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DIRTY SECRETS
 A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE

THE VALENTI CRIME FAMILY

BOOK FIVE
KELSIE CALLOWAY
Copyright © 2023 Kelsie Calloway

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For permissions contact Kelsie Calloway at kelsiecalloway@gmail.com.
Exceptions: Reviewers may quote brief passages for reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 C O NT E NT S

Prologue
1. Francesca
2. Cesare
3. Francesca
4. Cesare
5. Francesca
6. Cesare
7. Francesca
8. Francesca
9. Cesare
10. Francesca
11. Cesare
12. Francesca
13. Cesare
14. Cesare
15. Francesca
Epilogue

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PROLOGUE
 CESARE • 4 YEARS BEFORE

“Y ou’re a sick bastard; you know that?” Stefano stands a few feet behind me and adjusts his tie
in the mirror. He looks nice, but I look better.
“I know.” This is the finest black suit that money can buy; it fits me like a glove. It has been
pressed to perfection, and the lines are so sharp they’re lethal.
Someone knocks on my bedroom door before turning the knob and coming inside. Raniero stands
there looking ruggedly handsome in his late thirties. He’s starting to sprout gray hairs here and there,
which gives him a distinguished look. “We should go soon. We want to get to the church before the
guests.”
I fiddle with the last button on my suit before nodding. “Okay, let’s go.”
Today is a somber affair; it takes everything to pretend I’m sad. My best friend lost her husband,
and today we’re saying our goodbyes. I told her I would take care of everything; I didn’t tell her I was
the reason this was happening.

Francesca Scot has been my best friend since high school. I saw her on the first day of gym class, and
I knew she was the one. She was a small, fair-skinned little thing with a patch of freckles across her
cheeks and the brim of her nose. The mean girls made fun of her red hair and said she had no soul.
Francesca didn’t mind; she just flipped them the bird and kept on walking.
It took me two weeks to figure out the perfect time to chat with her. She made friends quickly, and
she was always surrounded by boys and girls. When she wasn’t, it was because she was kicking ass
on the basketball court or running the weekly mile faster than the rest of us. She was 5’0” and fierce
as fuck; I loved her.
All bets were off when I introduced myself. Kessa wrinkled her nose and gave me one quick up-
and-down glance before telling me to buzz off. “I’ve heard of you, Cesare Valenti. You like to make
out with girls under the bleachers and play doctor. But you can forget it, kid, because you aren’t
getting in my panties.” One middle finger, one rejection—all I’d given her was my name.
I didn’t stop, though. She might have been right about my middle school reputation, but it wasn’t
like I was having sex with those girls. We were too young even to be thinking about that kind of thing.
I just liked kissing girls. That wasn’t a crime.
To keep up with Francesca in gym class, I had to be at the top of my game. Because she was so
small, Kessa made up for it by being fiercely competitive. She was fast, and it was to her advantage
with any game we played or lesson we learned. During the unit on football, she darted in and out of
the crowd with ease. When we learned about track and field, she was the fastest hurdler in the class.
Kessa excelled at everything, which meant I had to excel at everything to keep up with her.
No one understood why I tried so hard to get Francesca’s attention. Raniero had finished college
the year before and was at home learning the family business. He told me that women come and go,
and I didn’t need to waste all my time on a girl that didn’t even like me. Mom said to ignore him.
“Nero’s never been in love, sweetie. Don’t listen to him. He’s a pessimist.”
Mom’s advice won. By Christmas break, Francesca would speak to me without flipping me off.
When spring break rolled around in March, she agreed to be my date to the welcome back dance. The
rest felt like history.
That summer was one of the best summers of my life. My parents had just installed an in-ground
swimming pool, and Kessa came over every day to show off her cute little body in a bikini. My mom
swore up and down that I’d made the wrong choice dating a girl as free with her body as Francesca,
but I loved it. I was going on fifteen, and my hormones raged like a storm. If I could have gotten her
naked, I would have, even though I had no idea what to do once I did.
When the new school year started in August, Kessa and I were the cutest couple in the sophomore
class. Everyone talked about us making it to senior prom and being crowned King and Queen. At
every dance we attended, people whispered about us as we walked by. They said we were beautiful,
a couple graced by the gods.
But everybody makes mistakes. A year after we’d started dating, I was restless. Kessa didn’t want
to go any further in the bedroom than fooling around, and I was a horny teenage boy looking for
anything I could get. I cheated on her with some girl on the dance team, and when she found out,
Francesca dumped me like sour milk. She didn’t even cry; she walked away laughing. “I knew you’d
break my heart, Cesare; I just didn’t think it’d be like this.”
Fate’s funny, though. Kessa and I had been together for so long that even after we broke up, it was
hard to go our separate ways. My mom liked Kessa now that summer was over and gave my brothers
invaluable dating advice. I had plans to go on a family trip with the Scots, and I was helping Kessa’s
dad rebuild an old Chevrolet Camaro. Walking away from the life we’d built together was more
complicated than just dealing with the pain of my cheating. Kessa was a good sport, and she decided
after a couple of weeks that I was a dumb teenage boy who could be forgiven for fooling around with
a girl on the dance team. “Not that I’m going to date you ever again,” she promised, “but we can be
friends.”
I dated other girls in high school; she dated other boys. We rode in the same limo to prom and
spent our graduation night together, our dates following us around like bored puppies that couldn’t
understand why we remained so close.
I followed Kessa to K-State. While she got her Bachelor’s degree in education and went on to get
her Master’s, I studied kinesiology. She met her husband at the first school she taught, and I watched
her fall in love.
Much to my chagrin, Peter asked me to help pick a ring for Kessa. I knew weeks in advance that
he was going to propose. I had plenty of time to tell him that I loved her or to break them up, but I
entered a perpetual state of panic. Instead of telling Kessa I’d been in love with her since the first day
I laid eyes on her, I watched her get married.
“Peter was a good man. He never raised his voice, and he was always in a good mood. On their
second wedding anniversary, I was in a car accident. I called Francesca from the hospital, and she
yelled at me for ruining their weekend away. You could hear the worry in her tone, but she was also
so damn mad. But Peter,” I chuckle, “Peter took the phone from her and asked where I was at. He said
he was glad I survived and to hold on; he’d have Kessa at the hospital in a couple of hours. He must
have driven eighty-five the entire way back from Kansas City because she was standing at my bedside
table two hours later with tears in her eyes. Peter brought her coffee from the cafeteria and got me
flowers from the gift shop. As his wife slept at my bedside, he ensured we both had everything we
needed. Peter Anderson was a great man; I couldn’t have asked for a better man to marry my best
friend.”
Stefano shakes his head back and forth in the front row; his lips pursed in disgust. I can hear his
words echo in the silence. You’re a sick bastard; you know that?
As the funeral winds to a close, I stand beside Kessa and Peter’s family as they meet with the
mourners. I remain stoic for her; I am her strength in this time of need. When someone says something
particularly touching about Peter, I see Kessa’s body sag, and I reach out to touch the small of her
back. It is the subtlest of gestures, but it strengthens her. She draws her shoulders back and stands up
taller, painting a renewed smile on her face while she meets with the remaining guests.
I stand with my brothers when it’s Kessa’s turn to view the casket. She goes up on the stage alone,
and I watch her anxiously.
“Lesser men would just cop to his murder, you know.” Luca stands there with hands in his pockets
as we stare at Kessa.
“I’m a Valenti,” I announce with a shrug. “I’ve never been a lesser man.”
Raniero smiles at me proudly. “Did you have Holy do the job?”
Nodding my head yes, I return his grin. “The Kings have their uses.” Howard “Holy” Pelham
didn’t even ask for the $50,000 I earmarked for Peter’s death. All he wanted was $20,000, and his
incarceration record expunged. It was the cheapest job I’ve ever had done, and I had the best alibi: I
was with Kessa the night it happened.
“Sick bastard,” Stefano mumbles again. “You’re going to hell.”
Kessa turns from the open casket and starts walking toward us. “We’re all going to hell, Stef; shut
the fuck up.” When she’s within ten feet, I step forward with open arms to embrace her. “I’m so sorry
for your loss, honey.”
All the while, Stefano has his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head despairingly.
Sure, I had my best friend’s husband murdered in cold blood. I gave the best speech at his funeral.
I’ll take care of his wife for the rest of our lives. Stefano isn’t wrong; I’m going straight to hell when I
die. But at least while I’m alive, I’ll have the love of a good woman.
I fucked up in high school and lost the love of my life, but I won’t fuck up again. Francesca Scot is
mine now, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
1
FRANCESCA
 PRESENT DAY

