The air carried a comforting blend of freshly cut fabric and the earthy undertone of beeswax polish. In one corner, the rhythmic hum of an old sewing machine filled the room, its sound as steady and timeless as the man operating it.
This place, a cocoon of quiet creativity, had always been my sanctuary. Here, I was free to shed the weight of the world, the masks I wore for survival, and simply exist. In these four walls, I wasn't Valentino Rossi, heir to a fractured dynasty. I was just Amo, someone who sought refuge in the threads of an old tailor's shop.
"Amo," Tito greeted, his soft, rasping voice carrying the warmth of familiarity as he shuffled toward me, the click of his polished shoes against the floor a steady rhythm. His hands, calloused and weathered from decades of threading the finest silks and wools, clasped my shoulders firmly.
He leaned in, his embrace infused with the unspoken affection of a man who had watched me grow, planting a kiss on each of my cheeks. I returned the gesture, our exchange steeped in the traditions of our shared Sicilian heritage. The scent of cedarwood, tobacco, and faint cologne enveloped him, grounding me in the comfort of memories too precious to forget.
"Vieni, let me see you properly," he murmured, stepping back to examine me, his honey-glazed eyes sharp and perceptive behind silver-rimmed glasses. Those eyes held an intensity that could assess the quality of fabric at a glance, yet now they softened as they traced the lines of my face. His lips curved into a smile that deepened the creases etched by years of laughter and labor. "A man now, yet still the boy I once knew."
Tito stood on the shorter side; his stature unassuming yet exuding a quiet confidence that demanded attention. His dark hair was meticulously slicked back, not a strand out of place, glistening faintly under the light as if polished to perfection. He wore his craft like a second skin—his tailored suit, crisp and immaculate, a testament to his skill.
But he was more than a tailor; Tito was an artist and an old family friend. He'd known my mother, Adriana, and it was he who had suggested "Amo" as my middle name. With Tito, I had a connection—something rare and fleeting in my life.
He was the one who designed the suits I wore, every stitch a testament to his precision and care. Tito had also been the creative force behind my namesake fashion line, yet to me, he was more. His shop was a refuge. But today, that refuge was suffocating.
