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“Like this!” Matteo insisted, slamming two mismatched pieces together.
Dean looked up at me helplessly, and I smirked. “You’re losing to a three-year-old, Archer. You might want to rethink those Harvard credentials.”
“Your son has your stubborn streak, by the way. This is genetic sabotage.” Dean grinned despite himself.
Elika, Dean’s wife, was in the kitchen with Elysa. Their laughter filled the room as they tried to wrangle our one-year-old daughter, Michela, into her highchair.
Michela, who had recently discovered that food was just as fun to throw as it was to eat, had managed to smear yogurt across her face and hair, and Elysa was wiping her down with the kind of patience only a mother could possess.
“Is this breakfast or a battlefield?” I asked, stepping into the kitchen. I dropped a kiss on Michela’s hair. “Strawberry?”
Elysa laughed. “You want some in a bowl, or are you going to eat it off her hair?”
I slipped an arm around Elysa’s waist, and her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. “We need to buy her a straitjacket when we feed her.”
“Welcome to parenthood,” Elika teased.
I kissed my wife’s temple, breathing her in. “Happy anniversary,” I murmured.
She smiled, her eyes softening. “Happy anniversary.”
Before I could kiss her properly, Matteo came barreling into the kitchen, shouting something incomprehensible about trains, followed closely by Dean, who looked like he’d been through a war.
“I’m calling time out.” Dean held up his hands. “You didn’t tell me babysitting would be a contact sport.”
Elysa laughed, her head falling back in that way that still made my chest tighten. “You’re doing great. And you’re not babysitting—you’re being Uncle Dean.”
“That’s a full-time job,” Elika chimed in.
There was a sound on the baby monitor, and Elika passed Michela to me as I instinctively caught her mid-wiggle. Their son Akamu, now eight months old and still entertaining naps, was waking up. Their six-year-old son Ahe was visiting the Colosseum with Dean’s parents.
We finally got everyone settled as best we could, and that evening, we happily left Dean and Elika with a good bottle of wine and a house full of kids while we slipped away to Palazzo Giordano’s rooftop restaurant.
The table was set with crisp white linens, and the view of Rome at sunset was breathtaking.
I’d ordered all of Elysa’s favorites: burrata with roasted tomatoes, handmade pappardelle with truffle, and a bottle of 2010 Brunello di Montalcino.
Except she wasn’t drinking…again.
I raised an eyebrow as she pushed her glass asidewith a small, knowing smile, but before I could say anything, the concierge from the front desk approached with a small, cream-colored envelope in hand.
“This was just delivered for you, signore.” He placed the envelope on the table.
I frowned, picking it up. The handwriting on the front was familiar, though I hadn’t seen it in years. My heart clenched as I finally recognized the elegant script.
“Dante?” Elysa asked, her brow furrowing as she noticed my expression.
“It’s from Nonno,” I said softly.
Her eyes widened, and she set her fork down, her attention now fully on me.
I opened the envelope carefully, my hands steady even as my chest tightened. Inside was a single sheet of neatly folded paper. I unfolded it and began to read aloud, my throat catching slightly.
Dear Dante and Elysa,
If you are reading this, it means that five years have passed since you married. I hope with all my heart that you are not reading this during a divorce. If you are, well, shame on you, Dante.
Yes, I know about the prenuptial agreement that Dante made you sign, Elysa. It said that you could both divorce in five years if you wanted to make it worthwhilefor both of you. I hated that clause because I knew that you, Elysa, didn’t care about money, and Dante, you cared too much about it. This made me fear that, Elysa, you’d leave Dante, and he’d let you go. I’m hoping that hasn’t happened.