That's Amore

Chapter 43

The sun rose late over the vineyard that morning, as if reluctant to begin the day.

The fields were still damp with silver dew, leaves trembling under the gentle weight of the season’s turn. Giuliano stood at the edge of the vines, boots in the soft earth, eyes scanning the horizon with a tension he couldn’t name.

Something was wrong.

He had woken early, heart unsettled, expecting the smell of her coffee mingling with the usual scent of rosemary and bread. But the kitchen had been still. No steam on the stovetop. No faint music humming from her phone. No biscuit crumbs trailing from Biscotto’s greedy paws.

Just quiet.

A hollow kind.

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Biscotto whined.

He was pacing, confused, nose nudging the door of the guest room with persistent, mournful whimpers.

Giuliano followed him there slowly. The bed was made. Too perfectly.

No sketches on the desk. No scarf on the back of the chair. No laughter lingering in the walls.

Just stillness.

His chest tightened.

He turned and moved briskly toward the kitchen. That’s when he saw it.

The note.

Folded beneath a jar of honey she always said was “too golden to be real.”

His hands trembled as he picked it up. The paper was soft, the ink slightly smudged. Her handwriting was delicate, curling like vines. He read it once. Then again. And again.

I don’t know how to stay when I feel like I’ve already been let go.

He dropped into the nearest chair.

The silence around him rang loud—as a bell struck in a cathedral.

He didn't cry.

But his jaw clenched until it ached, and he pressed the note to his chest like he could absorb the last of her warmth through the paper.

“Dio,” he whispered. “No.”

He stood, suddenly desperate, as if he could catch her still.

He rushed to the vineyard gates, scanning the road, calling out her name as if the hills might answer.

“Isabella!”

Only the wind responded, brushing through the olive trees with cruel gentleness.

Francesca found him there moments later, her apron still dusted with flour.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, just handed her the note.

Her eyes grew wet as she read it. But she didn’t scold. Didn’t sigh. Only said, “She loved you.”

“I know,” Giuliano rasped. “And I let her believe I didn’t.”

“She needed a reason to stay,” Francesca said gently. “You gave her every reason to leave.”

The words landed like stones.

“I thought if I loved her quietly, she’d understand,” he whispered. “That she’d just… stay.”

“Quiet love is still love,” she said, touching his shoulder, “but sometimes, Giuliano… the heart needs to hear it out loud.”

That evening, he sat by the vineyard wall where she used to sketch, her absence more present than any photograph could capture.

He held a bottle of the rosso she loved—had even helped bottle just a week ago—and poured two glasses anyway.

One for memory.

One for regret.

Biscotto curled beside him with a soft sigh, ears twitching toward the road like he too was still waiting.

Giuliano lifted his glass to the twilight.

“To the girl who painted my world brighter,” he said softly.

He drank.

And the wind whispered her name through the vines.