Nico was grateful to the girls. This way was easier. Their questions were so sincere and direct.
“My mother died when I was very young. I never knew my father. I was raised by my grandfather.”
Sofia frowned. “So, your nonno would have taken Templeton from you?”
Nico knew enough Italian to know ‘nonno’ meant grandfather.
“No, he had already died by then. But the people who took care of me after he died would have.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sofia.
“Me too,” said Beatrice.
Nico sighed. “Me three.”
Finally, after walking five minutes, they came to a stone arcade.
“This is the gateway to the hamlet,” Rocco said, coming up behind them. “On the other side, there’s another one.”
As they walked under the covered passageway, Nico felt as though the village had gathered around them. The stone buildings that clung to the side of the mountain huddled together. In some cases, they were connected with brick vaults hovering over the cobblestone streets. Nico looked around and thought,This is how I imagined that kingdom in the fairy tale.
They passed over a bridge and under a series of vaulted arches and finally arrived at the second gateway. Just beyond it stood a beautiful stone house, sitting on the edge of a slope overlooking the river below.
A group of people spilled out the front door. His parents, sister, her husband, and one set of grandparents. She recognized them all. She’d met them briefly and seen them at a few races.
It was easy to see the family resemblance. The warm brown eyes, the bold bone structure, the dark brown locks, the expressive mouths.
The house was warm and inviting with wooden floors and a beamed ceiling. Nico was surprised such a cozy house could still be filled with so much light, and then she realized it came not just streaming through the windows but from the people who inhabited it, who were so welcoming.
Rocco’s mother took Nico by the hand. “Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
Nico’s eyes gaped as she entered the room and looked at the walls. They were covered with posters of Formula 1 drivers, which was hardly surprising. What was surprising were the posters of Lella Lombardi and Maria Teresa de Filippis.
His mother smiled. “I guess I don’t need to tell you, this is Rocco’s room—well, was his room, growing up.”
Rocco suddenly appeared in the doorway. “You want to go for a ride?”
Nico felt her cheeks heat up, casting a furtive glance at his mother.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and taking her outside where a collection of motorcycles were waiting.
She felt foolish. Of course this was what he meant.
She blinked at the sight of one particularly sleek cycle. “Is that a—”
“Kawasaki Ninja H2R?” He grinned. “It is.”
The motorcycle he’d said he’d loan her in a direct message way back when, during their social media feud.
“Humph.”
He placed his hands on the red one beside it. “This one’s for you.”
She smiled. It was a Superleggera V4 Ducati.
He came up beside her, and in one long sweep his eyes cast a flurry of sparkles that flickered up and down her flesh as though he’d pointed a magic wand and showered her in a cloud of pixie dust—cast by lurid and depraved pixies.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you make me walk five miles when we could have parked, what—five minutes away?”
