by Rose, Renee
Of course, I knew this day was coming. I knew it like a countdown to a massive breakdown for me. Weight crushes my chest. I feel two hundred years old as I ease out of bed.
I check Gio’s vitals and add more painkiller to his IV before I head to the shower.
The tears start while I’m in there and they just don’t stop. Not like full-on sobbing, more like a steady drip. A leaky faucet that won’t turn off.
Dammit.
I get out of the shower, dry off and get dressed in my Dicky scrubs—red today.
The tears just keep on running.
They drip the whole time I clean Gio’s wounds and putting fresh bandages on.
“Hey.” Junior’s standing in the doorway, holding my phone. He catches sight of the tears before I quickly brush them away. “You okay?”
“Yep,” I say with determination. Like I’m going to somehow make it true.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
I grab my phone out of his hand, since I’m assuming he’s bringing it because I got a message. He still refuses to let me have it or use it without him watching my every move, but at least he checks my messages frequently and shows me as soon as something comes in.
“Text from your mom,” he tells me.
Fresh tears start because I already feel her sympathy, her support, her love. My mom is so connected to me and my emotions, it’s sometimes scary.
Sending you energy and healing light on this difficult day.
I snort-choke back a sob. Coming from my mom, that’s a real promise. In addition to nursing at the hospital, she also volunteers as an energy healer, going around giving reiki treatments to anyone who wants it. And she’s a powerful healer. Sometimes I swear she’s the one who saves the most lives at that place.
“Why is today difficult?” Junior asks.
“None of your business,” I snap, thrusting the phone back at him after sending my mom a heart emoji. “Let’s move him.” Every eight hours we roll Gio from his side, to his back, to his other side. Even though I could probably do it on my own, I get Junior to help, because Gio’s such a big guy.
We roll him over and he wakes and uses the bed pan, cursing in Italian the whole time. Junior answers in Italian, using calm, reassuring tones and Gio settles and closes his eyes once more.
“We should get you out of the house.” Junior’s looking at me like I’m going to crack. “You’re probably sick of being cooped up here. You definitely deserve a break. I’ll get Paolo to come stay with Gio, and I’ll take you anywhere that sounds good.”
My lips tremble. I seriously can’t take Junior being nice right now.
I would much rather have him be an asshole so I can get prickly and keep my shit together.
“Or Paolo can take you out, if you need a break from me.” He takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets.
My lip curls. “I’m not going anywhere with Paolo.”
Junior pulls out his phone and starts thumbing over the screen. “Where do you want to go?”
I shrug. “I’m really not in the mood, Junior.”
“No shit, doll. I’m not asking you on a date. I’m trying to figure out what would be...I don’t know, nourishing to you.” He makes a big gesture with his hands as he talks.
“Nourishing?”
“Nurturing—whatever the fuck the word is. What do you do to make yourself feel better? Go see a movie? How about exercise? I’ll take you to my gym up the street. You can take yoga or Zumba or whatever.”
I perk up a tiny bit over Zumba and he catches it. The Latin cardio dance class is my favorite form of exercise.
“You like that idea?” He scrolls on his phone. “There’s Zumba at 11:00 a.m.” I don’t know how he knew I wanted Zumba and not yoga. The man’s a mind reader.
It’s hard to imagine I could muster the energy to do a cardio class right now, though. “I don’t know,” I say.
He points at me, the scary-stern face on. “You’re going to Zumba. And what else? You like shopping? A little retail therapy?”
I snort. “Yeah right. With what money?”
“You can spend my money. That’ll be fun, no?” He tips his head to catch my eye.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Could be,” I admit.
Damn my turn-on with men spending money on me.
Damn Junior for showing up like a white knight when I’m at my weakest.
“Come on, I’ll take you to breakfast.”
Oh shit. Now it does feel like a date. And he’s spending money on me. Taking care of me.
It scares me how much I want to be taken care of. Especially by a wealthy, powerful man like Junior.
But that’s exactly why I need to keep the barriers up around my heart. Because I already fear I won’t be walking out of here with it intact.
“Should I change?” I ask dubiously, looking down at my scrubs.
He shrugs. “Not for me. Wear whatever makes you feel good, doll.”
Yeah, not scrubs. Scrubs are the world’s ugliest uniform ever. I grab a pair of jeans and fitted long-sleeved shirt and take them into the bathroom to change.
Not that Junior hasn’t already seen all of me.
But Gio hasn’t, and I don’t want him getting an eyeful if he comes back around.
Junior’s still on his phone when I come back out, but when he looks up, his eyes bug out a little. The emerald green shirt is sexy—I brought it on purpose to torture Junior. It hugs my breasts and opens in a V to show a little cleavage. The jeans are flattering too—they’re tight and hug my ass, but the denim has a little stretch to it, so they’re ultra-comfortable. I pull on a pair of boots and fluff my still-wet hair.
“Damn,” Junior says.
“What?”
He just shakes his head and mutters, “And I thought you were hot in scrubs.”
Okay, I might be starting to feel a little better, even though the heaviness still pushes at my chest.
I pack some gym clothes and we head down the stairs. “When is Paolo coming?” I ask.
