Lola De Rossi’s POV
Alessandro’s mansion is not just a house. It is an entire world—alive and breathing—with gardens that cascade in terraces down toward the sea, pools that shimmer under Sicily’s relentless sun, and rooms that smell of aged wood and fresh lavender. Since we arrived, my father hasn’t let go of the triplets. He holds them as if he fears they might disappear, kisses their foreheads again and again, speaks to them in soft Italian, telling them stories about vineyards they don’t yet understand. I see the weight of thirty lost years in his eyes, and every time Lorenzo wraps his chubby little hand around one of his fingers, or Loretta bursts into a bubbling laugh, or Leonardo stares at him with those dark eyes identical to his own, Alessandro cries. Silent tears he wipes awa
