Page 250 of Lorenzo

“Gentle.”

He sniffs Leonardo’s tiny fist. When the baby opens his hand and catches a few strands of fur, Victoria looks panicked, like she's going to snatch Leonardo back, but Donna’s calm palm out stops her. Mocha remains exactly where he is, apparently unconcerned by the sudden grip.

I glance at Mario and catch the subtle easing of his shoulders.

“You look relieved.”

“Lorenzo,” he warns.

“I am merely observing.”

“Observe more quietly.”

Julia shifts Cecilia higher against her shoulder. “You can bring him over here too.”

Donna looks down at Mocha. “Ready for another inspection?”

At her slight gesture, he rises and follows her across the room.

“She talks to him as though he understands every word,” Diego comments.

“I believe he does,” I reply.

Cecilia proves considerably less interested in Mocha than Leonardo was. She opens her eyes briefly when Donna brings him close, makes a tiny face, and promptly settles against Julia again. Mocha sniffs the corner of her blanket, apparently satisfied with whatever he learns, then sits beside Donna.

“There,” she says. “Officially baby approved.”

Mario exhales, and I grin at him.

He points toward the dining room before I can say anything. “Dinner.”

“Excellent diversion.”

“I am considering throwing you out.”

“And what about Donna?”

“She can stay,” he says.

Getting everyone from the family room to the dining room takes several minutes, because moving this family anywhere has always been a process. Leonardo needs to be settled before Victoria can get up, Julia realizes something she wants for Cecilia is still across the room, and somewhere in the middle of all that, Alessio and Tomasso begin arguing about who moved a phone that turns out to have been wedged beneath a sofa cushion the entire time.

Dante finds it in less than thirty seconds.

Edoardo calls both of them idiots.

Matteo, meanwhile, reaches the dining room before most of us and steals a piece of bread from the table to eat while he waits, obviously accustomed to the process.

Donna and I detour to wash our hands and still make it back before half the family has made it to the table. She stands beside me, taking in the entire production with obvious amusement.

“You seem very happy,” I murmur.

“I am. I like your family.”

“They do grow on you,” I say. “Like a mold.”

Her mouth twitches, and she bumps my shoulder on the way into the dining room. “That's rude.”

Dinner has been laid out across the full length of the table, enough food for twice the number of people present, because apparently preparing food in reasonable quantities is unheard of in this family.