Chapter 14
DIANA
“Oh, uh—” I stop, blinking in surprise when I enter the kitchen. The sun has risen, bathing the room in a bright light thanks to the large windows looking out to the backyard. The light shines on the stainless-steel appliances and bounces off the marble countertops. But I don’t pay attention to any of it except for the man in the kitchen. I take in the clothes Bruno is wearing. “Are you, uh, staying home today?”
By now, Bruno is always in one of his custom-made, designer suits. Armani, Brioni, Prada, Hugo Boss—always in dark shades, mostly black. They always go with designer shoes on his feet and the luxury watch on his wrist, and not a dark hair out of place. But right now, Bruno wears black sweatpants and a simple white shirt with short sleeves that hug his biceps. The material of the white shirt is so thin, I can make out the dark ink of a tattoo on his left pec. My heart launches itself to my throat at the sight of his arms, strong forearms that show off his veins, and the shirt hugs his chiseled torso, and I just know if I touched it, I’d be feeling hardened muscles.
He’s all sharp edges, hardened features—even now in his leisure clothes and dark hair tousled from sleep.
I’ve never seen him like this, never seen him like anything other than put together. I’ve been here for a while now, and this is the first time Bruno is allowing me to see him this way. It feels strangely intimate, even though I am fully aware he’s not dressed like this for me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.
Bruno arches an eyebrow as he sips his coffee. With a glance at the coffee pot, I see that there’s enough left for me. “I am,” Bruno answers after lowering the mug. With his dark eyes locked on me, he says, “You have the day off today.”
“I do?”
This, I hadn’t expected.
Bruno nods once more. He looks so casual, leaning against the glass wall, one ankle crossed over the other with his free hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. The sunlight creates a halo around his figure, a hilarious contradiction to the devil everyone knows him as. I forget, sometimes, who he is. What he is. Dangerous, murderous, a criminal. And yet, I take care of his kids, see him every day, and sleep under his roof. The funniest part—I’m comfortable with it all.
I don’t think I was ever uncomfortable.
“I want to spend the day with the kids,” Bruno tells me. “So, you’re free to do whatever you want today.” And then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk that’s equal parts sexy and dangerous. It sends heat rushing to my core, a reaction that threatens to knock the air out of my lungs. “Use it wisely.”
I give a slow nod, walking toward the coffee pot because I notice my mug that has a sunflower on it, given to me by one of my previous kids that I nannied, is already waiting next to the pot. “Alright, then,” I say quietly, pouring myself some coffee. I’m not going to question this surprise day off—I’ll use it to my advantage to run some errands and relax. I glance at Bruno, my grip on the pot’s handle tightening when I see his gaze is already on me. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “That’s nice of you.”
I internally cringe at that because really? When I sip my coffee, I catch the slight widening of Bruno’s smirk. He pushes himself off the glass wall, making his way toward the entryway, and my eyes can’t seem to move off of him and the way he confidently moves that tall, powerful body.
“Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” he says coolly as he continues his way. His eyes flash to mine briefly, and the flutter in my chest intensifies at the sudden eye contact. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
It’s all he says before he walks out, his footsteps growing fainter the farther down the hall he goes. The day off is unprecedented, but I find myself smiling into my next sip of coffee, tapping my nails against the mug.
About two hours later, the wheels of the shopping cart I’m pushing down the aisle rattle as I fill up the cart with what I want. The cart is almost full of my favorite foods, snacks, and drinks—and I make sure to get some extra ingredients for other treats I can bake with Monica and Matteo since they seemed to enjoy baking so much. I hadn’t baked since the bakery burned down, and doing it again for the first time with the twins had been a lot easier than I thought it would be—it had been fun, and I’d been distracted enough to not think about my dad.
Of course, I think of dad every day, every freaking moment when he lingers in the back of my head. But with those kids, the time I spend with them—the heaviness in my heart lightens, and for that I’m grateful.
I think of Bruno, of how he had thanked me the other day for taking care of his kids. His sudden appreciation had taken me by surprise—only because it was from him. And despite the usual coldness in his hard-edged eyes, I saw the sincerity of his words reflect in his gaze. It had robbed me of my breath, even though moments before, he had told me to mind my business when it came to the bakery fire.
