“My problem,” Diego said trying to temper himself, “is that you didn’t even try to contact me yourself. And then to sit there like we’re having tea with the queen, only it’s Daisy, my—” He broke off. First love? Hell, first everything. But he wasn’t about to say that. “You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t have come if I asked.” Rocco shook his head. “I should’ve told you to stay the hell away. Because telling you not to do something makes you do the opposite. You were like that as a kid, too. When Dad told you not to sneak out, you’d do it twice and take pictures.”

True. And besides the point. “I agreed to be your best man,” Diego said. “Why wouldn’t I have come?”

“Because we haven’t gotten along since the day you took off ten years ago.”

“I took off?” Diego repeated in disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re rewriting history to suit yourself now.”

Rocco took a step toward him and poked a finger in Diego’s pec. “You don’t know what it was like here alone after Dad died. You’re my brother, you should’ve—"

Diego stepped into Rocco’s finger so that they were toe-to-toe, effectively cutting off Rocco’s words. “I’m the one who took care of him night and day for two years after his stroke. When he couldn’t talk, couldn’t move, couldn’t care for himself. I was eighteen and in my first semester at college—which I had to junk. Where were you then, brother?”

Rocco didn’t say anything. Diego knew he couldn’t say much since it was all true.

Growing up, Diego and their dad had fought. A lot. Diego got it. He’d been a handful and trouble-bound. Rocco had been just as wild, but he had a way of hiding it, and he’d definitely been the favored son. He and their dad had shared a real relationship that Diego had robbed himself of.

He’d always planned to resolve their issues, he’d just never known how. But time had run out because after their dad’s stroke, the guy had been completely nonverbal, and they couldn’t resolve shit. At the time, Diego had wanted to keep him in hospice because all medical opinions led to one thing—his dad wasn’t going to come back from the stroke. The man had been fiercely proud, and Diego knew that being at home in that condition with his sons having to take care of his personal needs would have killed him even faster. He’d never have wanted to be that helpless in front of them.

But Rocco had disagreed. Vehemently. And one night after Diego had left the hospital, Rocco had checked their dad out. It’d taken him half a day to realize his mistake. That in fact, he wasn’t capable of the level of care their dad required. But by then, the insurance wouldn’t cover the costs of readmittance—not unless their dad ended up back in the ICU.

The next morning, Diego had woken to find Rocco gone. He’d left a note saying that he had to get away.