“Cake before lunch? What kind of anarchy is this?” I asked, sinking down on one of the empty chairs between Fabiano and Savio. “Nevio’s wish. Anarchy is his middle name,” Fina said, rolling her eyes. “My wish too,” Greta said softly. Fina gave her daughter a patient smile. “Yours too, but we both know you always say yes to Nevio’s wishes.” “Not always,” Greta said even quieter. “Too often, mia cara,” Remo said, kissing her temple.
