That's Amore

Chapter 6

By late afternoon, the villa pulsed with the rhythm of preparation. Pots clanged in the kitchen, the air thick with steam and fragrance: garlic sizzling in golden oil, tomatoes bursting in copper pots, rosemary and sage crackling over roasted chicken. Laughter spilled through the corridors as cousins ferried platters out to the long table in the courtyard. Cicadas softened their hum as if giving way to the chorus of voices rising around the house.

Isabella followed the stream of aromas until she stepped into the courtyard, and her breath caught at the sight before her. The table stretched nearly the length of the stone terrace, covered in white linen, glasses gleaming like captured sunlight. Jugs of wine glowed ruby in the light, baskets of bread steamed under cotton cloths, and bowls of olives glistened with oil. Beyond the arch, the hills rolled in the fading gold of day, the horizon painted in pink and lavender.

“Isabella!” Sofia’s voice lifted like music. She sat near the center of the table, radiant, her hands resting on the gentle curve of her belly. Her glow was undeniable, not just the flush of pregnancy but a serenity that seemed to soften even the stern air around Alessandro. She beckoned Isabella closer, kissing both her cheeks as she leaned in. “Finalmente, sei con noi. At last, you’re with us.”

Isabella smiled, settling into the chair beside her, feeling the warmth of belonging soak through the tension that had lingered since morning. She reached for Sofia’s hand, squeezing gently, and whispered, “You are luminous.”

Sofia laughed, eyes bright. “Radiant or round, take your pick.”

The table erupted in chuckles, a cousin calling out, “Una mamma bellissima!” Even Renato, ever at Sofia’s side, blushed as he filled her glass with water before his own. Isabella’s heart softened watching him — so tender, so constant, his every glance fixed on Sofia as though she carried not just his child but his entire world.

Then the scrape of a chair drew silence like a bow pulled across strings. At the head of the table, Alessandro Moretti rose, his presence commanding as the vineyard rows themselves. His hand lifted a glass of Chianti, the candlelight sharpening the stern planes of his face.

“Alla famiglia,” he said, his voice heavy with tradition, with expectation. “To family.”

Glasses clinked, ruby wine catching the sunset. Isabella lifted hers, the taste bold on her tongue, earthy and sharp, binding her to the moment. Yet Alessandro’s gaze lingered on her, steady and assessing, as though testing whether she deserved the toast at all. She held his stare, her spine straight, refusing to lower her eyes.

Conversation returned in a flood — cousins talking over one another, laughter rolling like surf, the clatter of plates passed hand to hand. Platters arrived one by one: bruschetta gleaming with tomatoes and basil, roasted chicken glistening with herbs, bowls of pasta tangled with sauce as rich as velvet. The air grew heady with the smell of oregano and pecorino, fresh bread torn apart, dipped in oil.

“Mangia, mangia,” Renato urged, pushing a plate toward Isabella. “Eat, or Alessandro will accuse me of neglecting our guest.”

She smiled, lifting a forkful of pasta, but the weight of Giuliano’s presence tugged at her. Across the table, he sat silent, sleeves rolled, his hair still damp from the day’s labor. He ate without hurry, his hands steady, but every so often his eyes flicked toward her — brief, unreadable, like shadows cast by candlelight. Isabella looked away quickly, her chest tightening.

Biscotto padded between chairs, tail sweeping, nose nudging every lap he could reach. When he reached Isabella, he rested his muzzle against her thigh, eyes wide with practiced hunger. She tore a small piece of bread and slipped it down discreetly. His tail thumped against the stone floor, betraying them both.

“Sempre il solito furbo,” Renato laughed, shaking his head. “Always the clever one.”

“Like his mistress,” a cousin teased, and the table roared with laughter. Isabella flushed, though she couldn’t help but smile. Biscotto licked her fingers in triumph, crumbs clinging to his whiskers.

But beneath the music of voices and clinking glasses, the undercurrent stirred. Alessandro spoke of the vineyard’s progress, of the rivalries in the region, his voice sharp with pride and warning. His gaze fell on Giuliano often, his words heavy with unspoken demands. Giuliano answered with curt nods, his jaw tight. Isabella felt the tension coil, as if every bite of bread and sip of wine carried weight beyond its taste.

“Il lavoro prima di tutto,” Alessandro declared, his hand striking the table once, the glasses trembling. Work before all else. His eyes swept the table, pausing on Isabella as though to remind her she was an outsider to this creed.

Silence rippled for a heartbeat, broken only by Sofia’s soft voice. “Papà, basta. Enough, Papa. Tonight is for joy.” She placed her hand protectively over her belly, her glow disarming the room. Alessandro’s gaze softened, if only slightly, and the storm eased into murmurs again.

Isabella drew in a breath, her eyes fixed on the roses climbing the arch beyond the courtyard. Their petals caught the last of the sun, trembling in the breeze like living flames. She thought of Nonna’s letter, hidden in her pocket, its words burning against her heart. The roses are the soul of our family.

The table laughed again, voices rising, wine flowing, but Isabella’s thoughts drifted. She sipped her Chianti slowly, feeling the weight of eyes on her — Alessandro’s, sharp as a blade; Giuliano’s, unreadable as the night sky.

And though the table was alive with food and warmth, Isabella felt it: the feast was not just celebration. It was theater, a reminder of the roles each Moretti must play. And she, newly returned, was already caught in its script.

As the candles burned low and the moon lifted silver above the hills, Isabella reached beneath the table to stroke Biscotto’s head, grounding herself in his simple, loyal warmth. Around her, voices swelled into song, glasses raised high, and the night spun golden. Yet in her chest, her Nonna’s words whispered still, threading through the clamor like a secret melody: Trust the roses. They will remind you who you are.