I t was a long day. I think there’s a secret fight club at my school. Four kids were trotted into
my office today with black eyes and bloody noses; none of them talked. When the newspaper
gets ahold of this information, they’re going to skewer me like a shish kabob. I can see the headline
now:

BLUEMONT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL PRINCIPAL OBLIVIOUS OF STUDENT FIGHT CLUB

A dozen parents will be in my office tomorrow morning demanding to know how I knew nothing
about their kids setting up an illegal fight club. I can hear their questions like a live interview in my
head.
“Aren’t there recess monitors on the playground?”
“Why weren’t there cameras in the hallway they were fighting in?”
“Do the teachers even care about our kids?”
“Do you even care about our kids?”
My stomach hurts just thinking about it. I want to go home, curl up in bed, and pretend none of this
ever happened.
“Howdy.” I recognize his voice, but if I didn’t, his greeting would give me the ick.
I turn around in the cereal aisle to find my best friend standing a few feet away. Cesare has a
basket filled to the brim with fruits and vegetables; he’s the healthiest guy I know. “Hey, you,” I smile.
“What brings you to the aisle of carbs and added sugars?”
Cesare wrinkles his nose in disgust and looks around at the dozens of boxes of sugary breakfast
cereals and pop-tarts. “I saw you come down this aisle. Trust me; I don’t need anything.”
I grab the first thing my hand touches and show it to Cesare. “You mean you don’t need eight
packets of maple and brown sugar oatmeal?” Now that I say it out loud, I kind of want it. When he
shakes his head no, I toss it into my cart. “It’s good for your heart, Cesare. You know, that thing in
your chest that could stand to grow three or four sizes?”
“Are you calling me the Grinch?” He asks with a perfectly manicured raised eyebrow.
 “All you need is a Max,” I announce with a grin. “You don’t even celebrate Christmas, do you?”
Cesare places a hand on his chest in mock offense. “I celebrate Christmas, Kessa. Have you ever
been to a Las Vegas strip club on Christmas? It’s the best present a single man could get.”
I roll my eyes and keep walking. “You’re insane. You should spend it with your family.”
He wrinkles his nose again. “I think I liked it better when everyone was single and kid-free. Do
you know how loud the holidays are now? Someone is always crying. Pretty sure Stefano bawled his
eyes out at Easter dinner.”
“But you’re the fun uncle now. A bachelor with the disposable income to sugar up your nieces and
nephews before sending them home.” My sister, Sylvia, swears that she’s never going to have kids.
Attending the Valenti family gatherings is the closest I’ll ever get to being an aunt. Everyone there
treats me like family.
Cesare frowns when we stop in front of the granola bars, and I put a few boxes in my cart. “Are
you buying snacks for the entire school? Jesus, Kes.”
“On days like today, this is my mid-morning snack, lunch, and afternoon comfort food while I’m
crying in my office closet.” I’ve said too much. Concern washes over Cesare, and he reaches out to
touch my elbow in support. “It’s fine,” I rush to assure him before he can worry too much. “Some
days are harder than others, and this is one of them. It’s my first year as Principal, so there’s bound to
be tough days, right?”
He squeezes my elbow gently before pulling away. “Of course. Everybody has tough work days.”
“Even you?” I ask with a waggle of my eyebrows.
Cesare shoots me a knowing look before answering. “Even me, Kessa.”
As long as I’ve known the Valenti family, I’ve known they’re not like other families in Manhattan.
You would think with five sons that Cesare’s mom would have had to work, but she was a proud stay-
at-home mom that made pasta from scratch and spent her Sundays making sauce. Their father gave
them a beautiful home, paid for their college degrees, and never worked out of an office. I knew the
rumors about their family doing bad stuff to get where they are today, but Cesare isn’t like that.
“How’s the physical therapy office coming along?”
Despite always seeming to have a hand in the family business, Cesare has branched out like his
brother, Luca. While Luca went into politics, Cesare started using his degree in kinesiology. The two
of them make a decent living away from their brothers, and I admire Cesare for separating himself
from Raniero. His older brother is a great guy, and he’s donated quite a bit to Bluemont Elementary
since I started working here, but I know that his practices are a little darker than I’d prefer to get
involved with.
“There’s been some setbacks on the building’s renovations. New code laws have gone into effect
since the building was originally constructed. If I want to renovate, I have to adhere to current codes,
which means bringing a lot of stuff up-to-date. The HVAC system, for instance,” he says with a
dramatic roll of his eyes. “HVAC back in the early 1900s wasn’t a thing, and I’m being quoted
several thousand dollars if I want it installed properly.”
I wince just thinking about what it will cost to get everything up to code. I don’t know how people
own businesses or run restaurants when it sounds like more money goes out the door than comes in.
“You can’t just invest in some fans and call it good?” I joke as we turn onto the canned vegetables
aisle.
Cesare throws a few cans of green beans into his stuffed handheld basket. “If I thought I could get
away with it, believe me, I would.” He starts shifting around his items to put the cans on the bottom so
they don’t bruise his fruit.
 “Just put your basket in my cart.” He can’t ever plan anything. I’m still surprised that his brothers
left him in charge of planning Luca’s bachelor party.
“You sure?” He’s already setting the basket in the largest part of my cart, moving my things to the
back. “Because I can carry it. I knew what could happen.”
I wave him off as I toss a few cans of beans into my cart. “I think I’m going to make chili this
week.” Cesare points out that I can’t have chili without cinnamon rolls. “Obviously. That’s a given.”
We had a foreign exchange student in junior high that had no idea what to expect when they came to
Kansas. The biggest shock was lunchtime when the cafeteria would serve chili and cinnamon rolls
side-by-side. He was blown away by the notion that midwesterners ate breakfast and lunch together. I
always think about that when we serve it at school.
“Anyway,” Cesare changes the subject, “what happened at school today that has you so stressed
out? Do I need to fight a child? I’m not afraid to fight a kid, Kessa.”
He always knows how to make me smile. “Fighting is the problem,” I tell him about the four kids
that wound up in my office this morning. “I thought if I got them one-on-one, they’d rat out the person
that started all this, but they didn’t! Everyone stuck together and said nothing, even when I suspended
them for two days. I think there’s some kind of elementary school fight club, Cesare, I really do. How
else do you explain this?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, Kes. I’d say kids just being kids, but I agree; I think one of
them would have rolled on his buddy if that was the case.”
“The parents are going to crucify me. I’m going to have a revolt on my hands. I’m going to lose my
job and—”
Cesare cuts me off with a raised hand. “No,” he adds patiently, “you’re going to be fine. A few
kids fighting is a normal occurrence. Now when a whole grade starts throwing hands, you might need
to worry about a parental uprising.”
The rest of our conversation is cut off by the sound of gunfire coming from the front of the store.
Terror rips through my chest as Cesare grabs me and pulls me to the ground.
“Everybody on the ground.” A voice yells from the front of the store. “Don’t even think about
calling the cops, or we’ll fucking shoot you.”
I’ve been through a dozen active shooter drills at school, but nothing prepares you for when one
actually happens. And when you’re at a grocery store, you can’t run into a classroom and lock the
door. “Cesare,” I whimper.
“Shhh.” He grabs my hand and starts pulling me to the back of the store. “Don’t make a sound.”
A round of gunfire goes off, followed by a volley of screams. “No, we should just lie down,” I
argue.
But then he gives me a look. And there’s something in his eyes that makes me believe he knows
what he’s doing. “Stay behind me,” he whispers. “And don’t let go.”
People are crying, and I hear two male voices ordering people around. I don’t know what will
happen when they get to us, but I don’t intend to find out.
2
 CESARE

I knew that Kessa would be at Dillons today. Every Tuesday night, she goes grocery shopping
after school and orders a pizza from Papa Murphy’s. While her pizza bakes, she puts away
her groceries and does her dishes. Francesca Scot has become the kind of woman that lives and
breathes by her weekly schedule.
That’s why it was so easy to hire some guys to shoot up the joint. They’re the cleanest guys I
could find with the cleanest guns money could buy. I’m talking bankers and CPAs that have never
worked a hard job a day in their lives. Assuming they stick to the plan, they won’t even face jail time
when this is all over. They’ll get out of here before the cops arrive and go on their merry way with a
story to tell their grandchildren.
I didn’t account for human nature, though. Human fucking nature will ruin us every God damn
time.

