Chapter 3 - Smoke, Sparks, and Parmesan
The clock on the wall ticked past 7:15 p.m.
The kitchen had transformed from a disaster zone into a chaotic yet functioning operational hub. The orange juice had been mopped up by Nico—who had been convinced to do so only after Serena challenged him to a speed-cleaning race that she subtly let him win—and the cereal boxes were now neatly stacked against the pantry door.
“Faster!” Nico urged, tossing another box onto the pile. “You’re losing, Serena!”
“I’m pacing myself, management material,” Serena panted, slicing the garlic with rhythmic, steady strokes. Her black blazer hung over the back of a wooden chair, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms dusted with flour.
Across the room, at the massive butcher block island, Marco stood on a sturdy step stool, furiously grating Parmesan into a glass bowl. His brow was furrowed in intense concentration, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.
Alessandro had abandoned his cereal box armor and was now tasked with cracking eggs into a separate bowl, a job he approached with the solemn gravity of a brain surgeon. Only Tommy remained quiet in the corner, though he had crept closer to the stove, his dark eyes tracking every movement Serena made.
“Is it true?” Tommy’s voice was so soft it barely carried over the sizzling sound of pancetta hitting the hot pan.
Serena paused, lowering the heat slightly. She turned to look at the youngest of the quadruplets. “Is what true, Tommy?”
“That you have a little girl,” Tommy said, his fingers tracing the hem of his pajama top. “The housekeeper said you have a kid who lives with your sister because you don't have a big enough house.”
The air in the kitchen seemed to drop ten degrees.
Serena felt a sharp, familiar pang in her chest—the raw, aching reality of the custody battle waiting for her at the end of these two weeks. She swallowed hard, keeping her voice steady.
“I have a daughter,” Serena corrected gently, kneeling down so she was at eye level with him. “Her name is Lucia. And she doesn't live with my sister permanently. She’s staying with family while I get our new home ready. But she is my girl, and she is my whole world.”
Tommy studied her face, searching for lies or pity. Finding neither, he reached out, his small fingers brushing tentatively against the sleeve of her rolled-up shirt—the exact same way Lucia clutched her clothes when she was scared.
“Does she bite?” Tommy asked seriously.
Serena let out a genuine, unforced laugh that warmed the cold corners of the massive room.
“Only when she’s eating apples too fast,” Serena smiled. “Otherwise, she’s much quieter than you boys. Though she does love a good mess.”
From across the kitchen, Victor watched the exchange. The glass of wine in his hand was untouched, forgotten on the marble counter. In all the months since his wife had passed away, no nanny had ever knelt down to talk to Tommy without looking terrified, annoyed, or condescending. None of them had spoken of their own children. They had treated the Rinaldi boys like wild animals to be tamed, rather than lonely children in desperate need of boundaries and belonging.
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“Dinner is going to burn if you keep talking,” Marco announced loudly from his stool, though his tone lacked its earlier hostility. He dropped the cheese grater with a clatter. “Is it ready yet? I’m starving.”
“Pasta takes time, General,” Serena said, standing up and reaching for the pot of boiling water. “Great things always do.”
