The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,72

a little different after nearly ten years. Though still beautiful, a few dents had appeared in the walls, toys and little shoes were shoved under furniture and I could spot a few little drawings Enzo had left behind on the doors. The damage they had wrought wasn’t the only change.

Hundreds of photos lined the walls and every available surface. All my children’s births and birthdays. Family portraits of the six of us, as well as the other Rocchettis and their loved ones. All of us smiling, happy. Nothing like the house I had grown up in—that my husband had grown up in.

When Pia’s wriggling became too much, I put her down, letting her toddle straight to my dog. Polpetto darted around her, heading straight for me.

“Petto!” she cried.

Caterina went to her sister. “He’s playing with you, Pi.”

Pia brightened at her sister. Like most younger sisters in the world, Pia was obsessed with her big sister. Though Enzo was probably her favorite (they played together the most), my two girls shared a special bond. One I was glad to see, one that had led to me giving Dolly and Maria Cristina to Caterina.

When Pia is older, we will let her play with them, I told my daughter. She is too young at the moment.

Caterina had taken looking after the two dolls very seriously, keeping them dustless and on a high shelf.

As soon as I started the pancakes, the smell wafting through the house, Enzo came downstairs. He bounced into the kitchen, wild and restless in everything he did.

Before I could say anything, he heaved himself onto the counter, with little care for his own life.

“Oh, Enzo! You know you have to ask before climbing.”

Enzo Cesare Rocchetti had been a complete surprise, but that was just my second son, it turned out. He had been by far the most accident prone out of all my children, not because of bad luck but because he had gotten his father’s reckless nature. Everything dangerous was alluring to Enzo.

My father-in-law laughed himself hoarse whenever Alessandro scolded Enzo. Apparently, Alessandro had been just as bad as a child, and only gotten worse with age.

Something to look forward too, I mused.

Polpetto rushed past, Pia rushing after him.

“Get him, Pi!” Enzo cheered.

Pia stopped when she noticed her brother, grinning goofily at him. “Zozo!” She held her arms up, wanting to sit at the counter with him. “Up! Up! Mama!”

“You can sit in the highchair or keep running around.”

“Noo,” she whined.

Caterina crouched down and Polpetto ran up to her. She held him delicately to her chest, smart enough to know how to hold him without upsetting him. “Pia, come and pat Polpetto.”

Pia’s attention shifted and she bounded to her big sister, fingers outstretched. “Petto!”

Polpetto looked like he was going to shit himself.

“Mama?” Dante came walking into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, my darling.”

Dante, like Caterina, was a little more deliberate in his day to day life. He was very serious, to the point where he was almost constantly grumpy. Unlike Alessandro and I, Dante had not picked up a flair for dramatics or the wild side, instead he approached life soberly.

He will make a fine Don one day, was a common compliment we got about his responsible harsh nature.

He would, but right now he was only nine, and only needed to worry about school, playing, and his chores.

When all four of them were together, it was easy to tell they were siblings. Though Caterina was the only one with dark brown hair, the other three managing to have a mix between Alessandro’s hair shade and mine, creating a golden-brown, they shared features and attributes.

All four of them had also gotten the Rocchetti eyes. Sometimes it was startling when four pair of almost black eyes snapped toward you.

The Rocchetti genes are strong, Alessandro had said years ago to me when Pia’s eyes had darkened. I had wanted at least one of them to have my whiskey-brown eyes.

He had been right. All four of them carried very distinctive Rocchetti traits and characteristics, the second generation of our dynasty.

Enzo slapped his hands on the counter. “Pancakes!”

“What do you say?” I asked, unable to help my slight smile. I had never been good at discipline—Alessandro usually handled that. Especially with the boys. “You say please, don’t you?”

He grinned cheekily. “Dunno.”

“You don’t know?” I questioned. “Have I failed you?”

“Yes, yes!” Enzo reached over the counter, going for the fruit bowl. Last time, he had opened all the bananas and created a food mural for