The plan was for me to lead Francesca to the back of the store, into the warehouse, and be just on our
way out the door when the shooters showed up. A few gunshots, a few threats, and then they were
going to be on their way before the cops showed up.
But we barely make it to the warehouse door when we’re stopped by a man in a mask. He’s
wearing all black and a pair of gloves to conceal his fingerprints, just like I told him to do. Instead of
rushing past us to make it outside in time, he fires a few rounds into the wall of dairy beside us.
“Slow your roll, Tex,” he calls from a few aisles away. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He still has time to change course and do as he’s supposed to. Where the fuck are the guys he’s
with? Why do I hear screams from another aisle? Who is that wailing as if they’re being tortured?
“We don’t want any trouble.” Kessa releases me and puts her hands in the air. Luckily, she stays
behind me.
“You got a pretty little mouth on you, honey.” The man gets closer, and I can tell from the color of
his eyes which of the little punks it is. “Why don’t you give me a kiss, sweetheart?”
I step forward in her stead, not bothering to raise my hands in mock surrender. “Piss off, kid.
There’s plenty of other people here that you can mess with.”
He laughs at me. “Not as many as you’d think.”
Anger fills my chest cavity, and it takes an inhuman amount of strength to keep from walking over
and punching him in the face.
 “Cesare,” Kessa begs, “don’t be a hero.”
“Listen to your little girlfriend,” the robber sneers. “I’m just asking for a kiss. I’m not asking for
her to strip down.” He pauses for a second as he looks over my shoulder at Francesca. “Yet,
anyway.”
Murder certainly crosses my mind. I’ll be honest; I’m a man of action. I’m the reason Francesca is
single. I’ve run off every single boyfriend she’s had since Peter passed. I’m the reason these men are
holding up the grocery store. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the reason my best friend gets
assaulted.
“Oh, my god! Cesare!” I hear Kessa scream in between the sound of fists on flesh. I don’t
remember charging the robber and mowing him down, but that’s what happened. I have to admit that
he holds his own.
I get clocked in the ear pretty hard. There’s a ringing sound just milliseconds before I start to get
woozy. The gun must have fallen from his hands when I pounced on him because I can see it four feet
away. If I just make my way to the gun, I can shoot this motherfucker for thinking he can mess with
Kessa.
But it all goes wrong. In my blind rage, I forget that there are two other men in the store. One
comes down the center aisle like he’s supposed to and finds me atop his friend, beating the shit out of
him. I don’t know what goes through his head, but something in him says to shoot.
The first bullet rips through my shoulder like fire. The pain is so immense that I fall backward and
grab the bleeding wound. A second bullet whizzes by and nicks my ear. I think it actually hurts worse
than the shot to the chest. “Son of a bitch!” I’ve heard that swearing makes it easier to handle the pain,
but I was lied to.
“You okay, man?” The second guy comes to help his buddy as the third guy runs toward them.
“Go, go, go!” He roars. “The cops are pulling up.”
This whole plan was a bust. I’m wounded. The guys I hired are a bunch of morons. They’re
probably going to get caught by the police, and then they’ll rat me out. An elementary school fight club
will be the least of Francesca’s problems when she has to visit me in some Nebraska prison cell.
“It’s going to be okay.” Suddenly Kessa is kneeling over me. She’s ripping off the blazer she wore
to school today and pressing it against my bleeding wound. There’s concern in her eyes, and I can see
her lips moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying anymore. The edges of my vision slowly turn
blurry before filling in with darkness. Pain welcomes me into its cruel embrace.
“I love you; God damn it. Now stay with me.” Kessa’s angry tone finally cuts through the water
swishing in and out of my ears. I think I’m going to vomit, but seeing her face somehow eases the
nausea.
Her pretty red hair and beautiful freckled face are soon replaced by a couple of EMTs. “Are you
okay? What’s your name? Can you hear us?”
I want to tell him he doesn’t have to yell; I can hear him just fine. But my mouth doesn’t work. I
swear those goons shot me in the chest. Why don’t I have control of my motor functions?
“We need to get him to the hospital. It looks like his brachial plexus has been torn.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Kessa asks.
“He’s going to need surgery,” the EMT announces. “We need to get him out of here, now. We’re
taking him to Ascension Via Christi. If you’re family, you can ride with us.”
I don’t know what goes through her head because I can barely function, but Kessa takes their
ready-made lie. “I’m his wife.”
I’ve waited an eternity to hear her say those words; I can’t believe it happened just seconds
before I pass out and I’m carted off to the hospital.
3
 FRANCESCA

I remember the first time I saw Cesare; he was fourteen years old with a scrapper’s build
and a pathetic bit of hair on his chin that he said was a goatee. He looked like a
douchebag, and I had no time for douchebags.
He thought he was funny; I didn’t. He would hang around me during gym class and try to keep
up. But I was an athlete and he didn’t like to sweat. I covered every inch of the basketball court,
and he tried to figure out how to get the ball in the basket in the least amount of steps. I could run
circles around him, but he was smarter than me. And more patient.
Cesare waited me out through the unseasonably warm days of fall and the arctic blast of
winter. He wormed his way into my friend group, showed up at the parties I was at, and always had
a compliment to serve me. He never showed frustration when I turned him down for a date; he
never complained that he was tired of chasing me.
I made Cesare work his ass off to prove his worth to me and we were only fourteen years old. I
thought the months we’d spent being friends had built a solid foundation for our relationship. But
then he fooled around with Kiersten Karminski.

“His breathing is labored.” The EMT hovers over Cesare as the ambulance races through the streets
of Manhattan. The hospital is 2.5 miles from the grocery store, but we have to get past the university.
Even with the lights on the truck flashing and the sirens blaring, the college kids hit the crosswalk
lights and step into the street in front of us. It jostles the vehicle every time the driver has to hit the
brakes and honk his horn. What should be a five-minute drive feels like an eternity.
“Vitals look good, though.” The other EMT adds after a few moments. “His heart rate is elevated,
but not critically. Blood loss is slowing. Ma’am,” he looks at me, “you might have saved his life by
putting pressure on the wound.”
It was all I could do in the heat of the moment. What can I say?

Kiersten Karminski was a senior, and everything I wasn’t.

I was 5’0”, she was 5’8” and wore three-inch heels to English class. She was all legs, and it
made every guy stare. I felt dumpy standing next to a girl like her.
I had red hair and freckles; she was blonde with a membership to Sun Tan City. It didn’t matter
if it was twelve degrees outside and snow was falling, Kiersten Karminski looked like she’d just
gotten back from the beach.
I struggled to put on weight where it mattered: my ass and tits. Kiersten was a walking-talking
ad for Victoria’s Secret. I couldn’t fill out the B-cup bras I kept telling my mom to buy, and
Kiersten complained about back pain because her double Ds were too big. I couldn’t sympathize
with her when high school boys were telling me that I belonged in the itty bitty titty committee.
I wasn’t ready to go all the way with Cesare yet; Kiersten went down on him behind the
bleachers at a football game.
When I found out that Cesare had cheated on me, I hated them both, but I hated Kiersten a
little bit more. It wasn’t her fault or anything, but I was so angry that a perfect-looking girl like
her would come after my man. She could have had anyone in the school. Why did she need to take
Cesare from me?

“Miss, you’re going to need to wait here.” The ER nurse is very kind, and her hands are warm. I
notice it when she’s grabbing my wrists and trying to get my attention. My eyes are glued on the
gurney taking Cesare to surgery.
“I need to be with him.” His blood is on my shirt. “That’s my best friend.”
The nurse squeezes my wrists firmly. “We’re going to take care of your husband, miss. These
kinds of injuries are rarely fatal. He might lose some sensation in his arm or some mobility, but he
won’t die.”
He won’t die. He won’t die. He. Won’t. Die. The words play in my head on repeat, breathing fresh
air into my lungs. My best friend isn’t going to die today.
“Take a seat, honey. I’ll get you a bottle of water while you wait.” She’s a nice woman.

A few years ago, when Peter and I had gone to Kansas City for our second wedding anniversary,
we holed up at the Chateau Avalon Hotel and Spa for the weekend. We were in the middle of a
couple’s massage when my phone started ringing. I apologized to the masseuse for leaving it on
and she kindly brought me my bag so I could turn it off.
I was going to turn it off, really, I was. Peter and I promised one another we would stay off
social media and reduce our screen time this weekend. We wanted our anniversary to be about us.
But Cesare’s contact image was splashed across my screen, and my anxiety shot through the
roof. He knew not to call me. He was watching our cat for the weekend and I had instructed him to
call only in the event of an emergency. I was sure something terrible had happened to Lucky, so I
picked up.
“Hey, I know you told me not to call,” he started the conversation, “but you need to find
someone else to watch Lucky. I was in a car accident, and I’m in the hospital.”
My heart stopped. My world stopped spinning. The man I loved was in the hospital and I was a
hundred miles away.

