That's Amore

Chapter 13

The drive back from Siena wound through darkening hills, the last streaks of sunset bleeding out behind the cypress spires. The car was filled with the warmth of family chatter, cousins laughing over the madness of the race, Renato recounting the moment when the winning horse broke through the curve like a streak of fire. Sofia’s glow was brighter than the lanterns now lit in the villages they passed, her laughter carrying even as her hand rested protectively over her belly.

But beside Isabella, Giuliano was silent. His profile was carved in shadow, the passing lights cutting across his cheekbones, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. She wanted to speak, to ask what Enzo Ricci’s presence meant, but the weight of his silence pressed too heavily. It was not the quiet of peace; it was the quiet of a storm not yet broken.

The car slowed as the villa came into view, its pale walls washed in silver by the rising moon, the roses darker now, their perfume thick as incense. The family spilled into the courtyard, voices rising again, wine bottles uncorked to prolong the celebration. Alessandro gave one of his stern toasts, “Al Palio, che ci ricorda chi siamo!” — to the Palio, which reminds us who we are. The family cheered, though Isabella noticed Giuliano slipped away toward the vines, his shoulders taut.

She lingered at the archway, torn between joining the laughter and following him. Biscotto brushed against her leg, wagging his tail, then trotted in Giuliano’s direction as though to guide her.

The vineyard was silver in the moonlight, every leaf a shard of light, every row a path into darkness. She found Giuliano standing at the edge, his back to her, his hands braced on a wooden post. He did not turn when she approached, but his voice carried low into the night.

“Enzo Ricci will never stop.”

The name hit the air like a stone dropped into water, ripples spreading. Isabella swallowed. “You knew he would be there today.”

“I knew.” His shoulders lifted with a rough breath. “He never misses a chance to remind me he’s waiting. That he’s watching.”

She moved closer, the grass damp beneath her sandals, the vines whispering as the breeze combed through them. “Why you?”

Giuliano finally turned. His eyes in the moonlight were not soft brown but something darker, sharper, holding a history she could not yet read. “Because my family owns what he wants. Because Ricci has always wanted to be more than he is. And because I refuse to bow.”

The words were iron, but beneath them Isabella heard weariness. She hugged her arms around herself, the cool night sinking into her bones. “He looked at you like…” She hesitated. “Like an enemy.”

Giuliano’s jaw tightened. “He is.” His gaze flicked to her, catching hers for one breathless instant. “And now, perhaps, he looks at you the same way.”

Her chest tightened. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. The villa’s laughter carried faintly across the vines, Sofia’s voice warm, Alessandro’s deeper. Here, away from the table, it felt like another world, a sharper one, where the shadows stretched long.

Giuliano straightened, his expression unreadable again. “Stay close to the villa,” he said, not as an order, but as something heavier, almost a plea. “Promettimelo. Promise me.”

She nodded, though the word caught in her throat. “I promise.”

For a moment, silence pressed between them, the moon hanging above like a witness. Then Giuliano turned back to the vines, his body folding once more into the work, into the soil that had shaped him. Isabella lingered, her heart pounding, the roses perfuming the night air around her.

She returned to the villa quietly, but Enzo Ricci’s smirk followed her still, sharper than Alessandro’s judgment, sharper even than Giuliano’s silence. The festival had ended, yet the rivalry had only just begun, woven into the hills like a threat waiting to ripen.

Inside, laughter roared, glasses clinked, but Isabella felt the night settle heavy on her shoulders, an omen carried back from Siena.

And above it all, the roses leaned toward the windows, their petals trembling as if they too could sense the shadow.