That's Amore

Chapter 17

The villa was hushed when they returned from the festa, lanterns still swaying faintly in the courtyard, the scent of wine and roasted chestnuts clinging to their clothes. Isabella lingered near the archway, reluctant to let the night end, the memory of Giuliano’s hand still imprinted on hers. But the spell broke as soon as Alessandro’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp as a blade across stone.

“Giuliano.”

He stood at the head of the table where they had dined earlier, his glass of wine untouched, his face shadowed in the glow of a single candle. The family trickled in behind him, voices subdued, laughter fading into silence. Sofia lowered herself gently into a chair, her hand instinctively resting on her belly, while Renato hovered protectively at her side.

Giuliano paused in the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. “Sì, papà.”

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you tonight. Dancing. Laughing. Distracted.” His hand struck the table once, the sound echoing through the room. “Il lavoro prima di tutto. Work before everything. Have you forgotten?”

The air thickened. Isabella’s breath caught, her body tense as though she had been struck too. She glanced at Giuliano, but he did not look at her. His gaze remained on his father, steady but smoldering, like embers held in check.

“I worked all day,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “One dance does not betray the vines.”

“One dance?” Alessandro’s voice rose, stern, unyielding. “Or one weakness? Do you think the Ricci family rests? Enzo sharpens his knives while you waste your time on foolishness.” His gaze flicked, just briefly, to Isabella. The meaning was clear, unspoken but heavy.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, shame and anger burning together. She lowered her eyes, gripping the edge of the chair to steady herself.

Giuliano’s jaw tightened. “Leave her out of this.”

“Non alzare la voce con me,” Alessandro thundered, his fist hitting the table again. Do not raise your voice with me. The glasses rattled, and Biscotto whimpered from beneath the bench, pressing against Isabella’s legs.

Silence followed, sharp and suffocating. Sofia’s soft voice broke it, trembling but resolute. “Papà, basta. Enough. Tonight was a festa. Giuliano worked harder than anyone today. Let him breathe.”

Alessandro’s glare flickered, but his hand dropped from the table. He exhaled heavily through his nose, turning his gaze away, though his disapproval lingered in the air like smoke. “The vines cannot wait for anyone,” he muttered.

Giuliano’s shoulders eased only slightly. He nodded once, curtly, then turned away, his footsteps heavy as he left the hall. Isabella’s chest ached with the urge to follow him, to say something, anything, but the weight of Alessandro’s gaze pinned her still.

“Be careful,” the patriarch said finally, his eyes narrowing at her. “The villa has no patience for distractions. And neither do I.”

The words landed like stones in her stomach. She forced herself to nod, though her throat was too tight to speak.

The family dispersed quietly after that, voices hushed, the warmth of the festa extinguished by tension. Sofia squeezed Isabella’s hand before retiring, her eyes kind but shadowed with worry. Biscotto lingered at Isabella’s side, pressing his muzzle into her palm as though to comfort her.

When she finally slipped back to her room, the villa seemed colder, its corridors echoing with Alessandro’s words. She sank onto her bed, pressing her notebook against her chest, and whispered into the silence, “Nonna, dammi forza. Give me strength.”

Outside, the roses trembled in the night breeze, their petals whispering against the shutters. And somewhere beyond the vines, Isabella knew, Giuliano carried the same storm in his chest that now weighed in hers.