I try not to linger on that now. It’ll only rub salt in the deep, unhealing wound left by dad’s death.
As I go through the self-checkout, scanning my items and putting them in bags, I hear a voice call out, “Diana! Is that you?”
I glance to my left and see Lynn Prescott at the checkout station next to mine. She used to be my eleventh-grade English teacher and truly looks the same, save for a few wrinkles on her skin. The last time I’d seen her, actually, was at dad’s funeral. “Hi, Mrs. Prescott,” I greet her with a friendly smile. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know—same old, same old,” the older woman smiles as we both scan our items. The area is filled with the sounds of people talking, and scanners beeping with every barcode that is swiped through. “I wanted to ask you—I heard a rumor and I’m not sure it’s true, so I figured I’d ask you whenever I saw you next. And here you are!” She laughs, and I offer her a grin. She leans toward me slightly, and I have to mirror her action because her voice suddenly drops to a whisper, hazel eyes widening as she asks, “Are you truly working for—” she pauses, looking around for a moment, before finishing, “Bruno Cataldi?”
She whispers his name like just uttering it will summon him in a burst of smoke. And as amusing as it is, I understand her apprehension to just mention him. People have known Bruno as the monster under their bed, the one living in the darkness. Frankly, I was one of those people as well, even though I spent most of my time out in Los Angeles. But being from San Francisco, I knew who he was well before I ever met him.
Just like Mrs. Prescott, I had thought of Bruno as the big bad wolf, stalking the streets of our city. But now here I am, living in the wolf’s house. It’s quite a dramatic change.
I offer her a small smile, not wanting to give the older woman a heart attack as I tell her, “I am.”
Mrs. Prescott’s eyes widen. “Oh, dear girl,” she says breathlessly. Her hand presses to her chest, eyeing me incredulously. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You know the kind of man he is. And you’re a live-in nanny, aren’t you? How can you stay under the same roof as him?”
I’m surprised by the annoyance that rushes through my veins, fighting the urge to glare at my former teacher. The irritation I feel comes with the need to defend Bruno, to tell Mrs. Prescott that he isn’t as bad as he seems. And while that may be true for me, as I’ve seen the way he is at home with his kids, I know the rest of the world won’t see him that way. They don’t see the devoted, loving father. They don’t know the small gestures he’s done for me, even. Like, making coffee for me ready with my mug already out of the cabinet on the rare occasion he’s awake before I am, or letting my friends and me enjoy his club free of charge. Or the fact that he had a brand-new bed set delivered for me the other day, and it made my room feel a little bit more like my own. It had definitely been a surprise, but one that I liked.
So, yeah—there’s more to Bruno Cataldi than anyone would think, but I have a feeling if I voiced as much, no one would really believe me.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Prescott,” I try to instead placate, forcing a reassuring smile. “I mostly look after his kids. I don’t even see him that much.”
There’s a half-truth in that. I don’t see Bruno around that much, but I feel like I see more of him than I did my previous kids’ parents. He’s a hands-on dad, and we always talk when he comes home so I can give him the run down on what the kids did that day. But there’s no sense in giving all of the details to Mrs. Prescott, who looks liable to pass out by merely mentioning Bruno’s name.
She doesn’t look too relieved by my reassurance as we continue scanning our items. “Okay, well,” she says warily before sighing and pinning me with a look. “You just be careful, alright? That’s a side of the world I wouldn’t dare step foot in,” she adds with a shudder, bagging the last of her items.
“I will,” I tell her with a forced chuckle, waving goodbye when she leaves and bagging my own things. I let out a breath once she’s gone, shaking my head.
Not a single part of me is surprised at her reaction to me working for Bruno. But I put it out of my mind. I started working for him for one specific reason, and I always keep that in my mind.
After I finish up with my groceries, I head back to the house to drop them off and put them away. Bruno and the kids are nowhere to be found, and the cook, Perry, is also not in the kitchen. I’m assuming Bruno gave him the day off as well since this is the usual time for Perry to be in here, whipping something delicious up for lunch and dinner. I’m guessing Bruno is taking the kids out to eat. So, I work quickly and put away my own groceries before deciding that I’m going out for lunch as well.
