That's Amore

Chapter 18

Dawn broke pale and slow, as though the hills themselves were reluctant to rise. The villa lay hushed, its shutters still closed, its corridors heavy with sleep. Isabella slipped from her bed before the bells rang, her feet bare on the tiles, her notebook pressed tightly to her chest. She could not stay in those walls, not with Alessandro’s voice still echoing — The villa has no patience for distractions. His words clung to her like smoke, stifling, suffocating.

She moved through the quiet halls and pushed open the garden doors. The air was cool, damp with dew, carrying the faint sweetness of roses and the sharper tang of earth waking under the light. The sky was streaked in watercolour shades — lavender, blush, a fragile gold rising from behind the hills. She drew a breath deep into her lungs, as though she might cleanse herself of yesterday’s storm.

The rose garden glistened, each bloom jewelled with morning dew. Isabella lowered herself onto the stone bench, its surface still chilled from the night, and opened her journal. Biscotto padded after her, yawning loudly before curling at her feet, his golden fur warm against her ankles. She smiled faintly, whispering, “Sempre la mia guardia, always my guard.”

Her pen trembled in her fingers before it met the page. Words spilt, not smooth, but jagged, torn from the ache in her chest.

“Alessandro believes I am a distraction. A shadow in the vines. He does not see me. Or perhaps he sees too much. I am afraid — afraid of not belonging here, afraid of being nothing in America, afraid of being caught between two places and claimed by neither. Ho paura. Ho paura di non avere una casa.”

Her breath shuddered as the ink stained the page. She pressed harder, the nib biting into the paper, until the words bled together. She turned the page quickly, as if to escape them, and drew instead — the roses, their petals curling outward, open and fearless beneath the morning light. She sketched one bloom larger, fuller than the rest, its thorns sharp, its stem bending but unbroken. Beneath it she wrote: “La forza è nell’amore, non nella paura.” Strength lies in love, not in fear.

The breeze lifted the pages as though in approval, scattering the scent of roses around her. She closed her eyes and whispered into the dawn, “Nonna, guidami. Guide me.”

A rustle drew her gaze upward. Giuliano stood at the far edge of the garden, the sun rising behind him, casting his figure in gold. He did not speak, only watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable but softer than it had been beneath Alessandro’s judgment. Their eyes caught — hers still damp with tears, his shadowed with unspoken words — and for a heartbeat, it felt as if the roses themselves leaned closer, listening.

She closed the journal quickly, pressing it to her lap, unwilling to let him see the rawness of her confession. But she did not look away.

Giuliano’s mouth curved — not a smile, not entirely, but something caught between pride and sorrow. “Scrivi come se le parole ti tenessero in vita. You write as if words are keeping you alive.”

Isabella swallowed, her throat tight. “Maybe they are.”

The silence between them deepened, threaded with the song of waking birds, the toll of a single distant bell, the heartbeat of the land stirring to life. Biscotto yawned again, breaking the tension, before rolling onto his back, paws in the air, demanding attention from anyone who would give it. Isabella laughed softly, reaching to scratch his belly, grateful for the reprieve.

When she looked up again, Giuliano had already turned back toward the vines, his figure disappearing into the morning rows, his shoulders broad, his stride steady. Yet his words lingered, seared into her chest like sunlight.

Isabella pressed her journal shut, her palm warm against the leather cover. She lifted her gaze to the roses swaying in the breeze, their petals trembling as if with secrets. And though Alessandro’s voice still haunted her, she chose to believe her Nonna’s letter instead — that love was strength, not weakness.

The sun broke fully then, flooding the garden in gold. Isabella stood, her journal clutched tight, and for the first time since returning, she did not feel only fear. She felt defiance, small but real, rooted like the roses beneath her feet.