That's Amore

Chapter 37

The village piazza brimmed with heat and colour, the afternoon sun gilding the ochre walls, the market stalls laden with peaches, olives, wheels of pecorino, and bolts of bright fabric. The air smelled of fried zucchini blossoms and fresh basil, laughter and the rhythm of sandals on stone. Isabella walked among it all with Sofia and Renato, a basket looped over her arm, her notebook tucked safely beneath her shawl.

But she felt eyes on them. Always eyes. She sensed it before she saw him.

Enzo Ricci.

He stood near the fountain, a circle of men around him, his voice carrying above the market din. Broad-shouldered, his hair slicked, his shirt too crisp for work. His smile curved, sharp as a blade, though his words dripped honey.

“Friends, neighbours, compaesani!” His arms opened wide as though he embraced the whole piazza. “It is time we give Siena, Firenze, the world itself a festival worth remembering. Ricci vines are strong this year, stronger than ever. And so—” his voice rose, theatrical, “—we will host a festival of our own. A rival feast! Una festa che nessuno dimenticherà!” A feast no one will forget.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Women clutched their shawls tighter, men exchanged glances, and children craned to listen. The words fell like sparks into dry grass.

Sofia’s grip tightened on Isabella’s arm. “Dio mio…” she whispered, her face pale beneath her sun hat. Renato’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing.

Enzo’s gaze swept the crowd, triumphant, until it landed — inevitably, purposefully — on Isabella. His smile sharpened. “And of course, we welcome all to join us. Even our… neighbours.” His eyes flicked toward her basket, toward her Moretti company, his tone laced with mockery.

Whispers rose. Moretti. Ricci. Old wounds resurfacing. Isabella’s cheeks burned, though she lifted her chin, refusing to drop her gaze. Giuliano’s voice echoed inside her — You are my strength.

Giuliano himself arrived then, striding through the market with Biscotto at his heels, the dog barking furiously at Ricci. Heads turned, whispers swelled louder, the air thick with anticipation.

Enzo spread his hands, smiling wider, false benevolence dripping. “Ah, Giuliano! Just in time. Tell me, will Villa delle Rosa join us? Or are you afraid the roses will wilt beside Ricci grapes?”

The crowd tittered nervously, laughter edged with unease. All eyes turned to Giuliano.

He stood tall, his shirt sleeves rolled, the sun glinting off the sweat on his brow. He looked not at Ricci but at the villagers, his voice steady, resonant. “Villa delle Rosa does not chase shadows. Our vines speak for themselves. Our wine speaks for itself. We do not need rivalry to prove our worth.”

A murmur of approval swept through some, though others looked away, fearful of Ricci’s power.

Enzo’s smile faltered, then curved again, sharper. “How noble. How… predictable. But the people want spectacle, Giuliano. They want fireworks, processions, and dances until dawn. Can you give them that? Or will you hide behind your father’s walls while Ricci vines shine brighter?”

The crowd hummed with uncertainty, split between loyalties.

Giuliano’s jaw tightened. He took a step forward, his voice dropping, low and unflinching. “Better silence than arrogance. Better roots than fire that burns too quickly. Be careful, Enzo. Your grapes may sour before your festival ever begins.”

The tension crackled like a drawn bowstring. For a moment, the piazza seemed to hold its breath. Enzo’s smile stiffened, though he bowed theatrically, spreading his arms again. “We shall see, Giuliano. We shall see.”

With that, he turned, his entourage following, their laughter echoing cruelly against the stone walls as they disappeared down the street.

The market exhaled, voices rising once more, though muted, uneasy.

Sofia pressed a trembling hand to her belly. Renato muttered darkly under his breath. Isabella clutched her basket tighter, her heart hammering, but her eyes found Giuliano’s across the square.

His expression was unreadable — not anger, not fear, but something heavier, older. He looked at her for a long moment, as though drawing strength from her presence, then turned away, whistling for Biscotto.

The dog barked, chasing after him, tail wagging, as though none of it mattered. But Isabella knew better. The air in the piazza had shifted. Ricci’s challenge hung heavy, like thunder yet to break.

And for the first time, she realised: the fight for love was not only against Alessandro or America. It was against a world that would test them at every turn.