That day Papa was in event-planner mode, sleeves rolled, eyes bright. Flowers sat exactly where the light caught them. Two bottles breathed on the sideboard like tame animals.
“Bella! Vieni, look.” He swept a hand over the table. “Perfect, no?”
“Perfect,” I echoed, mouth doing the smile while my stomach did parkour.
“I asked Luisa to join us,” he added. “I thought you might be more comfortable with a friend.”
A friend. A witness. “That was thoughtful. Grazie.”
“And,” he said, that boyish light sparking, “there’s someone I want you to meet. I was waiting for the right time.” Pause. “Her name is Sofia.” His face softened. “We’ve decided to marry.”
The floor tilted. The vases, the polished cutlery, the careful napkins—all slid an inch in my vision.
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Congratulations, Papa.”
The word tasted like I’d bitten my tongue. He took my hands. “You’ll love her. She’s kind.” He looked relieved, like the world had returned to him. Good. I wanted that for him. I also wanted to hide under my bed and stay eleven forever.
So that’s what I did. I hid in my room.
A knock on my door, two quick, one careful. Matteo—work shirt, dust at his collar, eyes that read rooms before anyone speaks.
“Your father said I could come up,” he said, staying in the doorway until I nodded. “Wanted to check on you.”
“I’m okay.”
You were with Luisa by the rosemary, heads close, speaking in that quiet, serious way. I can still see her pen in your hand, the way you nodded like you already had a plan that didn’t include me.
“You’re not.” His tone was flat, gentle. “You’ve been falling apart all week.”
“I’m fine, Matteo. You can go.”
“No.” He stepped in and closed the door with a quiet click. “What are you afraid of? Tonight? Your father’s guests?”
My eyes stayed on the hem of my dress, on the tidy stitching that doesn’t come undone.
“Bella, please. Talk to me.” His breath was steady. “Let me help.”
Something inside me cracked like ice. Fear, anger, shame—all the messy colors rushed out, and yes, that sharp green of jealousy too. “You want to help now? Now you want to be there for me?”
He flinched like I’d thrown a stone.
“Where were you months ago?” I said. “Under the fig tree? When I needed someone to fight for me?”
He opened his mouth; closed it. “Bella, you pushed me away.”
“And you just accepted it! One rejection and you gave up. You didn’t fight.” Tears burned. “You didn’t try again. You just let me walk away.”
“You said you were focused on university.”
“And you believed it! You didn’t push. Didn’t question. You stepped back like I wasn’t worth fighting for.” The words tasted bitter, like I was spitting out the sight of you and Luisa bent over her notebook. “If you had fought for me that day—if you’d been braver—maybe none of this would’ve happened!!”
The silence after was a bruise. He took one slow breath.
“You’re blaming me,” he said quietly. “For whatever happened in Tuscany.”
I couldn’t look at him.
“I’m a gardener’s son,” he went on, controlled. “You’re Alessandro Moretti’s daughter. You said no. I thought respect meant listening.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve respected me less and fought harder!”
Cruel. Unfair. It left a taste I didn’t want. And still the thought pricked: go ask Luisa what to do, since she always has the answers.
He blinked once. Hurt, then nothing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed. I’m sorry I didn’t fight.” He turned to the door.
“Matteo—”
He stopped with his hand on the handle. “I’ll still be watching tonight,” he said. “Even if I failed you.” Then he left, careful and quiet.
At five o’clock Luisa arrived. Right after her a sleek black car rolled up. Ferraro unfolded from the back seat, handsome, confident, the sun itself apparently on retainer. He embraced Papa like a brother. His eyes flicked to my window.
Also: a second car—smaller, cheerful blue. A woman stepped out, dark hair, linen dress, nervous hope in her hands. She hugged Papa and held on like she meant it. He laughed in a way I hadn’t heard since Mama died. Something in me cracked again—in a different place.
“Bella!” Papa called. “Come down!”
Luisa squeezed my fingers. “I’m beside you.”
In the entrance hall, Ferraro took me in like a catalog item. “Isabella,” he said, that smooth professional cadence. “You look lovely.” His hand extended. I took it. His grip went firm, possessive, a small tug drawing me close for cheek kisses he held too long. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured where Papa couldn’t hear.
“You remember Luisa,” I said, stepping back.
“Of course.” His smile didn’t reach anything important.
“Bella,” Sofia said, voice gentle. “I’m so happy to meet you.” Her hands were cool, steady.
We moved to the terrace. The five of us took our places: Papa at the head, Sofia at his right, me at his left, Luisa beside me, Ferraro opposite like a polite star. Papa stood with his glass. “To Bella’s future,” he said, eyes wet, “and to the man who helped shape it.” The toast landed like a stone in my ribs.
“To Isabella,” Ferraro added smoothly. “She is… special.” His foot found mine under the table, pressed. I jerked back. When Papa looked away, Ferraro’s eyes pinned me—warning, promise, leash. He covered my hand while passing bread; his palm lingered. “The dark hair suits you,” he murmured. “More sophisticated.”
There was a brief silence, broken by Sofia’s light laugh. “Well, soon we’ll all have new phases to celebrate.”
Papa’s face softened. He reached for her hand. “Yes. We haven’t announced it properly yet, but—” He cleared his throat, bashful as a boy. “Sofia and I will be getting married.”
Luisa blinked, surprise flickering into a shy smile. “Congratulations,” she said quietly.
I raised my glass automatically, the movement mechanical. “I’m happy for you, Papa,” I managed.
Ferraro’s gaze met mine over the rim of his wine. Talk swirled around me—wedding plans, vineyard gossip, polite laughter—while under the table, Ferraro’s thumb traced a small, private circle on my knee.
After dinner Papa beamed. “Caffè?” he offered. Ferraro stood, gracious. “Alessandro, if you don’t mind,” he said, “may I borrow Isabella for a short walk? University matters.”
Papa looked delighted. “Of course! Sofia and I will set the coffee.”
“I’ll join,” Luisa said, already pushing back her chair.
“Private academic matters,” Ferraro replied, the smile sharp enough to cut. Luisa froze, anger flaring in her eyes. She sat again, deliberately, like a spring bent and waiting.
Ferraro’s hand settled on the small of my back—guiding, claiming. We stepped off the terrace, down the stone stairs, into the garden where shadows make their own choices.
“Don’t be long!” Papa called, arranging cups with his fiancée, joy softening his edges. The sight hurt. I didn’t want to steal it.
“We’ll take our time,” Ferraro said lightly, steering me deeper between hedges, past the fig tree, toward the darker paths. Ferraro’s fingers pressed harder. “Finally,” he breathed, satisfaction curling the word. “Alone.”