“He’ll be here in time for Zumba. Gio will be all right for an hour while we go to breakfast.”
“You’re speaking with all your medical expertise?” I can’t help giving him a hard time. It’s like it’s a job I was born to do.
“I’d slap your ass, but I have a feeling today would be the day you’d deck me for it.”
I’m getting closer to smiling.
* * *
Junior
I force myself to work out at the gym, because Dio, if I watch Desiree shaking those hips in her yoga pants and tank during Zumba, I’m going to march in there, throw her over my shoulder and carry her to the locker room shower. And let me tell you, I wouldn’t be washing her hair in that shower.
I text Earl to find out the significance of the day for Desiree.
He replies right away—it’s the boy’s birthday.
Well, fuck.
I know how hard those dates are. Except my child is dead. And Desiree’s isn’t, he’s been stolen from her. I fire off another text to Earl putting more pressure on him to find her son. Hire every detective in town. Get them all on the case, I tell him. I want this kid found yesterday.
Cheering people up isn’t my strong suit, as evidenced by my wife’s mental state following Mia’s death.
I wait for her outside her class. Fuck if it isn’t still going and I do get an eyeful of those hips lighting the room on fire. The class runs over and I can’t move because I don’t want to miss a single second of it.
It’s worse knowing what she likes, because I start imagining forcing her to have sex in a thousand dirty ways. But she doesn’t want that.
Not anymore.
And the fantasy’s only hot if she’s actually into it.
The five minutes feel like fifty, but finally the class ends and she walks out, a towel around her neck. I don’t dare look at the way her breasts stretch that tank top or I’ll s
prout a chub that everyone will see.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” she tells me. “Meet you outside the locker room.”
I nod and watch her ass as she walks away. She’s not strutting—I still see the defeat in her posture—but she has all the right junk in the trunk.
Desiree is the full package. Smart, sassy, hot as hell. I wonder what went wrong with her marriage. The guy has to be a douche not to do everything he could to keep her.
Well, obviously he’s more than a douche. He’s a testa di cazzo. He stole their kid from her.
I shower and change and meet her outside the locker room. Her hair’s still wet, like she rushed to get out and meet me. It’s fucking freezing outside.
“Get back in there and dry your hair,” I tell her. “You’ll fucking freeze.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
I block her path. “Hey,” I make my voice sharp, like I’m coming down on one of my soldiers for disrespect.
She jerks a little, then slaps my chest. “Jesus, you are such an asshole. Do you seriously have to bully me every second of the day?”
I might feel bad, considering she’s having a shit day, but it’s good to see the spark back in her. I give her a hard stare until she rolls her eyes and turns around with a huff, marching back to the locker room.
When she comes back out, her hair is a dark, glossy curtain over her shoulders, framing her lovely face. She always has it back in a ponytail, so I’m momentarily struck by her model-worthy beauty.
I look at my phone. “No messages from Paolo. I’m taking you shopping.”
She doesn’t want to like it, but I can tell she does. I know she’s been scraping by. A woman like her deserves to be spoiled.
We’re not close to any big malls, but I take her to an area of my suburb with the fancy shops and find a spot to park on the street. I should probably call in one of the guys to stand as bodyguard, because Vlad could be anywhere, but I don’t think I’ve been followed, and I don’t see anything suspicious.
“You have three thousand dollars to spend in fifty minutes. You don’t get to keep any money you don’t spend, and everything you buy has to be for yourself.”
She stops and turns rounded eyes on me, lips parting.
I want to kiss them.
Fuck.
What’s wrong with me?
It’s one thing to want to fuck a girl. But kissing? I haven’t kissed a woman since Marne. Not one.
I don’t know—it’s too intimate. Or too emotional. It’s just not something I ever want to do.
But yeah, I want to kiss her. Right fucking now.
“Are you serious?” she croaks.
Serious about claiming that mouth, yeah.
I flash a wad of cash. “I’m gonna follow you around like your goddamn sugar daddy. Let’s see how fast you can spend my money.”
She starts walking, her silky hair swinging behind her. She tosses a look over her shoulder at me and I’m thrilled to see a playful light in her eyes. Mission accomplished. “Is there a bonus involved if I spend it before the fifty minutes are up?”
I shrug, noncommittal. “There might be other stipulations.”
Merde. I didn’t mean to start throwing sexual innuendos out, especially ones that make her sound like a whore, but she seems to like it, tossing her hair again with a smirk as she struts off.
She beelines it for a jewelry store and I smile. Clever girl. She knows she could spend the whole amount in one stop there. I’m all for it, if that’s what she wants, but I also think she could use some practical shit, like a new pair of boots or a jacket. I glance around at the shops, to take in what they have. There’s a boutique shoe store, and a couple clothing places.
I saunter after her into the jewelry store where she’s already leaning over the glass cases. There’s light in her face again, which eases the tension in my chest. She steals a glance over her shoulder at me, like she’s making sure I’m not tricking her or making fun.
I lift my chin and raise my brows as if to say, “are you going to do it or not?”