One discarded bottle of water later, the waiting room is full of Valentis. Raniero paces the floor
while shooting angry looks at the receptionist. Sloane tries to talk to her and explain the situation, but
the woman staunchly refuses to update us on Cesare’s condition. Mateo is full of barely concealed
rage and keeps answering his phone to make hushed requests from the person on the other end.
Stefano sits quietly in the corner with Nicolette gently stroking his arm and whispering in his ear.
“There has to be an update. You’re telling me he’s been in surgery for two hours now?” Sloane,
Luca’s wife, scoffs at the receptionist. “What are they doing, transplanting his shoulder? Either you
have news, or you don’t.”
The receptionist gives Sloane a little huff before slamming the plastic divider between the two of
them, effectively cutting off communication. I expect a City Commissioner to act a little more
appropriately, but Sloane slams her fists down on the counter in front of her and lets out a little
scream. “I want to speak to your boss!” She demands.
“That’s some Karen behavior right there,” I hear Nicolette whisper a few seats away.
“Shh,” Stefano says with a wan smile, “if it gets us some answers, then let her be the biggest
Karen the hospital’s ever seen.”
“Mrs. Valenti?” A handful of heads turn toward the woman standing in the doorway. Her eyes
widen when she realizes that his entire family must be here. “Er, I mean, Cesare Valenti’s wife?”
Raniero frowns. “He doesn’t have—”
I pop out of my chair before Raniero blows my cover. “That’s me,” I announce loudly. “But these
are his brothers.” I gesture toward the other men in the room.
The nurse looks from me to the men, and each new face causes her eyebrows to knit together a
little tighter. “Mr. Valenti is out of surgery and awake. He’s asking to see his wife. He can have
guests,” she pauses, “but not this many. You can take one of them back with you.”
“I’ll go,” Raniero offers. “It’ll be me and his wife.”
The nurse escorts us back to his room, and Raniero grabs my hand. “Wife, huh?” He asks with a
small grin. “Did I miss the wedding?”
“Something like that,” I smile back at him. “Don’t tell anyone, though.” We’ll explain it later.
Right now, we get to see Cesare, and that’s all that matters.
4
 CESARE

“J ust be honest with me. Did I get run over by a herd of wild elephants?”
The nurse smiles as she writes down my vitals. “Close enough,” she says with a wink.
She’s a pretty little thing. Petite, like Kessa, but a dark foil to the love of my life. “If I’m out of the
woods, you think you could grab my wife? I’d like to see her.” I barely remember Kessa calling
herself my wife when the EMTs got me on the stretcher and started carrying me to the emergency
vehicle, but I do remember it.
Her pen scratches against the paper a few more times before she looks up and nods. “Of course, I
can. But visiting hours are almost over. You’ll have to make this quick.”
“I just want to tell her I’m okay,” I promise the nurse. And find out why she was so willing to lie
to medical professionals.
The nurse leaves, and for a few minutes, all I hear is the sound of machines beeping and people
walking by outside. It’s almost a cozy feeling to be left without a phone to answer or a television to
watch. The sun has been long set now that the winter days are here, but the moon sits prominently in
the sky. I can’t remember the last time I stared intentionally at the moon. It’s almost surreal to see the
bright, white ball hang in the sky, illuminating everything beneath it.
The door to my room opens and stirs me from my peaceful reverie. Kessa rushes in, and I have
only a second to notice the blood on her shirt before she’s draped over me and smothering my face
with kisses. “I told you not to be a hero,” she scolds.
My oldest brother, Raniero, stands in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears
a smug little smile on his face as he watches my good hand come around to hold Kessa. “Good to see
you’re still alive, little bro.”
“Barely,” I groan. “It feels like I was trampled by a circus.”
At that admission, Francesca pulls away from me and holds her hands in the air. There is horror in
her gaze as she stares at me. “Oh, my god. Did I hurt you?”
There was some pressure when she was on top of me, but the drugs the doctors gave me were
working overtime to withhold the pain. Besides, I’d rather have her on top of me, showering me with
kisses, than not. “No, I’m perfectly fine, Kes. Is-is that my blood?” I change the topic before she can
keep freaking out.
Kessa looks down at her shirt. What was once a neatly pressed white shirt is now rumpled and
stained. “Oh, god,” she groans, “yeah, it is. I’m going to have to throw this shirt out.”
“We can get it dry-cleaned,” Raniero offers. He walks up to my bedside and places a hand on my
shin. “I wouldn’t want you to lose a shirt because this bum can’t resist a fight.”
“Hey,” I glare at him, “the guy was threatening Kessa. What else was I supposed to do?”
 Raniero rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, but attacking the gunman doesn’t sound like the first
response.”
Truth be told, I don’t remember attacking the guy with the gun. He said that he wanted a kiss from
Francesca and insinuated he might want more. The next thing I knew, I was beating the shit out of him.
Then I was shot, Kessa called herself my wife, and I woke up in this bed. “Are the other guys in the
waiting room?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Raniero chides. “Of course they are. Calliope has the kids. She offered to
watch them when Francesca called me. Mateo swung by with Marceila before he showed up.”
“You got a good woman there,” I grin. “I wouldn’t offer to watch the Valenti children even if you
paid me.”
Raniero snorts. “Shut up. Yes, you would. I bet you’ll be the first one in the room when Nicolette
goes into labor.”
Kessa clears her throat when the room silences for a few seconds and slowly starts to back up.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll go get your brothers. You guys should be together at a time like this.”
“No, honey,” Raniero stops her. He reaches out, grabs her wrist, and pulls her back to the
bedside. “I’ll inform my brothers that Cesare’s bullet-riddled ass is fine. You guys chat. You are his
wife, after all.”
Her cheeks flush red, and for a moment, Kessa turns away from me. I do my best to explain for
her. “The EMTs said she could come on the van if she was my wife.”
He nods his head wisely. “Yes, of course. I think I’ll inform everyone you’re safe with your
wifey.”
“Shut up.” If I could move my left arm, I’d grab a pillow and throw it at him.
As Raniero leaves the room, he shuts the door behind him, leaving Francesca and me alone. She
looks like she’s aged ten years in the last few hours, and I know this is my fault. “Listen, Kessa—”
Tears well up in her eyes and it stops me from continuing. “I was so afraid for you,” she
whispers. “I thought you were going to die. You were covered in blood, and you were pale, so very
pale.”
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
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
from every part of the groves, but see them familiarly eating, at the
edges of the pastures, and by the roadsides. It is worthy of remark
that their companions in retirement, the Glass-eyes, accompany
them also in these feeding excursions, and partake of the feast. I
found the stomachs of both species at this season, loaded with the
green pimento.
The two specimens which first came into my hands, early in
October, manifested signs of a seasonal change of plumage. One
had the head prettily covered with pale rusty spots, each feather
being thus tipped: several of the body feathers were similarly tipped.
This was moulting, and I perceived that it was the old feathers which
were tipped, the new ones being uniformly grey, whence I infer the
spotted character to be that of the summer dress, perhaps extending
to all the clothing feathers. The other specimen exhibited the same
peculiarity, but in a less degree.
I have much pleasure in adding the following note
contained in a letter from my friend, received since my
arrival in England. Mr. Hill, having made some inquiries of
a gentleman residing among the Blue Mountains, Andrew
[MP3 |
G. Johnston, Esq., received the following reply:—“I have
MusicXML] no copy of my musical score of the Solitaire’s song. The
bird now [July 27th] uses only its long breve notes and its octave,
often out of tune, more often so than perfect. In the spring they are
very numerous in the deep forests, and warble very prettily,
somewhat like this:—

[MP3 | MusicXML]
 sometimes thus—

[MP3 | MusicXML]

The pointed crotchets are very sweet

sounds, and seem to sound . I tried
in vain to get one this spring, but I find the
negroes know nothing about them. Hearing
them one day singing, I asked two maroon- tr tr
[MP3 | MusicXML]
men who also listened, what birds they were.
One said a grey speckled bird, mottled like a guinea-fowl: the other
that it was black, and red about the rump and under the wings.” My
conjectures on both points, are thus confirmed. I may add that the
most common notes that I have heard are these.
Vieillot, who first described the species by the name of Muscicapa
armillata, says that “it inhabits the Antilles, but is very rare in the
greater islands.” His figure, pl. 42, is poor, both as regards form and
colour. Mr. Swainson’s figure of Myiadestes genibarbis, (Nat. Lib.
Flycatchers, pl. 13,) if meant for this species, is better as to
colouring, but neither its form nor attitude is correct. Moreover, as he
says, its body is not much larger than that of the robin, and mentions
white lines on the black ear-coverts, it is with me a matter of doubt;
especially as he speaks of the intimate resemblance which it bears
to our common robin, “not merely in the red colour of the throat,” but
in form; a resemblance certainly not discoverable in the living bird.
The figure in Mr. Gray’s Genera of Birds was drawn from one of
the specimens procured by me in Jamaica, and is in winter plumage.

