The vineyard stretched golden under the early morning sun, dew still clinging to the wildflowers that bordered the footpaths. From the upstairs balcony of their terracotta villa, Amelia stood barefoot, her robe tied loosely around her waist, a steaming mug in hand. She watched the scene below like a quiet observer of a living painting—one that carried her whole heart.
Enzo’s voice echoed faintly across the breeze.
“Leo, not the hose!”
Too late.
A shriek of triumphant laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of water spraying through the air.
Amelia laughed softly into her mug. Her middle child—Leonardo Enzo Ricci—was as wild and headstrong as the man he was named after. At just five, he already ruled the vineyard like his tiny kingdom, a mess of curly black hair, sun-kiss
