The morning had begun unexpectedly when Massimo had informed me, almost offhandedly, that he’d arranged a lunch date with Oliver at Fratelli’s Deli. According to him, I needed a break—a chance to escape, if only for a little while, from the confinement and constant scrutiny of life inside the Vitale compound.
I hadn’t asked what had prompted this sudden gesture of kindness from Massimo. Maybe he sensed my restlessness, or perhaps it was something else entirely. Either way, I wasn’t about to question it. Sometimes, it was best to simply accept a small reprieve when it came, to enjoy the opportunity for normalcy without overanalyzing the intentions behind it.
“October first,” I replied, my voice trailing off as I double-checked the date on my phone. The reality of how little time remained settled between us, and for a moment, the familiar comfort of our friendship was tinged with the ache of impending change.
Oli, never one to hide his feelings, let out a dramatic groan. “So we’ve got two months before I never see you again.” His complaint was half-serious, half-teasing, but the underlyingdisappointment was clear in his tone. “Why couldn’t you be a history teacher or something? At least then you’d have weekends free.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his suggestion, shaking my head at the thought. “Because I hate history, and you know it. Besides, you know I will always make time for you.” I tried to reassure him, hoping my words would ease the tension, even as I silently wondered what the future would hold for us both.
“Whatever,” Oli muttered, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Even as uncertainty loomed, our friendship remained a steady anchor—one I hoped would last no matter where life took us. “Oh my God!” he gasped.
“What?”
Oliver’s eyes were wide as he scanned his phone, barely able to get the words out. “Professor Delgato was found dead in his apartment.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “What?” I shouted, leaning in as Oliver turned his phone toward me.
My heart pounded as he continued, “Holy shit. The article says that when the police searched his apartment, they found evidence of coercion and blackmail. They found videotapes of him having sex with students. Wasn’t he one of your medical professors?”
A cold dread swept through me. “Yes,” I whispered, my voice trembling as memories of that unsettling time in his office flashed through my mind—how he’d propositioned me, how uncomfortable I’d felt. Even now, the thought sent a shiver down my spine. I swallowed, trying to steady myself. “Does it say how he died?”
Oliver’s expression darkened. “Sick bastard killed himself. Gunshot to the head,” he said, his voice low. “Maybe he felt guilty?”
“Not likely,” I murmured, unable to shake the chill that had settled over me as I wondered what truly happened to the man.
Oliver leaned back, a sly smirk on his face. “Well, good riddance, I say. One less asshole to worry about.” He glanced at me, his tone shifting to one of playful annoyance. “Speaking of assholes, what’s yours doing today? It’s not like him to let you out of his sight.” Oliver’s comment, half-joking and half-serious, made it clear he was trying to lighten the mood, even as the weight of the news still hung between us.
“All I know is he said he had some business to attend to and wouldn’t be home until late tonight.” I admitted, my voice carrying a hint of uncertainty as I recalled the brief conversation from earlier.
Oliver raised an eyebrow, a skeptical look crossing his face. “Sounds ominous to me,” he remarked, unable to hide his disapproval.
“You would think that because you don’t like him,” I replied, a gentle teasing in my tone as I nudged him lightly, fully aware of his longstanding feelings.
“Nope,” my best friend quickly admitted, his response immediate and unwavering. “And I never will.”
“Seriously, Oli,” I groaned, exasperation and affection mingling in my voice. “You have to get over it. I married him. He’s my husband. He’s not going anywhere.”
Oliver grumbled again, his resistance as strong as ever. “Doesn’t mean I have to like him, Savy.”
Leaning close, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheek, offering a small gesture of reassurance. “But for me you’ll try, right?” I asked softly, my eyes searching his for any sign of compromise.
Shaking his head, Oliver finally allowed a genuine smile to crack through his stubborn façade. The tension in the back of theSUV softened just a bit. “If you tell your yummy driver I want his number,” he teased, his tone playfully conspiratorial.
“Milo?” I asked, amused by the sudden shift in subject.
A mischievous grin spread across Oliver’s face as he licked his lips, clearly enjoying his own joke. “Oh yeah,” he replied, eyes glinting with playful intent. “That man needs to cross over to the dark side, and I’ll have no problem being his tour guide.”
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter, playfully swatting Oliver’s shoulder as I shook my head in disbelief. “Not everyone is gay, Oliver,” I teased, unable to mask my amusement at his persistent assumptions.
Oliver waggled his eyebrows, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, but he is or wants to be,” he replied confidently. “My radar has never let me down once.”
I rolled my eyes, unable to stifle a grin. “Your radar has a questionable track record at best,” I shot back, amusement bubbling in my chest. “Remember that waiter at Stefano’s? You were so sure, and then he introduced us to his fiancée five minutes later.”
Oliver clutched his chest dramatically, feigning deep offense. “One out of ten is still a passing grade, thank you very much.” He stuck his tongue out at me; his playful antics did little to disguise the genuine warmth between us. I just shook my head, laughter threatening to spill over again, grateful for the comfort of his familiar banter.
By the time we reached the little bakery with its checkered tablecloths and the smell of espresso hanging in the air, theearlier tension had faded into the background. Sunlight spilled through the windows, painting golden stripes across Oliver’s face as he eyed the dessert display hungrily.
“God, I love this place,” I moaned as I bit into a fresh cannoli. “Say what you want about my husband, Oliver, but the Italians sure know how to cook.”
