She twirled like a child, oblivious to the closets full of things Antonio already showered on her. Not that he ever bought me a scarf.
Behind them, the twins burst in, chaos incarnate. Enzo indoors, sunglasses on. Nico lugging something bulky wrapped in brown paper.
Chiara’s laughter echoed. “We got the whole penthouse! Slept like royalty! You should’ve seen the tub! Bigger than our bedroom.”
“Oh, and the view,” Antonio added, uncorking wine without asking. “Thirty-sixth floor. Sun hits the windows like a painting. Like—perfection.”
It was nine in the morning.
The boys unveiled their surprise—a giant, glossy family portrait from the Luciana Gala. Aristocratic. Posed like royalty. Vivienne at the center. My sons flanking her. Marcello’s hand on her waist.
I wasn’t in it.
“Look, Grandma!” Nico grinned. “Don’t we look like a real family?”
Enzo added, calm, cruel: “Too bad you weren’t there. Wait—yeah. You were left behind. Too much like our maid.”
The room erupted in laughter. Even Marcello. Even my son. Chiara wiped tears from her eyes, giggling.