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When I walk through the front doors, Jack’s hand in mine, the man waves at me from the driver’s seat of a black BMW sedan.
“I didn’t get your name,” I say when I step inside and strap Jack into the booster seat.
“The name’s Hector.” As the car glides down the long, winding driveway, I remember where I heard the name before. In the car back in Delaware, when Matteo was on the phone.
Hector was the man who told us where to find the kidnappers. The first guy Matteo called. He’s assigned his most trusted man to keep me safe. The knowledge makes me feel cherished.
For the first time in a long time, someone’s taking care of me, and it feels good. It feels like I can finally let go a little, stop holding on to the reins to tightly.
“Where’s Matteo?” I ask Hector, partly to make conversation but partly because I want to see him. We left things on a strange note last night.
“He’s, uh, at the hospital.”
My breath hitches in my throat. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he’s okay,” Hector answers quickly, sensing my distress. “He’s just visiting someone.”
I deflate with relief, my muscles loosening up. “Oh.”
“Don’t worry. Matteo’s a tough motherfucker. Smart too. I don’t see anybody landing him in the hospital any time soon, especially now that you’re back and—” Hector abruptly stops, the rest of his sentence floating awkwardly in the air, unsaid but obvious.
Now that I’m back and we have a child together. Now that I’m back and we’re getting married. His expectation weighs heavily on my shoulders.
“I mean, now that he’s got you to think about, I think he’ll be careful.” Hector tries to fix his mistake, but the damage is done. The pause was too long. “He wouldn’t want to worry you.”
“Right.”
Hector’s laughter echoes in the car, booming and uneasy.
We spend the rest of the drive in silence until Hector turns on the radio, and the Top Forty music fills the air. I stare out the window at the changing scenery.
I didn’t realize how much I missed this city. I didn’t think I’d step foot in California ever again, but here I am. Back from the dead. Less like a phoenix and more like a pigeon with a broken wing, though.
“We’re here,” Hector announces. The sky is purple and golden yellow, the sun hanging low, peeking just above the other big houses in the neighborhood.
I thank Hector and follow him to my room. Now that he’s taken off his sunglasses, I notice how playful and kind his eyes are. He has thick, long eyelashes too. Considering his line of work, I’m not surprised he chooses to wear sunglasses whenever he can.
With Jack wandering off into the bedroom, I distractedly thank Hactor before he leaves. I get the feeling I’ll be seeing a lot of him in the coming days.
Jack chatters excitedly as he peeks inside the wardrobe. “Minion!”
I step closer to investigate and, to my surprise, find Jack’s T-shirt with his favorite cartoon character on top of a pile of clothes. What the . . .?
I slide the wardrobe door open, and my mouth drops open. I expected it to be empty. I thought I’d have to buy something at the mall to tide us over until I got my clothes back from Delaware.
But my dresses are hanging over stacks of neatly folded clothes in the wardrobe. My clothes and Jack’s, too.
When did . . .? I guess I can ask Matteo about that later. A safe topic of conversation, seeing as we’ll have tons of difficult things to talk through.
My curiosity spiked, I check the en-suite bathroom. My volumizing shampoo sits on the inset stone shelf in the shower, along with Jack’s mild body wash. The books on the shelves are ours too. I smile as I think about reading Jack’s favorite story before his bedtime tonight.
When I pull out the nightstand drawer, I even find my lotion inside. And my pink vibrator I realize as a wave of embarrassment flushes my cheeks hot.
I venture outside the bedroom. This place is nowhere near as big as the main Guerriero mansion. It’s also smaller than my family home. But compared to the two-bedroom rental I lived in for four years, it still feels like a palace.
Pulling open one door after another, I find three more bedrooms on the same floor, each with its own en-suite bathroom.
Only one door can’t be opened—that’s probably Matteo’s bedroom. My parents are just as careful, only unlocking their door once a day when their most trusted housekeeper cleans the room.
“Hi, Ms. Esposito,” chirps a female voice as I walk down the stairs.
I find a woman with gray hair pulled up into a loose bun, standing in the kitchen, an apron hanging from her neck. “Hello.”
“I was just about to cook you dinner. How does sesame grilled salmon sound? With garlic mashed potatoes on the side?”
