That's Amore

Chapter 3

By midday, the sun was merciless, pouring heat onto the vineyards until the rows shimmered like waves. Isabella wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow as she carried a basket of figs toward the courtyard. Her dress clung to her skin, the scent of rosemary and ripening grapes rising with every step. She had meant to keep her distance from Giuliano, to let the morning’s awkward exchange dissolve into silence, but the land seemed determined to draw their paths together.

She heard him before she saw him—his voice low and firm, giving instructions to the workers, the cadence of his Italian grounding and commanding. “Piano, non troppo, le viti sono delicate. Così, bravissimo.” Isabella paused, the sound of his voice carrying across the rows like the steady beat of a drum. She hated the way it tugged at something inside her, some echo of summers when that same voice had been softer, teasing, calling her name as they raced barefoot through the vines.

Determined, she set the basket down on the stone ledge and straightened. “You don’t have to order everyone like a general,” she said, her English sharp against the music of his Italian.

Giuliano looked up, eyes narrowing slightly under the brim of the sun. His shirt clung to him, damp from work, sleeves rolled, arms darkened by sun and soil. He didn’t answer immediately, just studied her in that unnervingly steady way of his, as if measuring whether her presence was help or hindrance. Finally, he spoke. “If I don’t, the harvest suffers. You don’t understand.”

Her pride bristled. “I understand more than you think. I may have left, but I know this land. I grew up here too.”

His laugh was short, humorless. “You grew up in its shadow, sì. But you never belonged to it.”

The words cut like shears through vines. Isabella’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing hot. “So I was never enough? Not Italian enough, not devoted enough, not… you enough?”

Giuliano’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, the earth crunching under his boots, until the space between them was a thin ribbon of heat. “You left, Isabella. While the rest of us stayed. That was your choice.”

“And staying was yours,” she snapped, her chin lifting. “You chose the vines, the family, the land. I chose my life. That doesn’t make me less.”

He stared at her, the sun catching the lines of his face, shadows deepening the intensity of his gaze. For a moment, the world seemed to still—the buzzing of bees, the distant chatter of workers, even Biscotto’s panting at their feet—all muted by the current sparking between them.

“Testarda,” Giuliano muttered finally, his voice low, almost a growl. Stubborn.

“Better than blind,” she fired back, though her voice shook, the heat of his nearness unraveling her steadiness.

Biscotto barked once, tail wagging as if to break the tension, but neither of them moved. The air was heavy with unsaid things, with years of silence pressing between them like unripe grapes waiting for the crush.

Giuliano’s gaze softened—just a fraction, so fleeting she almost doubted it. “You shouldn’t be here in the fields at this hour. The sun will burn you.” His words came out rough, almost like concern, though he tried to disguise it.

Isabella’s heart stuttered, but she forced herself to smile, brittle and defiant. “Don’t worry, Giuliano. America has sun too. I know how to survive it.” She picked up the basket of figs, her arms trembling slightly under its weight, though she would never let him see weakness.

He reached for it instinctively. “Lascialo. I’ll take it.”

Her fingers tightened stubbornly around the handle. Their hands brushed, a shock of heat sparking where their skin touched. She jerked back as if burned. “I said I can manage.”

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked again, each refusing to yield, until finally Giuliano let go, his expression shadowed. He turned back to the vines, the muscles in his jaw working. “As you wish, Isabella.”

She lifted the basket and walked away, her pulse pounding louder than the cicadas. The path back to the villa blurred in the haze, but her mind was sharp with his words, his voice, the way his presence unsettled every carefully built wall inside her.

At the courtyard arch, she paused and looked back once more. Giuliano was already bent to the vines, his body fluent in the rhythm of work, as though she had been nothing but a passing interruption. Yet Biscotto lingered at the edge of the rows, watching her go, tail swishing slowly, eyes bright, as if he knew the story better than either of them.

Isabella tightened her grip on the basket and stepped into the shade of the villa. But her heart remained in the vineyard, thrumming with anger, longing, and something she could not yet name.

And under the relentless Tuscan sun, the first sparks of their war—and their love—had been struck.