Page 60 of Her Filthy Italians

Hard to believe five years have gone by since I decided to live here permanently, but I don’t regret my decision for one second. I love my filthies, love our boys, love their families and love my work.

The sound of Dante waking up from his nap alerts me to my mamma duties, and I make my way up the internal spiral staircase to the boys’ bedroom. We moved into the duplex soon after Rafa was born, needing more space for our growing family. Marco’s parents were happy to swap and relocated up to the penthouse apartment at the same time.

My little monster has pulled himself up to stand in his crib. He holds out his arms, and I lift him. “Mamma,” he babbles, and I lay him down on the changing table to attend to his diaper. I brush a kiss to his chubby cheek, and he stares at me with forest green eyes.

He’s the image of Alessio… no need for a DNA test. Rafa looks more like me than Marco, but he’s Marco’s son we found out after profiling. It was something we did for Francesco’s sake… he was desperate to pass on the Lorrer name to a grandson.

I carry Dante down the stairs and place him on the carpet by the sofa… the sofa where I still make out with my filthies when our boys are tucked up in bed asleep. I touch my hand to my belly, hoping new life will be stirring in there soon. We want at least one more kid, possibly two, but I haven’t gotten pregnant again yet.

Combining my career with motherhood has been relatively easy. Francesco has almost fully recovered from his stroke. Viviana and he are awesome at babysitting. Rafa goes to a Montessori School, and Dante started in daycare three months ago, when I went back to work after my maternity leave. Viviana picks the boys up and she and Francesco look after them until I get home from the gallery. They’ve accepted the unusual situation of their son’s relationship with both a man and a woman without question, only saying they’re happy he’s found his own happiness.

I hear the buzz of the intercom at the downstairs entrance. Alessio has gone to answer it and let in his parents, who’ve been staying in a nearby hotel. Melodic Italian voices echo from the hallway. Bianca and Enzo’s faces break into smiles when they spot their grandson. “He’s grown so much since Easter,” Alessio’s mom says. We’d visited with them in Fregene and the boys had loved romping around on the beach with their Roman cousins.

More Italian voices, and this time it’s Marco and his parents. Francesco is holding Rafa by the hand, and then everyone is hugging and kissing and talking incessantly. Marco pops open a bottle of Prosecco. Alessio hands around canapes. The boys play with their toys on the floor. It would all be so perfect if Camila could be with us. Then I remind myself that I can’t have everything. She comes over from the States whenever her schedule allows, and only last week she told me she’d met someone, someone special. I hope it all works out for her.

Later, after the party is over and we’ve put the boys to bed, I snuggle with my filthies on the sofa. “Today was amazing,” I tell them. “Alessio, Marco, you are amazing. So proud of you both.”

Alessio continues his fight against organized crime, only last week smashing a major drug smuggling ring run by the Calabrian Mafia. Marco won the businessman of the year award in January for his innovations in the family business.

“As we are proud of you, bambina,” Alessio pulls me in for a kiss.

“Our beautiful angel,” Marco’s voice rasps.

I snicker, reading the signs. There’s a familiar tingle in my nipples, an ache in my pussy. I’m about to get down and dirty with my filthy Italians again. I place my hands on the bulges in their pants and give myself over to the pleasure of loving them.

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