I have the whole damn day to myself. I might as well take it to my full advantage, right?
*****
I don’t know how it happens, but I end up at my house later in the day.
I spent hours by myself, eating lunch at one of my favorite cafes, doing some shopping, and meeting up with Willa for coffee in between. But now the sun has set, and I’m standing in the living room of my dad’s house. I’d gotten rid of the indoor plants that had been decorated around the house because I don’t come here often enough to water and take care of them. The dozens and dozens of flowers I’d received during his funeral are also long gone, having wilted in the days after. There’s no perishable food in the fridge or cupboards. But everything else is still the same.
I try to push past the physical pain that resides in my chest at being here. It’s disconcerting, being in this house without him in it. Dad made this house feel alive my entire childhood. It had always just been him and me after my mother ditched us, but dad never made me feel like I was lacking anything. He gave me the love of two parents and the support of them, too. The most important thing to him was that I was happy and healthy, and when I told him about wanting to branch out and go to school in Los Angeles, he was all for it. Never once did he try to get me to stay in San Francisco.
“Any part of the world you want to see, it’s yours to explore, Diana. I’ll never stop you from having adventures.”
His words, even now, stick to me, but they lance through my chest sharply. I was off having my adventures out in Los Angeles, and it was those very adventures that kept me away from Dad. And while I learned a lot and grew a lot as a person, I missed out on spending time with him when it mattered the most. Coming back to San Francisco was so I could take care of him and spend time with him, restrengthen our relationship that never deteriorated, no matter the time and space between us.
But the universe seemed to have other plans for us. And now he’s gone, and the emptiness left in his wake has yet to be filled.
My days spent with Monica and Matteo serve as a good distraction. Kids always keep you entertained, keep you on your toes—it’s damn near impossible to have a moment to think about anything else.
Standing in this house, however, with nothing to keep my thoughts occupied—the grief rushes over me like a tidal wave that drowns me. I don’t know when I started crying, but as I take in a deep breath, it shudders through my body, and my cheeks are wet from tears when I touch my face. I sniffle, fingers pressing to my cheeks as I wipe the tears. But even if I do, the tightness in my chest isn’t about to ease up any time soon, especially as I sink down onto the couch, my gaze fixed on the picture frames on the mantle beneath the TV.
As I sit here in my quiet, empty childhood home, the realization that hits me is like a bolt of lightning, one that leaves me frozen and unable to breathe.
Without dad, I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone.
I have my friends. I have, maybe, the families I have worked for. But I don’t have a family of my own. It was just dad and me from the moment my grandparents passed away when I was seven, their deaths just months apart from one another. He and I were best friends growing up, partners in crime. The world is fucking empty without him. It’s gray and quiet, and I don’t understand how everything can keep moving forward when I feel like I’m stuck in this horrible limbo. When I want to go back to where dad is still here with me, but I know I need to go forward and move on with my life the way I know he would want me to.
I miss him so much. So badly, to the point where it’s difficult to breathe when I think of him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling more tears leak out of the corners of my eyes as I bend forward and prop my elbows on my knees, bowing my head so I can cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I mumble, my words muffled by my hands.
I’m sorry for going away to Los Angeles. I’m sorry for not coming back home as often as I should’ve. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry you’re not here anymore. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The sob that escapes me bounces off the walls and chokes me, pressing the heels of my palms to my watery eyes and letting my fingers bury into my hair, and I let it loose. I let out the tears I’ve been holding back for so long, the cries wracking my body and filling the once-silent house with the sounds of my uninhibited sobs. I can feel my body trembling as I let the grief take over me in a way I haven’t allowed it to since dad’s passing.
It hurts, this pain in my chest. Unrelenting, unforgiving, stealing all of my breath.
I let it consume me. I cry and cry and cry until my reddened eyes begin to feel heavy, and I fall into a pained slumber that serves as a little reprieve from this heartbreak.