Page 103 of Tragic Empire

A pause, and then:

“St. Mary’s, yeah. Come quick.”

My lips spread into such a wide smile that my cheeks ache.

I’m a small part of such a large, wonderful family.

A half hour later, Cassio’s brother arrives with an absolute bombshell on his arm.

I met Leon briefly at my wedding, but it’s still surprising to see how little he looks like the rest of his brothers. With dirty brown hair, darker blue eyes, a smaller nose, and a slimmer face shape, he apparently takes after his mother—the only one of the Moretti boys to do so.

Cleo, on the other hand, is entirely unfamiliar to me. I’ve never even seen photos on social media. Melani, Emilio’s wife, I’ve seen plenty of times in the press, but never Cleo. The illusive woman is gorgeous, though. She has perfectly blown out beachy waves of brunette hair with warm blonde highlights framing her face. Her hazel eyes are brushed with smokey eyeshadow and her plump lips slathered in clear gloss.

She’s holding their four-year-old son’s hand as the group of three approach the front desk. Bastian is an adorable combination of the two of them. He has shaggy blonde hair, the famous Moretti blue eyes, and Cleo’s button nose.

I’ve been waiting for them since Cassio got a text that they were almost here, wanting to give them a little rundown before they meet Leo. I wanted Cassio to stay in the room with him, trying to prevent any tears or confusion by his only source of comfort leaving the room.

“Hey, Ana,” Leon greets politely. “This is Cleo, and our son Bastian.”

“Hello, Aunt Ana,” Bastian says shyly, looking at his father for approval. When Leon dips his chin, the boy beams.

“Hello, young man,” I reply with a big smile. “I’m thrilled to meet you. Are you excited to see your Uncle Cassio?”

“Is he here?” Cleo asks anxiously, skipping right over the pleasantries. I can tell she isn’t asking about her brother-in-law. She wants to know about the child she’s here to meet.

Leon’s expression tightens, but I’m not offended. I can clearly see the motherly glint in her eyes, and I totally understand the hurry.

“His name is Leo,” I reply kindly. “He’s three, and he only speaks Italian. Cassio has noticed that he can pick up on some English words, but he won’t respond to them. He’s quite shy, but I’m sure if you speak with him in his language, he’ll latch right onto the both of you. Would you like to see him now?”

Cleo nods rapidly. “Please.”

Guiding them back into the room, I quickly add, “We suggest you spend a little while here, acclimating with him but as soon as you’re all comfortable, he’s all yours.”

“Thank you,” Leon says, voice deep and genuine.

I find Cassio exactly where I left him, reading books in the quiet corner of the room, translating the English stories into Italian seamlessly. Watching with hope swelling in my chest, I hold a hand over my heart as introductions are made. Within seconds, Leo is smiling. Within minutes, he’s hugging Cleo and bashfully speaking with Bastian.

Cassio and Leon have the task of explaining to the boy that he is going home with them. That his mum has gone away but that they’re going to take good care of him. I’m expecting tears, but the boy only seems relieved.

By the time they’re ready to leave, I feel twenty pounds lighter. We couldn’t have picked a better day to visit. Leo has a home today because of Cassio. He must feel as accomplished as I do, because once we’re in the car, he doesn’t want to head straight home.

“We should celebrate,” he suggests. “Let me take you to dinner?”

“Like on a date?” I ask, smirking. “Our first official date?”

“Our first date was our wedding,” he jokes. “But yeah, like a date. Can’t a man take his gorgeous wife out for a bite?”

“He certainly can.”

We aren’t dressed for anything too fancy, but Cassio takes us to a quaint Italian restaurant—fitting for the day we’ve had. I’m so excited to be out with him for the first time, but my mood is tested as soon as we meet the hostess. She looks at Cassio like he’s her next meal, but if she isn’t careful, I’ll have her heart on a platter and she’ll be mine instead.

“Mr. Moretti,” she purrs. “Table for two?”

“Yes,” he replies, firmly ignoring her flirtatious tone—if he notices it.

Gesturing to her side, she replies, “Right this way.”

I don’t miss the way she reaches for his arm with her grubby little hands, nor the way my husband steps to the side to avoid it. Once we are seated, she pushes further, setting her hand on top of his shoulder.