The apartment smelled like garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil — the kind of smell that wrapped itself around the walls and made everything feel safe. Evening sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting golden stripes across the tiled floor of their small Venice home.

Nico di Angelo sat cross-legged on the floor, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he pushed tiny figurines across an imaginary battlefield. “No, no—this one wins,” he muttered seriously, making quiet pshh sounds under his breath. At six years old, the world was still a place of games and rules he could understand, where heroes and monsters stayed exactly where you put them.

“Niccolò,” Bianca called from the table, her voice older, sharper, already edging toward adulthood. “Mama said dinner is almost ready. Stop playing with those and wash your hands.”

Nico pouted. “Just one more minute, per favore,” he begged, holding up a figurine dramatically.

Bianca rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. At thirteen, she sat perched on a chair, homework spread out in front of her, long dark hair tied back loosely. She was already used to responsibility — watching Nico, translating his feelings for him, standing a little taller than she should’ve had to.

From the kitchen came the gentle clatter of pans and the soft hum of a familiar tune.

Maria di Angelo moved gracefully between the stove and the counter, her apron dusted with flour, her dark hair pinned back. “Nico,” she called warmly, switching easily between Italian and English. “Amore, wash your hands. The pasta will be ruined if you’re late.”

Nico scrambled to his feet immediately. “Coming, Mama!” He ran past Bianca, nearly tripping, his laughter echoing through the apartment.

Maria smiled to herself as she stirred the sauce, watching her children from the corner of her eye. Bianca setting the table carefully. Nico standing on his toes at the sink, scrubbing his hands too hard. Moments like this were precious — quiet, ordinary, perfect.

Outside, church bells rang in the distance. Somewhere below, voices drifted up from the street. Life went on, unaware of gods and promises and the fragile thread protecting this family.

Maria placed the plates on the table, steam rising into the warm air. “Andiamo,” she said softly. “Let’s eat together.”