She has a smile as she turns back to the case. She tries on a bunch of rings. I watch for a while to see what she likes, then walk around the store and look myself. There’s a beautiful pink gem, emerald cut, set in 18K gold. It costs a little over two grand. I ask the woman behind the counter to bring it over to Desiree to see if she likes it.
She looks over at me in surprise when it arrives, then slips it on her finger and stares at it. “What is this gemstone?” she asks the attendant.
“Morganite. It’s a cousin to emerald and aquamarine. It looks good on you.”
“It does,” I agree. I don’t know why I picked it for her—it’s not like she’s a baby pink kind of woman. Maybe because it’s both unique and stunning—like her.
Desiree looks from her finger to me, back to the attendant. “I’ll take it.” Her shoulders are thrown back, chin high.
I love her decisiveness. I pull out my wad of cash and count out 23 hundred dollar bills. “Does it fit? Do we need to get it sized for you?”
She twists it around her right ring finger. “It fits perfect.”
I wink at her.
Cristo—have I ever winked in my life? I seriously doubt it. I’m not the winking type. That would be Stefano, my slick-talking youngest brother.
The clerk gives me my change, slips an empty ring box in a bag with the receipt, and hands it to us. “Enjoy.”
“Seven hundred to go,” I murmur to Desiree as we leave. “You like shoes?”
“I love shoes.” There’s color in her cheeks as we walk out—not a blush, just a flush of excitement. Desiree is definitely thriving on the retail therapy. Good. I may lack many qualities—manners, kindness, hands unsullied by blood, heart darkened by violence and pain, but I do have money. I’m not stupid enough to think I can buy her, but at least this one day I can give her something.
* * *
Desiree
I should be ashamed of myself.
I am ashamed of myself. I shouldn’t be getting turned on by a mobster buying me a giant rock for my finger.
It’s my kid’s birthday, he’s spending it somewhere without me. Hopefully he’s happy and safe and comfortable with his dad. Abe was never a bad dad. Never mean, or abusive or even too neglecting. I’m sure Jasper is safe and warm and fed. I imagine he’s going to kindergarten somewhere—I sure hope he’s in school, anyway.
But he sure as hell never bought me anything. He was a split it down the middle kind of guy right from the beginning. And once we got married, I always paid our bills, even when I was working my ass off to get through nursing school. He worked construction and spent his money on beer, and pot and eating out at greasy restaurants with his buddies.
Well.
Ashamed or not, it’s a fact. My panties got damp when Junior pulled out that roll of money and spent over two grand on this ring. It feels heavy on my finger, catches the light when I swing my arms as I walk.
I’m feeling pretty damn loved right now. Oh God—not loved, loved. But yeah. Whatever. I may reject the word but the feeling’s the same.
I head into the shoe store and browse around, totally conscious of Junior trailing behind me, watching my every move. They have a bunch of fancy shoes I would never wear. Well, I might wear them if I had a reason, but since my life consists of work, Zumba and home, I’m not interested in six-inch fashion heels.
Like in the jewelry store, Junior circles around the shop on his own trajectory and shows up at my side holding a nice leather boot. I already have a pair of boots—I’m wearing them—so I didn’t even look at them. I drop my gaze to my own boots. Worn out. Fake leather. The style that came out three seasons ago.
“I’d like to try these in a seven,” I tell the clerk.
She nods and heads off to the back room.
“So what? Now you’re my personal shopper?” I should really act more grateful. Somehow, it’s more fun pushing back at Junior,
though.
As usual, he appears vaguely amused by my attitude, and just shrugs.
I try the boots on. They fit perfectly—totally comfortable. Three hundred fifty dollar price tag, not that it matters. Junior’s buying.
“Well?” I demand.
“What so now you want my opinion?” The start of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“You are the personal shopper, aren’t you?”
He full-on grins. “I’d take you shopping any day.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s not like it’s roses and chocolate sweet. But it kind of is.
I mean, don’t guys hate shopping? Especially if it means the woman’s spending all his money? And it’s not like I’m being appreciative or nice or anything. It’s not like he’s getting anything out of this. Or does he think he is? I shoot him a suspicious look and his grin widens. Grows more feral.
Well shit. That should worry me, but instead it sets off butterflies of excitement in my belly.
“I’ll take these,” I tell the saleswoman. “Do you have them in brown as well?”
“I sure do!” she chirps and heads to the back room. She must work on commission.
“There,” I tell Junior, who is looking through a rack of leather jackets. “All done, with time to spare.”
Junior holds up a leather shearling jacket with black faux fur collar and cuffs. I never would’ve picked it out, but I try it on. It’s comfortable and warm and ten times nicer than my current jacket. It costs $1029.
“I used up my budget already,” I remind him.
“And this one, for when it’s not as cold.” Junior passes me a thinner, buttery leather slim cropped affair with a belt. It, too, is very comfortable and fashionable. And this puppy’s four hundred bucks.
The saleswoman shows up, thrilled that I’m still shopping. “That looks so good on you,” she gushes.
Junior waits until she toddles away, bringing my boots to the counter to murmur, “It does.” He steps into my space and adjusts the collar, staring down at me with black eyes. “You like them? They’re yours.”