Fam.—CORVIDÆ.—(The Crows.)
BLACK-HEADED JAY.[58]
 Cyanocorax pileatus.
Corvus pileatus, Ill.—Pl. col. 58.

[58] Length 14 inches, tail 5⁸⁄₁₀, rictus 1²⁄₁₀, tarsus 2²⁄₁₀, middle toe 1⁵⁄₁₀.

This fine bird was brought to Mr. Hill, about the end of the year
1844, from the mountains of St. Andrews, by a negro who stated that
he had caught it near Newcastle. Its wings were cut; which at once
excited the suspicion that it had been a caged bird, but, on a
moment’s examination, it was perceived that its perfect cleanness
and the smoothness of its plumage decisively indicated a state of
freedom and wildness. The man stated that having caught it alive in
the garden of his cottage, which, (from the circumstance that the
cottage-gardens, in the precipitous mountains, often run into narrow
cliffs and corners, environed as if by enormous walls,) he might
readily do, he had endeavoured to keep it alive, and had clipped
both its wings for its detention. After a few days, however, it died,
probably for want of proper food, and he brought it to Kingston, to
dispose of it for a trifle.
I find by reference to Temminck, Pl. col., that this specimen, now in
my possession, is a female; the male has the belly yellowish. His
figure is also a female. He ascribes the species to Brazil and
Paraguay.

JABBERING CROW.[59]
Gabbling Crow.

Corvus Jamaicensis.
Cornix Jamaicensis, Briss.
Corvus Jamaicensis, Gmel.

[59] Length 16½ inches, expanse 28, flexure 9½, tail 5¾, rictus 2, tarsus
2, middle toe 1½. Intestine 30 inches; two cæca, situated close together,
 on the inferior side of the rectum, about ½ inch from cloaca; ⁶⁄₁₀ inch long,
slender. Irides greyish hazel.

In the wildest parts of the mountain regions of Jamaica, where the

perilous path winds round a towering cone on the one hand, and on
the other looks down into a deep and precipitous gully; or where a
narrow track, choked up with tree-ferns on which the vertical sun
looks only at noon-day, leads through the dark and damp forest to
some lonely negro ground, the traveller is startled by the still wilder
tones of the Jabbering Crow. So uncouth and yet so articulate, so
varied in the inflexions of their tones, are these sounds, that the
wondering stranger can with difficulty believe he is listening to the
voice of a bird, but rather supposes he hears the harsh consonants,
and deep guttural intonations of some savage language. All the
Crows are garrulous, and several are capable of tolerable imitations
of human speech, but the present is the only example I am aware of,
in which the language of man is resembled by a bird in a state of
nature. The resemblance, however, is rather general than particular;
every one who hears it is struck with its likeness to speech, though
he cannot detect any known words: it is the language of a foreigner.
One cannot easily convey an idea of the sounds by writing; but the
following fragments which the negroes have been able to catch from
the learned bird’s own mouth, will give some notion of their
character. “Walk fast, crāb! do buckra work.—Cuttacoo[60] better than
wallet.” It must not be supposed that these words uniformly
represent the sounds; these and similar combinations of harsh
consonants and broad vowels, are varied ad infinitum, as are also
the tones in which they are expressed. For myself, I have thought
them ludicrously like the very peculiar voice of Punch in a puppet-
show; others have fancied in them half-a dozen Welshmen
quarrelling. These strange sounds are generally poured forth in
sentences, of varying length, from the summit of some lofty tree, or
in the course of the bird’s passage from one to another.
[60] A cuttacoo is a negro’s little hand-basket.

In some parts of the mountains they are not uncommon, though

their loquacity would induce us to think them more numerous than
they are, for we rarely see more than two or three at once. They are
social, but not gregarious; and much of their time is spent in visiting
successively the summits of those trees that tower above the rest of
the forest, the Santa-Maria, the bread-nut, the broad-leaf, and the
cotton-tree. As these visitations are often performed alone, I imagine
that the gabbling cries are calls to their companions, especially as, if
another comes within hearing, he is pretty sure to visit his clamorous
brother, and enter into noisy conversation with him. After spending a
few minutes on one tree, during which they do not, generally, change
their position, otherwise than by walking deliberately along the
branch, they both wing their way to the next station, not side by side,
but one a little behind the other, both calling as they go. The
bleached and bare limbs of a dry tree are always selected, when one
of the requisite elevation is within range, as affording most fully that
which they seem to delight in, an unobstructed prospect. Sometimes
they do alight on lower trees, but then they are very wary and
suspicious, so that it is a difficult matter to get within shot of one.
When out of gun range, which they seem to estimate pretty
accurately, they are much more careless of a passing stranger. Their
flight is heavy and slow. They scarcely ever desert the solitudes of
the mountains; two thousand feet is the lowest limit at which I have
known them, with two exceptions. The one is that in certain lofty
woods surrounding the extensive morass in Saltspring Pen, near
Black river, I have heard the voices of these birds clamorously
uttered, in the latter part of November. The other instance occurred
behind Pedro Bluff, but little above the level of the sea, where I
heard this bird in June.
The food of the Jabbering Crow is principally vegetable. Of several
shot in autumn, the stomachs contained various berries, some
fleshy, others farinaceous. The stomach is a muscular sac, but not a
gizzard. Descending in the early months of the year to the ripening
sour sops, on which it feeds, it is then much more approachable, but
at the same time more silent. And about the same time, the seed of
the bitter wood is ripe, which also attracts him. One of these trees is
in the yard of a house at Content, where I occasionally sojourned;
this was generally visited at dawn of day, and sometimes in the
evening, by the Crows. I have been amused by the intelligence
which they manifest in approaching it: a company of two or three will
come into the neighbourhood, and alight with much clamour on
some tree in the woods, a few rods distant; we hear no further
sound, but presently one and another are seen stealing on silent
wing to the bitter-wood, where they nibble the berries in all stillness
and quiet. I could not help thinking that the noisy and ostentatious
alighting on the first tree was but a feint to prevent suspicion, as if
they should say, “Here we are, you see; this is the place that we
frequent.” And this, I am informed, is not an accidental case, but a
habit. The pimento also, which in its green state is eaten by so many
of our birds, tempts the Jabbering Crow in February from his forest
fastnesses, to the low but dense groves that clothe the mountain
brows.
An intelligent person has informed me, that it will take advantage
of a small bird’s being entangled in a withe, to kill and eat it; and that
when a boy, amusing himself by setting springes for small birds, he
has occasionally known them to be taken out of the springe by the
Jabbering Crow. These statements, at least as far as the animal
appetite is concerned, are in some measure confirmed by an
experiment with one I had alive. One day in December, hearing a
strange querulous sound proceeding from the top of the woods near
me, I sent Sam to find the cause. He ascertained it to proceed from
one of two Jabbering Crows, perched side by side on the top of a
tree; the vociferous one being evidently young, though in full
plumage, and capable of flight, for it was shivering its wings, while
with open beak receiving something from the mouth of the other,
doubtless its parent. He shot the old one, and slightly wounding it in
the wing, brought it to the ground, where it ran so vigorously, that he
had difficulty in securing it. It was rather formidable too; for it
clutched his hand with its claws so forcibly, as to give pain; and
afterwards, as I was holding it, it nipped my finger with the point of its
powerful beak, and took the piece out. When turned into a room, it
climbed about the various objects, by walking, and taking
considerable jumps, striving to gain the highest elevation it could
attain, where it sat, moody, but watchful. I presented to it the flesh of
one side of the breast of a bird just skinned. He seized it greedily,
and, after carrying it about a little, attempted to swallow it. In this he
did not succeed without many efforts, as the piece was large: he
several times tried to toss it while in his beak, and also drew it out by
setting his foot on it, and took it in another position; but seemed to
have no power of dividing it.
Robinson says, “They are great devourers of ripe plantains and
bananas, and also rob the wild pigeons of their eggs and young.
When tame, they are very droll and diverting, and as arrant thieves
as our Jackdaws and Magpies, stealing knives, spoons, thimbles,
&c., and hiding them. They abandon all such plantations as have the
woods much cleared away from them, of which there have been
many instances. They are often seen stooping down and drinking the
water that is deposited in the bosom of the leaves of the largest wild
pines. When employed in stealing plantains, they are said to be very
silent, but at other times are the most loquacious, noisy animals
breathing. I have been informed by some very creditable persons,
that they will attack and destroy a yellow-snake; their method is to fly
upon him one after another, and tearing away a mouthful of his skin
and flesh, retreat. This they do with great nimbleness, and with
impunity, till they have devoured the poor animal alive.” (MSS.)
Once in walking in a very lonely wood, I came suddenly on a
Jabbering Crow sitting on a low tree just over my head; the bird was
evidently startled, and in the surprise quite lost its presence of mind;
for instead of making off with the usual clamour, it flew mute to
another low tree a few yards off, where it sat peeping at me in
silence, until I shot it.
I have never met with the nest; but a young friend, to whom I am
indebted for several interesting facts, tells me, that about the
beginning of last June, he was accustomed to see a pair on a very
lofty cotton-tree, which he thought were nesting. He repeatedly saw
them go and “lie down,” as he expressed it, in a large bunch of wild-
pine, where they would remain for some time; and when one flew
out, the other, which had been sitting on the same tree, would go
and sit in the place. Usually the bird will leave its position on the
slightest alarm, but when either of these was in its hollow, nothing
would induce it to fly. He on one occasion fired thrice at the sitting
bird, but she would not leave her place, and the situation was too
lofty for the shot to reach her. The approach of the birds to the wild-
pine was always perfectly silent and cautious; but they would dart
out on any other bird flying near, and drive it away with clamour. On
the whole, I have no doubt that this pair had a nest in the wild-pine.
The same young friend once witnessed a singular rencontre
between two Jabbering Crows, and two Red-tail Buzzards, and in
this case it is probable that parental solicitude gave the desperate
courage. A single Hawk flying along was pounced upon by a Crow
from a neighbouring tree, and a flying fight commenced, the Hawk
thrusting forth his talons in endeavour to clutch, in which he once
succeeded, and the Crow repeatedly striking his enemy forcibly with
his sharp and powerful beak. Now and then each would rise
perpendicularly and pounce down upon the other: this was
principally but not solely, the manner of the Buzzard, the Crow
usually striking his blow, and then retreating obliquely. After some
time a second Hawk approached, which was attacked by another
Crow; and now the melée went on in the same manner between the
four combatants. The conflict lasted near ten minutes, and at length
terminated in favour of the Crows, who fairly drove their opponents
off the aerial field, pursuing them with pertinacity to a great distance.
At the moment of my writing down this account, it was in a measure
confirmed by my actually observing a Jabbering Crow pursuing with
insult a Buzzard over the woods: it was strange to see, that after he
had returned from the pursuit, he himself was attacked by a little
Petchary, to whose superior prowess he was fain to yield, and flee in
his turn.
In the latter part of May and early in June, which I presume to be
the season of incubation, the singular chattering is almost
relinquished for a much more monotonous cawing, somewhat like
the note of the Rook, but uttered more pertinaciously, and more
impatiently.
Robinson states that “they build their nest with slender twigs in the
manner of Rooks on the tops of lofty trees, but not more than two
nests on one tree. When they have young they will suffer nobody to
take them, assaulting the bold invader with great courage and much
clamour, fiercely buffeting his face with their wings, at the same time
endeavouring to pluck out his eyes with their strong beaks.” He
elsewhere states that “they are said to build in hollow trees.” (MSS.)
The flesh is not eaten; but having a curiosity to taste it, I had one
broiled. The flesh of the breast was well-tasted and juicy, but so
dark, tough, and coarse-grained, that I should readily have mistaken
it for beef.
I found the tracheal muscles of this bird large and globose.

