The Vilenzo Family Book 2: Lealtà

“I swear, she’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen,” I gush, cradling the newborn in my arms.

Across from me, Illaria rolls her eyes, looking radiant despite having given birth less than two months ago. She’s tired, understandably so, and I can’t help but admire her strength.

As much as I adore my niece, the thought of having my own kids is daunting—I value my sleep too much.

“Marty, no babies are ugly,” Illaria insists.

“Only a mother would say that. Your brain’s been hijacked by hormones, your judgement is compromised,” I tease.

Ignoring my comment, Illaria asks, “Would you like to feed her? It’s almost time.”

“Weren’t you breastfeeding?” I ask, surprised.

“I am, but I’m also using formula because my nipples are sore,” she replies nonchalantly, as if we’re discussing the weather and not her nipples.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, I’d love to feed her.”

As Illaria rises to fetch the bottle, I remain on the sofa, marveling at the baby in my arms. Her tiny nose and big blue eyes are simply irresistible.

“Here.” Illaria hands me the bottle.

I thank her and start feeding my niece. I can feel Illaria’s gaze on me, so I glance her way.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“You look good with her in your arms. Have you been seeing anyone recently?”

“Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you?” I laugh. “And no, I’m not seeing anyone. The Italian dating pool in our city is pretty shallow. The only Italian men I know are the ones who work for my brother, or my cousins, and that’s a hard pass.”

“Does he have to be Italian? That’s a pretty strict criteria. It’s not the love of your life’s fault if he was born somewhere other than Italy.”

“I know, he doesn’t have to be. I’ve just always dreamed of settling down with an Italian man. Plus, they’re more likely to be fluent in the language. No offense, but learning a new language was tough for you, right?”

“Yes, it was,” she admits. “But it showed how committed I am to Lucca. What if a non-Italian man wanted to learn it for you? Or if they’re not Italian but are fluent anyway?”

“I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,” I reply, sighing.

“Mr. Right will come along sooner than you think, I bet.”

“Did having a baby turn you into a fortune teller?”

She smirks at me. “In some ways, yes. Mother’s instinct is the strongest feeling I’ve ever experienced.”

Her comment sparks my curiosity. “Even stronger than your feelings for my brother?”

Her face flushes as she realizes what she’s said. She laughs awkwardly. “No, maybe not stronger than those feelings. Let’s pretend I didn’t say that.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

I spend the rest of the afternoon with Illaria. There’s no point in leaving since I’m invited for dinner at their house.

I get to spend quality time with my niece, who will be out of the newborn phase before I know it, and I also get to help out my sister-in-law, who has a lot on her plate at the moment.

Lucca comes home in the afternoon and starts cooking for this evening. He has invited our brother Fidello over as well, and his bodyguards, Rocco and Valerius, are coming too.

It’s a bit of an odd dinner, with a mix of us and potentially a newborn if she doesn’t sleep, but it should be a good evening, especially as Lucca is cooking. Despite me running the family restaurant, Lucca has always been the cook out of us three Vilenzo siblings.

Upon my insistence, Illaria takes a nap while I look after their daughter. Lucia is pretty easy to look after when she’s been fed and burped.

She stays awake as I move around the living room, tidying things up before everyone else arrives. When she starts to get sleepy, I leave her snoozing in her Moses basket and hoover the dining room.

After Illaria has rested, she takes over with Lucia, gives her a bath, and puts her to bed properly before the evening really starts.

I change into a dress I bought especially for tonight. I’ve been dedicating so much time to the restaurant that—I’m sad to say—going to my brother’s house for a meal has been the social highlight on my calendar for the last month.

I’m a bit too dressy for a simple dinner. The dress I’ve chosen is floor-length and brushes at my ankles.

I’ve gone with low heels to try and dress it down, but there’s no hiding the slit that shows off my thigh. It’s a cowl neck too, so it gives a nice flash of cleavage.

