Page 19 of Ricardo

Matteo, too serious, with his clipboard. Tomasso, his twin, bright-eyed and impossible, leaning against the banister, thriving in chaos. Edoardo, steady and dry, with a toolbox in one hand and patience wearing thin. Alessio absent, but audible somewhere nearby, which is usually the safest distance for Lorenzo’s youngest. Dante, comfortable and relaxed, which is not often for him, but I like seeing him this way.

They are grown men.

Mostly.

They are also boys I watched run through the family homes with scraped knees, loud voices, and Conti blood in their veins. I remember Matteo and Tomasso asleep in chairs when they were small, both refusing to admit they were tired. I remember Edoardo at five, silent and watchful beside Lorenzo after his mother died, too young to fully understand such grief. I remember Alessio climbing furniture before he could pronounce half the things he was destroying. I remember Dante in Naples, a baby placed in my arms after a mistake I refused to call a mistake once I saw his face.

Now they are here.

In their own home.

Together.

Together, they will irritate each other enough to survive.

Possibly.

A thud comes from above us.

Dust shakes loose from somewhere in the ceiling.

Alessio shouts, “Still fine!”

Amused, and a little more nostalgic than I want to admit, I ask, “Have you guys eaten?”

“No,” Tomasso says immediately.

Matteo looks at him. “You had half a cannoli and two espressos.”

“That’s not food.”

“That is evidence of poor judgment.”

I pull my phone from my pocket. “My treat. There’s a good Italian place near here. I’ll order enough for everyone.”

Edoardo sets the toolbox down near the wall. “My father said he was coming by later, so order more than enough.”

“Of course he is,” I say.

Matteo sighs and looks around the foyer as if already calculating chairs, plates, and damage control. “If everyone else is here, Papà will want to come too, and he’ll definitely bring Victoria. We might as well order more and make it a family dinner.”

Tomasso brightens. “First family dinner in the new house.”

“First inspection disguised as dinner,” Dante says.

“Same thing,” Tomasso says. “There will be bread to break.”

“Do not make it sound ceremonial,” Matteo says. “We are eating around boxes.”

Tomasso gestures around the foyer. “Ambience.”

“Cardboard is not ambience.”

“It is transitional ambience.”

“We’ll set something up. I'm sure Victoria will want somewhere real to sit down.”

Edoardo looks toward the ceiling. “Alessio, get your butt down here and help before you lose dessert privileges.”