Max had followed him in—his brothers and the dog usually did— and his nails on the floor made atap,tap,tapthat would have given up a thief in the night. Matteo seemed to understand this. He put his finger to his mouth, trying to get the dog to understand quiet. When Max didn’t, he shoved his hand outwards, pointing towards the door. Max whined but went.
Matteo shook his head, turning around. He stared at his mamma for a moment, fixing a piece of hair that had strayed into her face. He did it with such gentleness that she didn’t even stir. Then his eyes roamed, falling on me. His eyes narrowed, became harder, and I wondered what he was thinking. Did he want to hit me? Hug me? It was hard to tell with him.
A minute or two later, his shoulders slumped and he turned to go. I could hear Max trailing after him, and he wasn’t headed back to his room. The kitchen.
His mamma would be up soon. He wanted to beat her there.
It was something I would’ve done. Had done.
After the kids had started school, the weekends belonged to them to unwind. Scarlett kept them on a tight schedule during the week but allowed them to sleep “late” on the weekend.
It had been an adjustment for all of them.
In Italy, Luca had a small school on the Fausti property in Florence. Some years our children would attend with all their cousins; other years, a private teacher would come to our place in Tuscany.
In Florence, the classes were big enough to give the atmosphere a real school feeling, but not so large that the teachers couldn’t give enough time to each student. Since the kids were in school here, it was hard for them to adjust because of how advanced they were. Scarlett said she’d give it a year, and if it didn’t work out, we would bring private teachers here, so they could keep the same pace they were used to.
Matteo enjoyed sleeping in just as much as his sister and brothers, though. So, for him to rise before the sun made me suspicious of his motives after more thought.
Fuck me.I hoped he wasn’t planning on running away, in his head thinking of ways to get back to Italy.
Sighing, I made sure Scarlett was fully covered, since autumn seemed to be coming in cold, and I kissed her neck, running a hand up her sleep-warmed body. She’d had enough sense to put on warm clothes after our bodies tangled the night before; my balls would be shriveled by the time I made it into the bathroom. She smelled of sleep and something undoubtedly female…floral, but natural.
Her hand came up, caressing my face, and she muttered “be gentle” in Italian.
“When am I not gentle?”
She said nothing, apparently not thinking the question worth answering. She had her version of gentle; I had mine. That’s what made her their mamma. Me their father.
Moving faster than normal, I did all the natural morning things, pulling on a thermal sweater and a pair of sweatpants after, ready to find out what my son was up to.
Closer to the kitchen, there was no doubt I had the answer to that question.
God help the world—he was his father’s son.
Cabinets were opening and closing, pans were lightly clacking, bowls were being set down. In hushed tones he whispered to Max, asking him what he thought about this or that. Calling him acrazy dog!but laughing low and raspy at whatever Max had done.
He hadn’t noticed me sneaking around the door. Max was too busy waiting for treats to give me away, though I knew he’d registered my presence long before. Matteo had the refrigerator open, gazing in like the secrets of the universe might reveal themselves to him. Max just waited for something to fall.
“Eggs, bacon, and pancakes,” he said in Italian to Max. “Ah!”He slapped his forehead. “Coffee for mamma. What do you think, ah? But how would you know? You are a moocher! Look at me. Talking to a dog. At least you are a good listener. That is wise.”
He wanted to make breakfast for his mamma. He wanted to take care of her.
Rubbing a hand over my heart, I found it hard to breathe.
He looked like me. Had inherited the same gestures. Even the roll of the shoulders. Sounded like me. Acted like me.
It was hard not to relive my youth through him. The fact that he wanted to take care of his mamma, but didn’t know how, though, was a glaring difference.
I’d always known how to take care of Maggie Beautiful. I had no other choice, so I took care of business. But there had always been a need to take care of her too. Something I never thought too much about. A responsibility that couldn’t be snuffed out.
Man of the house had been my title—then and in that moment. It was done out of duty and honor.
Matteo? He seemed to have the same feelings, but he had no idea where to place them. Scarlett didn’t need to be taken care of. Whatever she needed, I saw to it. I was the man of this house, as one day he’d be the man of his. But I never wanted it to be too soon for him. Then again, I wanted him to learn how to treat a woman and become a man through me.
I pointed, moving away from the wall. “You’re going to need butter.”
He whirled, dropping the can of chicory coffee from the cabinet. He swallowed so hard that I heard it. “I—” He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. “I did not mean to wake you,Papà.”
