure that when Cesare opens his mouth, it’s to crucify the poor doctor, but I grab his hand and squeeze it until he shuts up. “Thanks, doctor. I’ll make sure Cesare gets to his appointment next week. Let’s go,honey.” I pin him with a look that saysdon’t push it.
The doctor leaves the room, and I release Cesare’s hand. “You’ve got to be nicer to the people helping you.”
Cesare hops off the hospital bed and purses his lips momentarily before shaking his head in disagreement. “No. The only person I have to be nice to is you. And that’s because I can’t drive when my arm is in a sling!” He raises his voice for the last half of his sentence as if the doctor is waiting outside the room, listening to him.
“Shut up.” I turn to grab the hospital bag his brothers brought by yesterday and sling it over my shoulder.
“Oh, sheesh,” Cesare shakes his head, “give me that.” He reaches out with his good hand and makes agive megesture with his fingers.
I take a few steps away. “I’ve got it. I’m not helpless. I’m not the one that gotshot.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “I was shot trying to do a good thing foryou, crazy girl. Now give me the bag.” He follows me forward, and I lead him to the door.
“Just let me do this for you,” I beg as we reach the hallway. “You stood up for me against that guy. The least I can do to thank you is try to make the next few weeks easier for you.”
Cesare looks like he wants to argue. He was raised to be a gentleman whether he was on his deathbed or not. But I plead with my eyes, and something inside him shifts because he agrees to let me carry the bag. “You can’t take care of me, though,” he says as we make our way down the hall. “I’m a man and manly men must take care of themselves.” He affects a faux machismo tone and puffs his chest out to complete the look.
“That’s right, baby,” I pat him on the back. “But I’m your wife, and I know what’s best for you. That’s why everyone will deliver crockpot dump meals this afternoon, so you don’t have to worry about food for the next couple of weeks.”
“My wife, huh?” Cesare gives me a sideways look.
I nod my head. “So that means you have to do what I say.” We’re entering dangerous territory here, but I don’t think I mind.
Cesare takes the bait. “Only if you tell me to do filthy, dirty things,” he whispers as we pass a pair of nurses coming out of the elevator.
He makes me blush a little, but I don’t mind. Cesare and I have been friends for nearly two decades now. You can’t be that close to someone for eighteen years without a little intimacy developing between the two of you.
* * *
When we arrive at Cesare’s house, the first thing he does is beeline for the shower. “I smell like antiseptic and hospital,” he announces with a disgusted crinkle of his nose. “I’m going to wash off.”
“Cover the bandage!” I yell as he heads upstairs. “I’m not a nurse, Cesare! I don’t handle blood well!” I hear him snort before the bathroom door shuts behind him. “Well, I’m not,” I mumble to myself as I start preparing dinner for him.
The doctor gave Cesare some bandages for his shoulder and told him to change them once a day. I mentioned right off the bat that I don’t do well with injuries, and he laughed me off, but the joke is going to be on him when I get woozy and pass out if I see blood.
