I’d seen it a hundred times, but seeing it through her eyes made it new.
She turned to me, her voice soft. “Lorenzo, I want to plan some things. I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Uffizi. And the vineyards in Tuscany. And—” She caught herself, almost embarrassed. “Is that okay? I don’t want to assume we have time.”
I reached over and took her hand, lacing our fingers together. “You can plan anything you want. I will make time. But I have a few things I want to share with you, too.”
Her eyes softened. “Like what?”
“You’ll see.” I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Let me surprise you.”
She smiled—that rare, genuine smile that made every dark corner of my past worth it. Then she turned back to the window, and I settled into the seat, content to watch her experience Italy.
The drive to my family’s home in Lake Como took forty minutes. Winding roads, a brief stretch along the coast where the Mediterranean sparkled like shattered sapphires, then up the hills. Houses grew fewer, vegetation thicker. And then we turned down a long gravel drive lined with cypress trees.
Giovanni slowed the car. “Siamo arrivati, Signor Falcone.”
I squeezed her hand. “We’re here.”
The large, ornate iron gates adorned with the Falcone family crest swung open, leading to a view of the entire estate.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
La Casa dei Falcone rose before us like something out of a Renaissance painting. A sprawling villa of honey-colored stone, three stories tall, with ivy climbing the eastern wall. Terracotta roof tiles, aged to a deep russet. A central courtyard with a fountain cascading into a basin, surrounded by lemon trees. Shuttered windows, each one framed by climbing roses. A loggia ran along the second floor, shaded by wisteria that hung in purple cascades.
Behind the villa, the hills rolled on forever, dotted with olive trees and wildflowers.
Giovanni opened the door. “Welcome, Signora.”
She stepped out slowly, as if the ground might crumble beneath her. Her mouth hung open, her eyes drinking in every detail.
“Lorenzo… this is…” She shook her head, lost for words.
I came up behind her, hands on her hips. “It’s been in my family for five generations. We typically only use it in summer, but I thought you deserved it all to ourselves. No family. No obligations. Just us.”
She leaned back into me, her head resting against my chest. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.” I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I led her through the arched entrance of the villa.
Mariella appeared from a side hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun, her round face crinkled with laugh lines, and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing when I was a child.
“Signor Lorenzo.” She beamed, coming forward to kiss both my cheeks. “It’s been too long.”
“Mariella.” I returned the gesture, then turned to Zara. “This is Mariella. She’s been with our family since before I was a baby. She runs this house. If you need anything, anything at all, she’s the one to ask.”
Mariella turned her warm gaze on Zara. “Signora Falcone. Benvenuta. It is an honor to have you here.”
Zara’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you. Please call me Zara.”
Mariella’s smile widened. “Zara. A beautiful name.” She clasped her hands. “I have prepared the master suite. Your bags are already being brought up. If you need anything—a bath, a meal, a tour—you only have to ask.”
“Thank you,” Zara’s voice was thick with emotion.
I squeezed her shoulder. “Mariella will show you to our room. I have to check on something real quick—a work matter I can’t leave unattended.”
I saw the flicker of disappointment cross her face before she could hide it, her shoulders dropping almost imperceptibly.
I hated that look.