Fam.—STURNIDÆ.—(The Starlings.)
TINKLING GRAKLE.[61]

Tin-tin.—Barbadoes Blackbird.

Quiscalus crassirostris.—Sw.
[61] Length 12½ inches, expanse 18¼, flexure 6, tail 5³⁄₁₀, rictus 1⁴⁄₁₀,
tarsus 1⁶⁄₁₀, middle toe 1³⁄₁₀. Intestine 12 inches; two cæca ¹⁄₆ inch long,
½ inch from cloaca. Irides cream-white.

The appearance, voice, and habits of this bird had pretty well
convinced me of its distinctness from Q. versicolor, before I was
aware that Mr. Swainson had described it in “Two centenaries and a
quarter,” p. 355. From the length of his specimen, it is probable the
tail was not fully developed.
This is one of the first birds which a stranger notices: his
conspicuous size and glossy plumage, his familiar business-like
manners, and his very peculiar metallic cry, at once attract attention.
Gregarious, but not associating in very great numbers to feed, they
frequent pastures and open grounds in search of insects, not often
hopping, (though I have seen one hop,) but walking with a
swaggering gait, like rooks and crows. When on the ground their
time is chiefly occupied in searching about among the roots of the
grass. It is most amusing to stand where one is not observed, at a
few yards’ distance from a Tinkling at work, and to watch the
unremitted industry with which he labours. He marches rapidly to
and fro, turning his head in all directions, peeping eagerly hither and
thither, now turning one eye to a spot, now the other, ever and anon
thrusting into the earth the beak, which is then forcibly opened to
loosen the soil. He drags many morsels forth, which he quickly
swallows, and searches for more. I suspect earthworms and various
larvæ that live at the roots of grass are the objects of his research.
Amidst his constant occupation, he does not omit, however, to keep
an eye warily on any suspicious object. Only shew your person, and
you see the singular-looking white eye turned up towards you; stir a
step towards him, and away he flies, uttering his very peculiar cry,
his long tail folded on itself, and resembling a vertical fan. As he sits
on a tree, he will now and then elevate the fan-like tail, ruffle up the
plumage, throw back the head, and with the beak wide open, utter
two or three most singular notes, which I can compare to nothing but
the sounds produced by repeatedly striking with force a piece of
sonorous metal, relieved occasionally by the creaking of a
schoolboy’s pencil upon a slate. “There are,” observes Mr. Hill, “two
or three fine modulations, followed by a sudden break down into the
harsh grating sounds of the ungreased wheels of a heavy-loaded
truck.” It is to the first of these notes that the bird before us owes his
local names of Tinkling, Tintin, Clinkling, and, among the Spaniards
of St. Domingo, Chinchiling.
Like the Ani, the Tinkling feeds on the parasites of cattle. Walking
among them, and mounting on their backs, they pick off the ticks that
so sadly infest the poor beasts, who, as if appreciating the service,
offer not the slightest molestation to their kind friends. I one day
observed a Tinkling thus engaged in feeding her offspring. It was in
the picturesque pasture of Peter’s Vale, where kine were numerous.
Beneath the grateful shade of a spreading mango, in the heat of the
day, a cow was peacefully ruminating. At her feet was the old
Tinkling, walking round and looking up at her, with an intelligent eye.
Presently she espied a tick upon the cow’s belly, and leaping up,
seized it in her beak. Then marching to her sable offspring, who
stood looking on a few yards off, she proceeded to deliver the
savoury morsel into the throat of her son, who had gaped to the
utmost stretch of his throat in eager expectation, even before his
mother was near him. This done, she returned, and again walking
round, scrutinized the animal’s body, but discovering nothing more,
flew up on the cow’s back and commenced an investigation there.
Just at this moment something alarmed her, and both mother and
son flew to a distant tree. It was at the same time, and in the same
pasture, that I observed a number of these birds collected in a large
bastard-cedar that overhung a shallow pool; to which one and
another were continually descending, and bathing with great
apparent enjoyment; after which each flew to a sunny part of the
tree, and fluttered and pecked, and ruffled its plumage, that it might
dry smoothly and equally.
Mr. Hill has observed at Fort Dauphin, on the north side of St.
Domingo, the Tinkling feeding in flocks of two hundred or more. The
low grounds around the harbour, consisting of many shallow marly
hollows are overflowed by the tide, after the prevalence of strong
north winds, reducing them to marshes. Many marine mollusca, &c.
congregating in these hollows, are left, by the water evaporating, to
putrefy: the vicinity is hence very unhealthy, but hither the Tinklings
resort in large flocks to feed on the decaying animal matters, with
which the mud is filled. And in Jamaica, my friend has witnessed
flocks of these birds equally numerous, winging their way, in March,
towards Passage Fort, an embouchure subject to a similar
inundation, on which they appeared to descend.
The food of our Grakle I believe to consist almost, if not quite
exclusively, of insects, worms, &c. Yet I have seen one in March
eating a Seville orange on the tree, tugging out large portions of the
pulp, and swallowing them. But the stomach of this very specimen,
which I shot in the act, was full of comminuted insects. As it was in
the midst of very dry weather, the object may have been the
quenching of its thirst. Robinson in describing the Corato, (Agave
keratto) notices a fondness of this bird for its nectar, which may
perhaps be similarly explained. He says of this magnificent plant,
(MSS. I. 76.) “the flowering stem begins to rise about Christmas, and
in the beginning of March, the flowers open. The Mocking-birds are
fond of the honey found at the base of this flower; the Barbadoes
Blackbirds are also fond of it, and between these birds happen great
dissensions and bickerings. If the Blackbirds, which are naturally
very loquacious, would fare well, and hold their tongues, they might
feed unmolested. But their incessant chattering attracts the attention
of the Mock-birds, who having at that time young ones, and being
doubly jealous, assault the Blackbirds with great fierceness and
vigour, soon obliging them to quit the plant, and hide themselves
among the trees and bushes.”
Of two which I shot in January, the stomach of one presented a
singular appearance, being stuffed with green herbage, like very fine
grass, chopped excessively small. I had noticed several caterpillars
among the mass, but it was not until I dispersed it in water, that I
discovered it to consist of the contents of the caterpillars’ stomachs,
expressed by the muscular action of the gizzard. There were no less
than nineteen caterpillars, all smooth, and I think grass-eating kinds,
some of which still contained portions of comminuted herbage. The
stomach of the other contained about as many caterpillars, besides
other larvæ, some spiders, a moth, and other insects.
Regularly at nightfall, during the summer, I used to see many
parties of Tinklings fly over Bluefields, with the usual vociferation,
and wend their way to a spreading cotton-tree near the seaside,
where, I was informed, they slept; whence, as regularly one might
see them, in the early morning, emerging and dispersing to their
places of diurnal occupation. One evening I went down to watch their
arrival and proceedings. About half-an-hour before sunset, they
began to arrive in straggling parties, but did not proceed at once to
their roosting place, but congregated in a clump of smaller trees,
about one hundred and fifty yards from it, on the banks of Bluefields
River, where they clamoured in all sorts of metallic tones with
unceasing vociferation. Some parties from a distance, coming
straight to the roost, suddenly altered their course, attracted by the
calls of these intermediate settlers, and joined them, and some even
returned to them, which had already passed the spot. A few,
however, went on to their destination, and when once some were
there, their numbers soon increased, for the calling now proceeded
from both quarters. As the parties arrived, one or two single birds
kept flying from one station to the other, backwards and forwards. At
length the whole assembled number on the intermediate station rose
as by common consent, and flew in an immense flock to the number
of nearly two hundred, to the roosting place, darkening the air, and
making a loud rushing with their united wings. Others went on to
