Epilogue
ANNIKA
H aving Georgia’s best tattoo artist for a husband meant that I had more ink than I originally planned. And children who always had questions about them.
Lorenzo traced his finger over the first tattoo Matteo gave me. “This one’s for my nonna and nonno who are in heaven, right? Your mamma and papà ?”
“It sure is,” I confirmed with a soft smile. “Which you already know because I’ve told you the story of how I met your father more times than I can count.”
I tickled his side, and his boyish laughter filled the air. When I stopped, he flashed me a sheepish grin. “I know, but you say all the time that I like to ask questions.”
Lorenzo had never grown out of the “why” stage from when he was three, which I lamented on a regular basis. “You have any more for me?”
“Yup.” He let the P at the end pop, his smile widening. “And this one is for the day you and Papà got married?”
He pointed at the tattoo on my other thigh, a red heart with a heritage rose vine wrapped around it, the bloom on top, and the date of our anniversary in the middle. “It sure is. One of the best days of my life, along with when you and your sisters were born.”
He tugged at the bottom of my shirt so he could see the three dates inked on my rib cage. Poking the one on the top, he mumbled, “I know that, silly. This is my birthday.”
“And what a day it was.”
Unlike his sisters, who had stayed in my womb almost until they had to be cut out because I was a week overdue, Lorenzo had been impatient to be born. He came two full weeks before his due date, in the middle of the night, and we almost didn’t make it to the hospital in time. Which was extremely unusual for first-time mothers.
And he’d been in a rush ever since. He learned to run only a week after he took his first steps and raced his way through the rest of his eight years on this planet. Except for when he slowed down to ask questions. Lots of them.
His attention returned to my first tattoo again. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough for Papà to ink me.”
Although Mateo had no issues with breaking the law when necessary, he’d remained steadfast in his answer every time our son asked about getting his first tattoo. “When you’re eighteen.”
“So stupid,” he muttered with a frown.
“You better not be talking about your mamma ,” Matteo growled as he walked into the kitchen from the attached garage.
Lorenzo’s expression was horrified. “Of course not. I was talking about the minimum age to get a tattoo.”
Matteo nodded. “Ahh, that makes more sense.”
“It should because I’d never say anything bad about my mamma .” Lorenzo glared at him. “She’s the best.”
“Damn straight.” Matteo claimed my mouth in a deep kiss, not caring that our son was in the room.
The children were all used to our public displays of affection, and I hoped it would mean that they would be openly demonstrative toward their partners when they grew up and fell in love.
But that didn’t stop our son from giving us a hard time. “Eww, Papà . That’s my mamma . Take it easy.”
Mateo flashed a grin at our son and wagged his eyebrows. “But she prefers it when I?—”
I elbowed him in the side and muttered, “Enough.”
Lorenzo pretended to gag, making me laugh.
“Okay, you two. If you have enough energy to be a pain in my butt, then you should burn it off in a much more useful way…by helping me deep clean the kitchen. It’s a mess in here.”
Lorenzo was willing to pitch in, but only if his sisters helped too. “Bianca! Allegra! Mamma needs our help.”
The girls had been hosting a tea party for their dolls in the playroom, but he yelled loud enough for our neighbors to hear him. Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and the girls raced into the kitchen. At only six and four, they weren’t a ton of help, but they adored their big brother and would do just about anything he asked.
While Lorenzo bossed the girls around, Matteo leaned close and whispered, “Don’t worry, dolcezza . I’ll save some energy for later when we’re in bed.”
I flashed him a sensual smile. “You better.”