Illaria gives me a low whistle of appreciation when I come out of her bathroom and do a twirl.

“Well, I feel seriously underdressed,” she comments glumly.

“You look lovely. You’re not underdressed; I’m overdressed,” I insist.

She’s wearing a loose sparkly top and a pair of black maternity leggings, which she swears are the most comfortable clothing item she has ever owned.

She holds up a baby monitor. “I’m afraid I’m going to be even more of a party-pooper carrying this around all night.”

“You brought life into this world, don’t forget that,” I remind her. “Come on, we’ll go see what your wonderful husband and my amazing brother has cooked for dinner.”

She snorts. “You’re only being so nice about him because he’s feeding you.”

“Obviously that’s the only reason.”

Downstairs, Lucca is cooking up a storm in the kitchen. There is a huge array of starters laid out on the island, ready to be taken through to the dining room.

Thanks to Lucca and my hard work earlier, the table is beautifully laid and ready for eight guests. I didn’t realize two other people were coming. I don’t know who they are.

“There’s the doorbell. Marty, can you get it please? Ria, dolcezza, I need your help.”

Lucca starts barking commands like always, and I go to get the door.

Rocco and Valerius are there. I’m surprised they bothered ringing the doorbell; they live in the security mansion attached to this house four days a week. It seems too weird to ring your own doorbell.

“Hey there, Martina. How’s it going?” Rocco is the first to greet me, followed by Valerius.

Despite their good looks, I’ve learned to see them as strictly off-limits over the past five years.

Any hint of getting too friendly with Lucca’s family could mean instant job loss…or worse. I learned that lesson the hard way when Lucca’s first bodyguard was let go for stealing a kiss from me.

From that point on, I’ve viewed all of his security team as family, nothing more. Rocco and Valerius made their way into the kitchen.

Just as I’m about to close the door, Fidello bounds up the steps.

“Hold up!” he calls out, extending his hand to stop me from closing the door. “Marty, darling, you’re looking stunning.”

“Thanks, Fid,” I respond, giving him a kiss on each cheek.

“Seems a bit much for dinner. Did I miss something? I didn’t even bother with a tie,” he comments, motioning to his casual shirt and pants.

“No, I just felt like dressing up. Don’t mind me.”

The sound of a car door closing pulls my attention over his shoulder. Fidello follows my gaze and steps aside to let his guest ascend the steps to the front door.

With each step the man takes, my curiosity grows. He’s unmistakably Italian, devilishly handsome with hair as dark as midnight and skin the color of polished bronze.

His lips are thin but full, with a pronounced cupid’s bow. In the dim light of the porch, it’s hard to make out the color of his eyes, but they’re dark, nearly as dark as his hair.

“This is Niccolò, a friend of mine,” Fidello introduces, gesturing toward me. “Nic, this is my sister, Martina.”

Our eyes meet and I’m instantly captivated. He steps into the light and I see that his eyes aren’t as dark as I first thought; they’re a soft brown.

I’m entranced within seconds. Somehow, I manage to extend my hand for him to shake, which he does.

His palm is slightly rough but warm against mine, his handshake firm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Martina. Fidello has spoken highly of you,” he says, his words laced with a thick Italian accent.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” I manage to say, my voice sounding dreamy.

My heart skips a beat as Niccolò lifts my hand to his mouth and lightly brushes his lips over the back of it before letting go. Caught off guard, my hand falls to my side.

Fidello seems oblivious to the moment that just passed between us. He moves past me into the house, leaving Niccolò and me alone on the porch.

I quickly regain my composure and clear my throat. I step aside to let him in.

“Please, come in.”

He gives me a small, knowing smile. “Thank you.”

As he walks past me, the crisp fabric of his black shirt brushes against my bare arm, treating me to a tantalizing whiff of his spicy-sweet cologne. I’m instantly hooked and trail behind him like a smitten schoolgirl.