arrive, until between four and five hundred, (I could not count very
accurately) had assembled. Long before this, however, I had found
that the real roosting place was not the large cotton-tree, that this
was but another station of congregation, for as the evening
advanced, they began to leave this, and to perch on the fronds of
four or five cocoa-nut palms that were growing in two lines, of which
the cotton-tree was the angle. The nearest trees to this point were
first chosen, and few chose the second, till the first was pretty well
crowded, nor the third till the second was occupied, and finally the
numbers on each cocoa-nut were in proportion to its proximity to the
central point.
The taking of places was attended with much squabbling; the
alighting of each new comer on a frond, causing it to swing so as
greatly to discompose the sitters already in possession, and throw
them off their balance; and hence each was received by his fellows
with open beaks, and raised wings to prevent his landing. Still, many
thrust themselves in among others, pecking right and left in self-
defence. The highest horizontal fronds were most in demand, and
many of these had at the close as many as ten or twelve birds each,
sitting side by side in a sable row. When once the birds had left the
cotton-tree, and selected their places on the palms, they did not
return, but places were shifted continually. During the whole time
their singular voices were in full cry, and could be heard at a great
distance; some idea may be formed of the effect of the whole, by
imagining two or three hundred small table bells of varying tones to
be rung at the same time. By half-an-hour after sunset, the arrivals
had pretty well ceased, and most of the birds were quietly settled for
the night. I visited them on one or two subsequent evenings, but
found no material difference in their proceedings.
As the Tinkling roosts in society, so does it build. The nests, to the
number of twenty or thirty, are placed in a single tree, usually a hog-
plum, (Spondias graveolens). One of these trees, chosen every year
as a nesting tree, being on the property of a friend, a nest, one of
fourteen then built, was brought down for my inspection. It consists
of a deep, compact, and well-formed cup, the hollow of which is as
large as a pint basin; the sides, about an inch and a half thick,
formed of flexible stems of weeds, and stalks of guinea grass. It
contained three eggs, measuring 1¹⁄₁₀ inch by ⁸⁄₁₀, of a dull pale
blue-green, singularly marked with sinuated lines of black. I am
assured that when the company have hatched their broods for the
season, they tear away with their feet the nests, and scatter the
materials; and that should any other bird have a nest on the same
tree, it is mercilessly destroyed with the rest, regardless of the eggs
or young which it may contain. The nests are placed on the forks of
divergent branches, near the end of horizontal limbs, at a
considerable elevation.
Mr. Hill informs me, on the authority of a friend from Barbadoes,
that in that island a strange custom prevails among the children, of
collecting these birds about Shrove Tuesday in every year, and
bringing them into the towns, where they then play with them, and
feed them with cockroaches. The origin or the object of this annual
amusement my friend’s informant could not explain, having left that
island when himself a child. The same gentleman has observed the
Tinklings in Jamaica go to the lime trees, and descending beneath
the trees pick up in their beaks the fallen fruits; then rising to a twig,
each would take its lime in one foot, and gently rub it over its side
beneath the wing, transfer it to the other foot, and rub the other side
in the same way: the object here being doubtless the fine aromatic
odour of the oil of the bruised rind communicated to the feathers.
The observer has watched this proceeding by the hour together.

BANANA-BIRD.[62]

Icterus leucopteryx.
Oriolus icterus, Linn.
Oriolus Mexicanus, Leach.—Zool. Misc. i. pl. 2.
 Icterus leucopteryx, Wagl.

[62] Length 8½ inches, expanse 13, flexure 4³⁄₁₀, tail 3½, rictus 1, tarsus
1, middle toe ⁸⁄₁₀. Intestine 9 inches; two cæca, minute, ¹⁄₈ inch long.
Irides dark hazel.

This pretty bird is a general favourite; social and confiding in his

manners, without being saucy, he frequents the fruit trees which are
invariably planted around a Jamaican homestead. On an elevated
twig he sits and cheers his mate with his clear, melodious song,
which he trills forth with much energy. Sometimes his notes have
considerable variety, and may properly be called a song; at others he
whistles a quick repetition of two clear notes which much resemble
the words Tom Paine>, Tom Paine, if we attempt to enunciate them
in whistling. Again, it is a single note quickly repeated, as when we
whistle to call a dog. Besides these, the Banana bird has other
sounds, which are very deceiving, and seem the result of imitation.
Fruit is his principal diet; a ripe banana, or orange, a papaw, or a
bunch of pimento, presents temptations to him; but perhaps still
more acceptable are the various species of Anona, the sops and
custard-apples, on whose soft and luscious pulp he delights to
regale. A ripe sour-sop is sure to attract him, in common with the
Blue Quits, with which he mingles. If the part exposed be
decomposing, as is often the case, he may be seen tugging
vigorously to pull off portions of this, which he throws from his beak
with a jerk, seeking to arrive at a part more palatable. When thus
engaged in feeding, and particularly when playfully pursuing the hen
among the twigs, his bright yellow coat glows beautifully through the
openings of the green leaves.
I have observed so frequently as to be worthy of notice, that when
shot, the Banana bird grasps the twig on which he was sitting, so
tenaciously as to hang from it, body downwards, until death at length
relaxes the clasp.
The nest of this bird is an interesting structure; like that of the
Baltimore of the Northern continent, it is a deep purse suspended
from two parallel twigs, or from a fork. One before me is composed
chiefly of the wiry fibres plucked from the fronds of the Palmetto-
thatch, with some horse-hair interwoven. Sometimes, where thatch-
threads are scarce, horse-hair alone is used, and the structure is
particularly neat. But the more ordinary material is a vegetable
substance, so closely resembling horse-hair, even on a minute
inspection, that I have had difficulty in persuading intelligent persons
that it was not actual hair, till I applied it to the flame of a candle,
when it burnt without shrivelling. But I am very uncertain what the
substance is; some say it is the Tillandsia usneoides or “Old man’s
beard,” a very common tree-parasite, but it assuredly is not this; I
have suspected it to be the fibrous stem of the Dodder, dried; a nest
newly made, I observed to be of the bright buff hue of that plant,
whence I presumed that the stems are sometimes taken in a recent,
and even a growing state. A friend tells me, that he has, with much
gratification, watched the process of building. The hairs or threads
are procured one by one, and carried to the selected spot, where
they are deposited in a loose heap. From this accumulated mass of
material, the work is carried on, and progresses rapidly, when once
begun. When a few threads are laid and interlaced for the base, the
work becomes perceptible and interesting. Both birds work together;
one taking a thread, and weaving-in one end, holds down the loose
part with his beak; while his mate takes the ends of others projecting,
and lays them tightly down over it, interweaving them with others.
Other threads are crossed in the same manner, in every direction,
until a slight but very compact purse is made, resembling a loose
cloth. As it hangs, the texture is so thin, that a person below can
discern the eggs or young within. Four eggs are laid, pointed at the
less end: they are white, marked with a few angular scratches, and
large spots of deep brown, and measure 1 inch by ⁷⁄₁₀. If an intruder
attempt to rifle the nest when the young are there, both old birds fly
round in excessive perturbation, and cry Tom Paine’s pick-a-ninny,
with vociferous shrillness.
In March I have dissected females, which displayed a brilliance of
plumage, in no wise inferior to that of the male.
I presume this to be the Watchy-picket of Sloane.
 Mr. Hill has mentioned to me two other species of Icterus, both
black, the one larger, the other smaller, which have been found in the
mountains near Kingston. I think I once saw the former in Mount
Edgecumbe.

