That's Amore

Chapter 24

Morning broke in molten gold, pouring across the vineyard until each row shimmered as though painted by light. Isabella walked with Sofia and Renato toward the work, the laughter of the workers carrying ahead of them like bells. The baskets had already begun to fill, the air alive with cicadas and the scent of ripening fruit. She shielded her eyes with her hand, watching as the men rolled the great wooden vats into the courtyard, their staves dark with years of harvest, their rims waiting for the first cascade of grapes.

It was the beginning of pigiatura, the grape-crushing ritual. Workers tipped baskets into the vats, the fruit spilling in waves of purple and green, skins bursting, perfume rising thick and sweet. The air grew heady, sticky with sugar. Children laughed, sneaking handfuls of grapes, their mouths stained violet. The courtyard pulsed with life, tradition beating like a drum.

Biscotto, of course, could not resist.

He trotted into the middle of the chaos, tail high, nose twitching at the intoxicating scent. Workers shouted good-natured warnings — “Attento, Biscotto!” — but he ignored them, his golden coat glinting like another sun. He leaped once, paws on the edge of the vat, ears perked. For a moment, Isabella thought he might back down. But then, with a wiggle of his hindquarters, Biscotto launched himself inside.

The splash was spectacular. Grapes exploded under his paws, juice spraying in arcs that stained trousers, skirts, even Alessandro’s immaculate shirt sleeve. For one stunned heartbeat, the courtyard froze.

Then laughter erupted like thunder. Workers doubled over, Renato howled, and children clapped their hands and shrieked with delight. “Bravo, Biscotto!” someone shouted, pounding the vat as the dog pranced proudly through his sticky kingdom, tail wagging furiously.

Isabella laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks, clutching Sofia’s arm for balance. The sight was absurd, joyous — Biscotto stomping grapes with more determination than any hired foot. His fur darkened in patches of violet, his tongue lolling happily as if he had never accomplished anything so important in his life.

“Dio mio…” Giuliano’s voice cut through the laughter, low but helplessly amused. He strode forward, grasped the dog under his arms, and hauled him from the vat. Biscotto wriggled joyfully, smearing juice across Giuliano’s shirt, shaking his fur until droplets sprayed. The courtyard roared louder, men slapping their thighs, women covering their mouths as their laughter rang high.

Even Giuliano, normally so restrained, let slip a smile — quick, sharp, but real. Isabella caught it, her heart tightening at the rare glimpse of light on his face.

Alessandro stood apart, his arms folded, lips pressed in stern disapproval. Yet even he could not fully quiet the merriment that rippled through the workers, their shoulders shaking, their hands wiping tears. The vines had not seen such laughter in years.

Giuliano set Biscotto down, scolding him half-heartedly. “Sciocco cane. Foolish dog.” But his voice held no anger. Biscotto only barked, tail wagging harder, his eyes bright as if to say: Did I not crush grapes as well as any man?

The workers cheered again, raising their cups of wine in mock salute to the vineyard’s four-legged vintner. “Alla vendemmia di Biscotto!” To Biscotto’s harvest!

Isabella bent double with laughter, her sides aching, her throat raw with joy. In that moment, the heaviness of Ricci’s smirk, Alessandro’s thunder, even her own doubts, slipped away. She pressed her hands to her face, breathless, whispering, “Grazie, Biscotto.”

Later, when the courtyard quieted and the vats stood glistening with their sticky load, Isabella lingered by the fountain, scribbling into her journal. “Today, the dog reminded us that joy belongs to the land as much as labor. The vines do not only demand sweat. They also demand laughter.”

Her pen paused. She looked up to see Giuliano standing across the courtyard, wiping his shirt, still stained with violet. Their eyes met. He shook his head faintly, exasperation lingering at his mouth, but his eyes softened, carrying a glint that made her breath stumble.

The moment was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that even in a place where rivalries festered and patriarchs scolded, laughter could root itself deep, blossoming like roses.

And at the center of it all, Biscotto lay stretched in the sun, purple-stained paws twitching in his sleep, a hero of the harvest.