That's Amore

Chapter 48

The rain tapped gently against the windowpane, the kind of soft, persistent drizzle that soaked the city in shades of gray. Boston blurred beyond the glass—cars crawling through puddles, umbrellas blooming like bruised petals across the streets.

Isabella sat curled on her couch, surrounded by the echo of unread emails and untouched canvases. Her journal lay open beside her, a few abandoned sketches of cypress trees and chapel ruins lining the pages like memories she couldn’t finish.

She hadn’t answered the last letter.

Not Francesca’s gentle poetry.

Not Chiara’s fierce, loyal rage.

Not even the pressed poppy that still rested on her nightstand like a ghost of Giuliano’s hand.

Instead, she’d been trapped in silence—her own punishment, perhaps. Letting regret settle over her like a second skin.

Until her phone rang.

She stared at the screen.

ENZO RICCI

She almost didn’t pick up.

But something—instinct, guilt, hope—made her swipe her thumb across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Finally,” came his voice, rough and unmistakable. “You answer.”

“Enzo.” Her throat tightened.

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “I was going to yell at you. I had a whole speech rehearsed.”

She waited.

“But you sound like someone who’s already been yelled at by life.”

Her lips trembled. “I deserve it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

The silence between them stretched like vineyard rows at dusk.

“I saw him last night,” Enzo said, his tone softening. “Giuliano. He’s a mess.”

Isabella closed her eyes. “I thought... I thought he might’ve moved on.”

“You mean the ex-fiancée?”

Her breath caught.

“She’s not back with him, Isabella. She came to the vineyard once. To talk. About a business proposal. Something about a collaboration for an event in Milan. That’s all.”

“But I saw them—”

“You saw what fear wanted you to see.”

The truth landed heavy in her chest.

“He didn’t chase her,” Enzo continued. “He didn’t ask her to stay. In fact, he spent the rest of that night walking through the vines, alone. Muttering your name like a damn prayer.”

Tears spilled before she could stop them.

“Why didn’t he write?”

“Because he thought you made your choice,” Enzo said simply. “And Giuliano—he’s stubborn. Proud. He wouldn’t beg someone to stay who clearly didn’t want to.”

“I did want to,” she whispered. “I still do.”

Enzo sighed again, but this time it sounded like relief.

“Then what are you doing in that city of ghosts?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was protecting myself. I thought leaving before I got hurt was... safer.”

“Well, look how well that turned out.”

She laughed through the tears. “You’re infuriating.”

“Damn right I am. But I’m also right.”

She rose from the couch and walked to the window. The city lights shimmered like false stars, and the reflection staring back at her was not the woman who painted wild Tuscan landscapes or kissed a boy beneath olive trees.

It was a stranger in heels and doubt.

“Enzo?”

“Yeah?”

“If I come back...”

She hesitated. Her voice trembled like a leaf in wind.

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

A long pause.

Then: “Only one way to find out.”

The call ended.

But the silence left behind was different now—no longer heavy with regret, but electric with possibility.

She stared at her phone, fingers hovering.

And then, for the first time in weeks, she dialed a number.

It rang once. Twice.

Voicemail.

But she spoke anyway.

“Giuliano. It’s me.” Her voice was small, but clear. “I was wrong. About everything. And I... I want to come home. If you’ll have me.”

She ended the call before she lost her nerve.

Then she opened her suitcase.