27

Francesca

I CLIMBED UNDER THE RAILING and held out my hand. — Vieni qua, Lamborghini. — My little lamb stumbled over to me and bleated, clearly happy to see me. At least, that's what I believed anyway. I loved her.

Tommaso, the man in charge of the sheep, said I had to speak Italian to the lambs. He said that was what they knew, but I didn't complain because it would help me practice. I had to admit, he was right. It was easier to speak Italian to an animal than to a human who might criticize my pronunciation or verb conjugation.

Lamborghini ate the little balls from my palm, his soft mouth and tongue teasing my skin. According to Tommaso, she was three months old and would have been killed and sold sometime in the next two months if not for my intervention. As much as I hated being grateful to Fausto for anything, I was relieved that the Lamborghini wouldn't end up on a dinner table.

She finished her kibble and patted my arm, then crawled into my lap. I laughed and wrapped my arms ar