"It's a house."
"A really big house." She clutches the rabbits closer to her chest. "Does a princess live here?"
Kristen's arm tightens around her daughter. "Lily, don't?—"
"My sister thinks she's a princess," I say before I can stop myself. "But she's actually a pain in my ass."
Lily giggles. The sound is unexpectedly... something. I don't know. I don't have words for what it is.
Kristen stares at me like I've grown a second head. Fair enough. I don't make jokes. I don't talk to children. I don't dowhatever the hell I'm doing right now. And I certainly can't talk to a toddler like that I guess.
The SUV rolls to a stop in front of the main entrance. Liam kills the engine and steps out, moving around to open Kristen's door. She hesitates, her hand finding Lily's.
She unbuckles Lily's seatbelt and lifts her daughter onto her hip, those three stuffed rabbits wedged between them. I exit my side and come around to escort them up the stairs.
The front doors open before we reach them.
And there she is. My mother standing in the doorway.
She's wearing the blue dress. The one she wore to Riccardo's funeral because he always said it was his favorite.
Jesus Christ, Ma.
"You came!" She claps her hands together, beaming at Kristen like she's a long-lost daughter instead of a stranger who tried to cancel twice. "And this must be Lily. Che bella bambina!"
Lily burrows deeper into Kristen's shoulder.
My mother has the softest heart of anyone in this family. She's the one who feeds stray cats behind the kitchen. Who cried for three days when Valentino's dog died. Who still lights candles for my father every Sunday even though?—
Even though he didn't deserve her. Not even close.
The thing people don't understand about Aria Sartori is that soft doesn't mean weak. She raised six children in this world. Buried a husband. Buried a son. Watched another one nearly die. And through all of it, she held this family together with nothing but sheer will and the kind of love that refuses to break.
She also manipulates every single one of us like we're chess pieces and she's playing a game only she can see.
"Pietro, darling, I'm sure you're right about the security protocols. But wouldn't it be such a shame if I mentioned this to Father Dominic at confession? You know how he worries about me being lonely..."
"Nico, sweetheart, of course you don't have to come to Sunday dinner. I'll just sit here by myself, thinking about how quickly children forget their mothers..."
She fights for things. For people. For what she thinks is right. Animal rights, workers' rights, the rights of the gardener's daughter to attend a decent school. She marched in protests when we were kids. Donated to causes that made my father pinch the bridge of his nose and mutter prayers for patience.
This is why we haven't told her about Giuseppe's other family. About the children he had with her while he was married to our mother.
She loved him. Completely.
Telling her would destroy everything in her and she won't rebuild.
But right now, watching her vibrate with excitement as she ushers Kristen and Lily through the door, I realize something else.
Since Riccardo died, she hasn't done this.
She hasn't tried to take care of someone new. Hasn't reached out beyond the family. Hasn't had this light in her eyes.
My mother is a Sartori. She shows kindness the way we show everything else—with overwhelming force and the expectation of compliance.
"Come, come! I made pasta al forno, Lily, do you like pasta? Of course you like pasta, all children like pasta. And there's tiramisu for after, but only if you eat your vegetables. Nico, don't just stand there, come!"
Kristen shoots me a look of pure panic.
