Francesca
I climbed under the railing and held out my hand. "Vieni qua, Lamborghini." My little lamb came waddling up to me and bleated, clearly happy to see me. At least, that's what I believed anyway. I loved her.
Tommaso, the man in charge of the sheep, told me I had to speak Italian to the lambs. He said it was what they knew, but I didn't complain because it would help me practice. I had to admit, he was right. It was easier to speak Italian to an animal than to a human who might criticize my pronunciation or verb conjugation.
Lamborghini ate the tiny balls from my palm, her soft mouth and tongue teasing my skin. According to Tommaso, she was three months old and would have been killed and sold sometime in the next two months if not for my intervention. As much as I hated b
