Not that I’m complaining.
I glance across the garden to where Amara stands with Poppy, both of them laughing as they arrange flowers on the long tables we’ve set up.
My daughter flew in three days ago from New York, taking a break from her grueling Juilliard schedule to be here for her little sister’s second birthday. And Dom’s fiftieth, of course, though he’s been grumbling about that milestone for weeks.
Amara catches me looking and smiles, her hand instinctively moving to rest on the gentle swell of her belly. Four months along now and glowing with it. I remember when she told us about this pregnancy, how Dom and I shared a look—not of competition, but of happiness.
Just like Aurora is, this baby is ours. All three of ours. No matter whose DNA they carry.
Still, there’s a small part of me that hopes for my genetic mark on this one. Not sure why it matters because the moment they placed Aurora, a tiny, squalling bundle in my arms, I was lost.
Just like Poppy, she’s my daughter in every way that counts.
“Hi there. Do you need some help with those lights?” Milly asks, approaching with a glass of iced lemon tea in her hand.
“I think I’ve got it covered,” I say, stepping down from the ladder. “But thanks.”
Milly nods toward where her sisters are gathered with my daughter. “It’s good to see Poppy smiling again.”
I follow her gaze. Poppy is still on crutches from an accident that left her with a broken tibia.
“She wasn’t sure about coming,” I confide in Milly. “I’m just happy that she’s now confident she’ll be dancing again soon. But right now, she is happy teaching and studying.”
“I’m glad she did,” Milly says firmly. “We’re all here. That’s what matters. Even Lia is here, and she is so pregnant she’s likely to drop any day.”
Iglance at Lia. She looks radiant in a flowing sundress, her hair longer than I’ve ever seen it. Her husband Dante stands a few feet away, engaged in conversation with Rafe and Cade, but his attention never really leaves Lia. Old habits die hard, especially for a man obsessed with his wife.
“It’s not twins again, is it?” I ask, turning away from Lia.
Milly laughs. “Oh my god, that would be so cute. I have to ask her, because she’s keeping quiet about this one. Said she wants a surprise.”
At that moment, from across the lawn, Dante spots us talking. It’s like he knows we’re talking about his family. He raises his champagne glass in acknowledgment.
Dom’s son has grown into his role as head of the de Luca family with surprising ease. When he visits—which is more often than one might expect for a man of his position—he leaves the majority of his security detail behind. This isn’t neutral territory exactly, but it’s sacred ground in its own way.
“Caleb!” Dom’s voice booms across the garden. “Stop gossiping and help me with this damn grill!”
I laugh, excusing myself from Milly and making my way to where Dom is frowning at the massive outdoor grill like it’s offended him.
“You know,” I say, taking the tongs from his hand, “most men turning fifty would just let someone else handle the cooking.”
“Most men turning fifty aren’t sharing their birthday party with their two-year-old princess,” he grumbles, butthere’s no heat in it. His eyes soften as they always do when he looks toward where Aurora is now being twirled around by Mateo, her laughter carrying across the garden.
“What will we name the next one?” I ask, checking the temperature on the grill.
Dom shrugs. “I don’t know. The first had to be Aurora. Like Amara, I feel she has her grandmother’s spirit.” He pauses. “And it’s better than what Amara initially suggested.”
“Domical,” we both say in unison, and laugh.
“Christ, could you imagine?” Dom shakes his head. “A little girl saddled with the female version of our names?”
“She was joking.”
“She was winding me up. Sometimes she is still so bratty,” Dom says, but chuckles. “But I love her. I love our family.”
It’s these moments—these unexpected glimpses of the man beneath the former mafia boss exterior—that still catch me off guard sometimes. The Dom I first met years ago would never have spoken so openly about his feelings. But Amara and then Aurora’s birth changed something in him. In all of us, really.
Lorenzo Bianchi approaches, an expensive bottle of wine in hand. “This place is beautiful,” he says, nodding appreciatively at the sprawling beachfront property. “I can see why Amara doesn’t want to leave.”
