That's Amore

Chapter 23

The road home from Siena was quieter than the road there. The car bumped gently over the ruts, baskets of peaches and cheeses shifting in the back, but the silence inside was heavier than any weight of fruit. Sofia dozed with her head against Renato’s shoulder, one hand curved protectively over her belly. Alessandro stared out the window, his profile unreadable, eyes fixed on the horizon as though he could bend it to his will.

Isabella sat pressed against the door, her hands folded tight around her notebook, knuckles white. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tyres, blurred into nothing. All she heard was Enzo Ricci’s voice, low and cruel, echoing: Perhaps America will take her back… until she realises Tuscany is too small for her dreams.

Her throat burned at the memory, humiliation twisting with anger. She longed to have spoken, to have thrown words back at him in that crowded market. Instead, she had stood mute, her basket clutched like a shield, letting Giuliano carry the fury for them both.

When the villa finally came into view, pale walls glowing against the setting sun, Isabella slipped away quickly, leaving the others to unload the baskets. She moved straight to the rose garden, the one place that held her without judgment. The blooms were dark now, their perfume heady in the cooling air, petals heavy with the weight of another day.

She sank onto the stone bench, pulling her journal open with shaking hands. Ink bled quickly, her pen scratching across the page.

“Ricci’s words sting like thorns. He looked at me as if I did not belong here, as if I were a trespasser, an intruder, a shadow in someone else’s story. But why did it hurt so much? Why does the approval of these hills matter to me? Why does his cruelty echo louder than kindness?”

Her hand trembled, the ink blotting. She wiped at her cheeks before she realised she was crying. Biscotto whined softly, pressing his muzzle against her leg, tail thumping slowly and steadily. She bent to bury her face in his fur, whispering, “Sei l’unico che non mi giudica, you’re the only one who doesn’t judge me.”

The garden breathed around her, cicadas beginning their evening chorus, the fountain murmuring in the courtyard. She lifted her head and turned to a clean page, sketching quickly — Enzo’s smirk, sharp as a knife; Giuliano’s clenched jaw, his shoulders braced against rage; and herself, small in the middle, notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. Beneath the sketches she wrote: “I am not weak. I will not let him name me.”

The words steadied her, though her hands still shook. She pressed her pen harder, as though to etch them into stone.

The air shifted. She sensed rather than heard footsteps on the gravel path. She looked up to see Giuliano at the edge of the garden, his figure etched in twilight. He did not enter, only leaned against the arch, his eyes fixed on her.

“Ricci’s words mean nothing,” he said, his voice rough, carrying across the roses.

Her throat tightened. “They felt like everything.”

His jaw worked. He looked away, into the darkening vines. “He wants them to. That is his weapon. Don’t give him the victory.”

For a moment, the silence stretched, threaded with the rustle of leaves, the whisper of the fountain. Then Giuliano’s gaze returned to her, burning steady. “Non ascoltarlo. Ascolta la terra. Don’t listen to him. Listen to the land.”

She wanted to ask what that meant, how the earth could speak louder than words, but something in his expression stopped her. It was not a riddle. It was a truth, simple and whole, that she had yet to learn.

He turned then, his figure disappearing back into the villa’s shadows, leaving her alone with the roses. She closed her journal slowly, pressing her palm flat against the cover, feeling the pulse of her own heartbeat beneath.

Above, the stars pricked open one by one, the sky deepening into indigo. Isabella leaned back against the bench, lifting her face to the night. The roses swayed, their petals brushing against her arm, as if whispering in chorus: You are not what he says. You are ours.

And for the first time since the market, she breathed without fear.