“She talks when she has something to say,” Serena replied. “Just like some people should.”
Marco circled slightly.
“She’s smaller than us.”
“She’s seven,” Serena said. “Same as you.”
“We’re bigger.”
“Congratulations.”
Marco narrowed his eyes.
Serena stood, placing herself between Lucia and the boys without making it obvious.
“Lucia and I are going upstairs to unpack. You’re going to give us space.”
“Papa didn’t say we had to.”
“I’m saying it.”
Marco stared at her.
Serena stared back.
“If I find out any of you scared her on purpose, there will be consequences. Clear?”
For once, Marco did not argue.
Upstairs, Serena and Lucia found the room Mrs. Chen had prepared for them. Two beds. Fresh sheets. A bathroom of their own. A vase of yellow flowers on the dresser.
Lucia sat on the bed and finally cried.
“They’re mean.”
“They’re scared,” Serena said, sitting beside her. “Their mom died. Their father doesn’t know how to be soft anymore. And now two strangers moved into their house.”
“I’d still be mean.”
“Probably,” Serena said. “But you’d have reasons.”
An hour later, after they unpacked Lucia’s clothes, books, and her little collection of smooth stones from the park, someone knocked softly.
Serena opened the door.
Alessandro stood in the hallway holding a book.
He was smaller than Marco, gentler than Nico, and more nervous than Tommy. His hands moved carefully, like he was afraid the world might crack if he touched it too hard.
“I heard you’re seven,” he said to Lucia. “This book is good for seven. It has pictures, but real words too. Not baby words.”
Lucia looked at him.
The book had a dragon on the cover.
“There’s a reading nook in the library,” Alessandro continued. “Third floor. Window seat. Nobody bothers you there. I go when Marco and Nico are loud.”
He paused.
“Which is always.”
A tiny smile appeared on Lucia’s face.
Alessandro set the book on her bed and disappeared.
Serena watched Lucia reach for it.
“Mama,” Lucia whispered.
“Yes, baby?”
“Maybe it won’t be completely terrible here.”
Serena smiled.
“Maybe not.”
That night, after Lucia finally fell asleep, Serena went downstairs for tea.
The estate was different at midnight. No chaos. No shouting. Just long shadows, polished floors, and silence that seemed to listen.
In the kitchen, Serena filled the kettle and found herself humming before she realized it.
An old Italian lullaby.
Her grandmother had sung it to her mother. Her mother had sung it to Serena. Serena had sung it to Lucia in every apartment, every shelter room, every borrowed bed they had ever slept in.
“Stella, stellina…”
“Stop.”
Serena spun.
Victor stood in the doorway.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His face had gone pale beneath his controlled expression.
“How do you know that song?”
Serena’s pulse jumped.
“My grandmother taught it to me.”
“That was Beatrice’s song.”
The name landed between them.
His dead wife.
“She sang it to the boys every night,” Victor said. “Every night until…”
He stopped.
Serena understood at once.