Across the table, four-year-old Bruno stared back at his father with huge innocent blue eyes inherited directly from my sister. Beside him, his twin brother Luca sold him out.
“Bruno did it,” Luca announced happily, shoving spaghetti into his mouth with complete confidence.
“Traitor,” Bruno hissed.
“I know,” Leo said flatly. “I have eyes.”
I burst out laughing so hard wine nearly came out of my nose.
“Oh my God,” I wheezed, clutching my chest. “He didn’t even hesitate. That was targeted violence.”
“It was an accident,” Bruno argued.
“An accident?” I repeated. “You made direct eye contact with him before throwing it.”
“Traitor,” Bruno repeated vehemently. Chiara pressed her fingers to her temples like she regretted motherhood deeply.
“They’ve become sentient,” she muttered.
“No,” Leo corrected calmly, folding his newspaper. “They’ve become organized.”
The twins looked deeply pleased by that accusation. From the cream-colored sectional sofa, my sister Sienna looked up from her phone with a dramatic gasp.
“Well,” she announced solemnly, “children do mirror their environment.”
At twelve years old, my youngest sister had somehow evolved into a terrifying combination of spoiled mafia princess, TikTok addict, and tiny attorney. Her long dark hair had clearly been professionally blown out sometime today, and she wore a pink velour tracksuit while eating imported strawberries like royalty surveying peasants.
“Careful, you’re one Sephora trip away from becoming a supervillain,” I informed her.
“I already am one,” she replied calmly. “Puberty simply finalized the transformation. Boo, bitch.”
Leo snorted softly into his whiskey. I was about to take a page out of Bruno’s book and call him a traitor, too.
Sienna pointed at him. “See? He respects me.”
“He fears you,” Chiara corrected.
“As he should. Snakey gets me.” Sienna looked damn pleased with herself, blowing Leo a kiss. I couldn’t believe the great Leo Moretti still let her call him by that nickname.
Meanwhile, Luca had disappeared entirely beneath the dining table.
“Where’s your brother?” Chiara asked her other son suspiciously.
Bruno shrugged while chewing garlic bread. “Hiding from the police.”
A tiny muffled voice came from under the table. “I’m hiding so I don’t get put in prison.”
I nearly blacked out laughing. Chiara closed her eyes slowly, inhaling the patience of a woman one inconvenience away from felony assault.
Motherhood looked devasstatingly beautiful on her. My older sister stood barefoot in the middle of the giant marble kitchen wearing cream silk lounge clothes and diamond earrings that probably cost more than my entire education. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in loose waves while she tried balancing dinner, twins, marriage, and the most feared man in the city simultaneously.
And somehow? She looked genuinely happy. That was the part that unsettled me most.
Standing only a few feet away from her was Leo’s right hand, Sergio. My future husband. The thought hit my stomach like bad liquor.
He leaned against the windows overlooking the city, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tattoos curled beneath his watch and disappeared under dark fabric. One large hand wrapped loosely around a whiskey glass while he listened quietly to Leo discussing business on an incoming call. Or murder. With those two, the topics overlapped often.
Sergio barely spoke, except for poking fun at my sister, but when he did, people listened. He had that kind of presence. Quiet. Controlled. Lethal. The type of man who didn’t need to threaten violence because everyone already assumed he was capable of it.