BUTTER-BIRD.[63]
Ortolan.—October Pink.—Ricebird.

Dolichonyx oryzivorus.
Emberiza oryzivora, Linn.—Aud. pl. 54.
Icterus agripennis, Bonap.
Dolichonyx oryzivorus, Sw.

[63] Length 7½; expanse 11½, flexure 3⁹⁄₁₀, tail 2½, rictus ⁶⁄₁₀, tarsus
1¹⁄₁₀, middle toe 1.

In ordinary seasons this well-known bird arrives in vast numbers

from the United States, in the month of October, and scattering over
the lowland plains, and slopes of the sea-side hills, assembles in the
guinea-grass fields, in flocks amounting to five hundred or more. The
seed is then ripe, and the black throngs settle down upon it, so
densely, that numbers may be killed at a random discharge. To
procure the seed, the birds perch on the culm, but as the weight
would bear down a single stalk, each grasps several culms in its
foot, while it rifles the panicles. At this time, the males are dressed in
the sober livery of the females. Early in November they depart for the
southern continent, but during their brief stay they are in great
request for the table. Dr. Chamberlaine only echoes the general
estimation, when he says:—“The Butter-bird is a bonne bouche; it is
but a mouthful, but a luscious and delightful one. Their note,” he
adds, “during their migration hither, is simply ping, ping, ping:—what
it may be in its native woods, I do not know. But wounded birds have
been secured and kept in cages, and when placed in the same room
with a Canary have soon acquired similar notes, and in time warble
with equal strength and melody.” (Jam. Alm. 1840; p. 25.)
 When the spring rains have set in, usually in the month of April,
they again become our transient guests for a few days, on their
northward migration, when the males are conspicuous in their nuptial
dress. Other species of grass are now seeding, and the nutritive
farinaceous grains of many neglected weeds afford them a supply
during their brief sojourn.

Fam.—FRINGILLADÆ.—(The Finches.)
CASHEW-BIRD.[64]

Mountain Bulfinch (Rob.)—Orange-bird.

Tanagra Zena.
Fringilla Zena, Linn.
Fringilla Bahamensis, Briss.
Tanagra multicolor, Vieill.
Spindalis bilineatus, Jard. and Selb.—Ill. Orn. n.s. pl. 9.

[64] Length 7¾ inches, expanse 13, flexure 3⁹⁄₁₀, tail 3¼, rictus ¹³⁄₂₀,
tarsus 1, middle toe ¾. Intestinal canal, wide, but only 7 inches long: no
cæca. Stomach, a thin, almost membranous sac.

Though not very numerous, this beautiful bird is well-known, being

conspicuous from his brilliant colours. He is spread over the country,
from the mountains of the interior, to the plains of the coast. Rather
social, though perhaps attracted by a common cause, the
abundance of food;—we may sometimes see a dozen or more
scattered over a large bully-tree, from the twigs of which they hang in
all positions, while they pick the berries. Its flight is rapid, and
performed in long undulations: during flight, a low sibilant note is
uttered; but it is usually a silent bird.
About Spanish Town, it is called the Orange-bird, not from its
feeding on oranges, but from the resemblance of its plump and
glowing breast, to that beautiful fruit, as it sits among the dark green
foliage. It is also called the Goldfinch.
 I shot a male in September, and wounding him only in the breast,
picked him up, more frightened than hurt. I carried him home in my
handkerchief, and put him into a large cage, where he soon became
quite a favourite. From the very first he was fearless and lively, found
the use of the perches immediately, and did not flutter or beat
himself against the sides, though persons stood close to the cage.
This was large enough to allow him a short flight; and as there were
several perches inserted at various heights and distances into the
sides, he spent a great deal of his time in leaping from one to the
other, seeming to enjoy it much. Seeing this, I put in one or two
more, which were no sooner ready than he took notice of them,
stretching himself towards them, cautiously at first, as if doubtful
whether they would bear him; soon, however, he ventured boldly,
and then took them regularly in his course. He always slept on the
highest perch, with his head behind his wing. He was in full plumage,
and his gay breast, and the fine contrasts of his striped head and
wings, showed him off to advantage. I knew nothing that he would
eat, save the berries of the bully-tree, none of which grew within a
considerable distance. I first tried him with a few insects, and small
earthworms, but he took no notice of these: then I gathered a few
bunches of fiddle-wood berries, which I had no sooner stuck into his
cage than I was pleased to see him hop towards them, and pick off
the ripe ones with much relish and discrimination. I was informed
that in a wild state, he sometimes eats the sour-sop; as I had none of
this fruit at hand, I gave him pieces of a ripe custard-apple and of a
guava. He immediately began to eat of each, plucking off portions of
the pulp, and also taking up the fleshy ovaria of which the former is
composed, which he chewed with his beak till the enclosed seed
was pressed out. But all these were forsaken so soon as I presented
to him bunches of ripe pimento, black and sweet. These he picked
off greedily, masticating each in the beak, until the seeds, which I
suppose, were too hotly aromatic for his taste, fell out. It was
amusing to see the persevering efforts he made to obtain those
berries, which happened to be a little beyond his reach. He would
jump from perch to perch impatiently, gazing with outstretched neck
at the tempting fruit, then jump, and look again; then reach forward
to them, until in the endeavour, he would overbalance himself, and
perform an involuntary somerset. Nothing daunted, however, he
persevered until he ventured to do, what he had been several times
on tiptoe to do, leap on the bunch itself; and this he continued to do,
though with some failures, holding on in a scrambling way, now by a
leaf, now by the berries themselves, until he had rifled the bunch of
the ripest.
After I had kept him about a week, during which his liveliness and
good temper had much attached him to me, though he made not the
slightest effort at song, I took him out to cleanse the feathers of his
breast from the dried blood that had flowed from his wound. I gently
rubbed them with a soft wet sponge, but whether he took cold, or
whether I irritated the wound, I know not; but on being returned to
the cage, he instantly began to breathe asthmatically with open
beak, apparently with pain; interrupted now and then by fits of
coughing, which continued all night, and on the next morning he
died. On dissection, I could not find that the shot had penetrated the
chest, but they were imbedded in the muscles of the forearm, and
had broken the scapula.
A nest, reported to be of the Cashew bird, was brought me on the
18th of June, taken from a pimento tree. It was a thick, circular mat,
slightly concave, of a loose but soft texture, principally composed of
cotton, decayed leaves, epidermis of weeds, slender stalks, and
tendrils of passion-flower, intermingled, but scarcely interwoven. I
think it probable that this had been sustained by a firmer framework;
and that the person who took it merely tore out the soft lining as a
bed on which the eggs might be carried. The child who brought it,
could give no account of this. The eggs were two, long-oval, taper at
the smaller end; 1¹⁄₁₀ inch by nearly ⁸⁄₁₀; white, sparingly dashed with
irregular dusky spots, in a rude ring around the larger end. The
embryo was at this time formed.

SCARLET TANAGER.

Pyranga rubra.