They entered like a pair on their honeymoon. Vivienne, wearing one of Marcello’s shirts, half-buttoned, legs bare, hair disheveled as if she’d just rolled off him—which she probably had. Marcello looked freshly showered, washed anew by the scent of her.
“Coffee, Bianca,” she purred, stretching like a cat. “Strong for him, half-and-half for me. You know the routine.”
I handed them the mugs without a word.
Marcello didn’t even glance at me. He sipped, then said, “Bacon and omelet, Bianca. Lizzy likes it the way I do. None of that salty mess you used to make. She’s watching her figure—not that it shows, huh?”
Vivienne leaned on the counter, lounging like she owned the house. “Not everyone wants to look like a stick wrapped in misery, sweetie.”
I smiled. Not with warmth. Strategy.
Smile. Just smile. You’ve cooked for enemies before.
I cracked more eggs. Let the oil hiss. Ignored their chatter about the penthouse, the sheets, the sex, the way he snored with her. They complained about the shampoo, discussed him as if I were invisible. I was the maid in their play, not a person.
Then the front door swung open.
“Family’s here!” Antonio’s voice boomed, sitcom-style. “Let the party begin!”
Chiara followed, heels tapping tiles, holding a designer bag as if it were a holy relic. “Mom! Vivienne gave me this! Real leather, Italian! And these earrings! She’s amazing.”
She twirled like a child, oblivious to the closets full of things Antonio already showered on her. Not that he ever bought me a scarf.
Behind them, the twins burst in, chaos incarnate. Enzo indoors, sunglasses on. Nico lugging something bulky wrapped in brown paper.
Chiara’s laughter echoed. “We got the whole penthouse! Slept like royalty! You should’ve seen the tub! Bigger than our bedroom.”
“Oh, and the view,” Antonio added, uncorking wine without asking. “Thirty-sixth floor. Sun hits the windows like a painting. Like—perfection.”
It was nine in the morning.
The boys unveiled their surprise—a giant, glossy family portrait from the Luciana Gala. Aristocratic. Posed like royalty. Vivienne at the center. My sons flanking her. Marcello’s hand on her waist.
I wasn’t in it.
“Look, Grandma!” Nico grinned. “Don’t we look like a real family?”
Enzo added, calm, cruel: “Too bad you weren’t there. Wait—yeah. You were left behind. Too much like our maid.”