Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
In fact, that was one of the first things I noticed after Nino dropped me off and I made my way up the front path.
The tops of the windows were spotless, like Cammie had just cleaned them. The bottoms, though? I could make out little face prints on the glass. As well as a few streaks of what might have been jelly.
“Daddy!” was the chorus as I moved inside, getting a flying hug from our oldest, and a leg hug from the next.
Cammie moved into the hallway from the kitchen where the smell of spicy sausage lasagne was filling the space.
Leaning down, she put our toddler on the floor, smiling as he went down on his hands three times in his rush to get over to me.
Three boys.
Neither of us had been surprised by the number, given how many brothers I had.
“What the hell is this already?” I asked when I detangled from the kids and made my way toward my woman, noticing a stain on my shirt.
“Honey, haven’t we learned not to ask those kinds of questions by now?” Cammie asked, reaching up to wrap her arms around my neck, and pulling me close for a kiss.
“True,” I agreed. “Nino told me about the eggs,” I said when we pulled away.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” she said, shaking her head as she turned to make her way back into the kitchen. “I mean, we can technically blame August for that.”
“I’m always down to do that,” I agreed, smiling at her as she moved behind the island. “But why can we blame him?”
“Because he brought home those fertilized chicken eggs for Traveler to incubate. How was the flight?”
“Long. Boring. I’m glad to be home,” I told her.
“Your mom is coming over for dinner,” she told me.
“And by that, I can infer that the entire family is going to be showing up at some point or another.”
“That’s usually how it goes,” she agreed, smiling. “What are the chances that the front windows stay clean for them?”
“Hate to break this to you, baby, but they’re already messed up.”
“Those heathens!” she declared as she moved a vase of calla lilies from the island to the table, risking them getting knocked over. Which was why it was in a glass-looking plastic vase. “They’re lucky I love them,” she added, making her way to stand next to me where I was watching them plot some sort of chaos right in the hallway by the front door. “All four of them,” she added.
“Four?” I asked, turning, brows raised.
Her hand rose, resting on her belly. “Yes, four. Seems like a good number to me,” she added.
“The perfect number,” I agreed, pulling her in for a kiss.
And so it would be.
Cammie - 29 years
“Honey, I don’t know what to tell you,” I told our youngest, Calla, as she paced back and forth in the kitchen, her long black hair flowing, her long-legged pace wearing dents in the flooring.
“It’s ridiculous!” she declared, turning to pin me with an intense stare that was all her father.
“Probably. I mean, I have to confess I wouldn’t be thrilled if you got your way here, kid.”
“Oh, but it’s totally fine that my brothers are part of the Family, right? That’s sexist as hell, Mom.”
A slow, deep exhale escaped me.
She wasn’t wrong.
All her brothers had been made, or would be in the near future. And I guess I hadn’t had such a strong reaction to that because I’d always known it would be that way.
Did it make me anxious?
Yes, of course.
Did I worry about them all every minute of every day?
Absolutely.
But I’d known when I’d married into the Grassi Family and started having kids of my own, that the boys were going to follow in their father’s and uncles’ footsteps.
It honestly hadn’t ever occurred to me that our only daughter might have wanted the same thing for herself.
“I’m a million times better a shot than he is,” she added, talking about one of her cousins that had just been granted the job that had once belonged to Massimo, and then one of the cousins after him, allowing my man to be home with me a lot more sometime around the time our youngest was toddling.
“I know you are,” I agreed.
All our kids had learned their ways around guns at a relatively young age. Because we had them in the house. Because Massimo thought that education prevented accidents, even though we made sure everything was always away from the kids.
The boys had all been, you know, decent. Good shots. Good enough that we knew they could protect themselves if something happened and they needed to.
Our girl, though?
Our girl was something special.
She had her father’s skills.
Actually, Massimo had admitted to me once, she was even better.
And when you were the best at something, I could understand being furious that someone with less skills than you got a job you wanted.