Chapter Seven – Roots of Fire
Sunday mornings in Tuscany carried their own kind of rhythm. Church bells tolled in the distance, children's laughter rose from cobbled streets, and the air was thick with the smell of baking bread.
Elena sat on the veranda of the villa, sipping strong espresso. She should have felt peace here, but peace never came easily. Not with her family's shadows pressing at every turn.
Her grandmother, Rosa, had been quiet all morning, pretending to tend her roses. Finally, she broke the silence.
"You remind me of your father," Rosa said, her voice gravelly from age and cigarettes.
Elena stiffened. Her father was a subject avoided in the Rossi household. A man who had fled responsibility, who'd abandoned the vines to chase a glittering life in America.
"I'm not like him," Elena replied too quickly.
Rosa's sharp eyes caught the tremor in her voice. "Aren't you? He said the same thing when he left. That he would prove himself away from here. That he was more than soil and grapes. And look where he ended."
Elena clenched her cup tighter. Her father had died before she could ever confront him about those choices. But his ghost lingered—every time she was accused of being too city, too ambitious, too restless.
"I stayed," she whispered. "Even when every part of me wanted to run."
Her grandmother's lined hand covered hers. "Maybe that's the difference. Or maybe it's just the beginning of the same story."
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Across the valley, Luca's day had begun with shouting.
His younger brother, Matteo, stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the pots rattled on their hooks.
"You think I want this life, Luca?!" Matteo's voice carried across the courtyard. "Chained to the vines like a mule, while you play the martyr?"
Luca followed, anger simmering beneath his skin. "This vineyard is all we have, Matteo. It's what our mother bled for."
Matteo spun on him, eyes blazing. "And what about what I want? Maybe I don't want to live in your shadow. Maybe I don't want to die here like her, in debt and dirt."
The words struck like a blade. Luca grabbed his brother's arm. "Careful."
Matteo shook free. "No, you're the one who should be careful. You're so busy carrying her ghost that you can't see me alive in front of you."
With that, he stormed off toward the village, leaving Luca standing there, jaw tight, fists clenched.
It wasn't the first time they'd fought. But today, it felt like a fracture that might never heal.
---
By late afternoon, Elena found Luca in the barn, hammering a fence post with more force than necessary.
"Bad morning?" she asked carefully.
His glare softened when he saw it was her. "My brother thinks I've chained him here."
Elena tilted her head. "Have you?"
The question struck him harder than he expected. "I'm trying to keep us afloat. If he leaves…" He stopped, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. I can't lose this place."
She studied him, then spoke quietly. "You sound like my grandmother. She thinks I'll turn into my father. That running away is in my blood."
Luca leaned on the hammer, catching his breath. "And will you?"
Elena swallowed. She thought of boardrooms, glass towers, the thrill of power. She thought of late nights in New York, never enough time, never enough family. And she thought of Rosa's tired hands and the vineyard stretching beneath the sun.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I don't want to be haunted by his choices forever."
Their eyes met, heavy with unspoken truths.
---
That night, the villa hosted dinner—an old Rossi tradition. The long table was crowded with aunts, cousins, neighbors, and the ever-present tension of family under one roof.
Elena sat between Rosa and her cousin Isabella, who wasted no time in stirring the pot.
"So," Isabella said with a sly smile, "the city girl plays farmer now? How long before the novelty wears off?"
Elena forced a smile. "Long enough to see what it really takes to keep this place alive."
Across the table, Matteo muttered, "She sounds like Luca."
Everyone laughed, but Elena caught the edge in his tone—and the way Luca stiffened.
Family dinners, she realized, were less about food and more about fault lines. The Rossi clan thrived on loyalty and rivalry in equal measure.
Halfway through the meal, Rosa raised her glass. "To family—flawed as we are, stubborn as we come, but blood all the same."
Glasses clinked, but Elena noticed the cracks: Matteo drinking too quickly, Luca staring at his plate, Isabella smirking.
And in that fragile moment, Elena knew the vineyard's greatest battles weren't with rival businessmen or dying vines. They were right here, at this table—old wounds, unspoken resentments, and love tangled with duty.
---
Later, as the guests dispersed, Elena stepped into the cool night air. She found Luca already outside, smoking in silence.
"Your family is…" She searched for the word.
"Complicated," he finished for her, exhaling smoke.
She smiled faintly. "So is mine."
For once, they didn't argue. They just stood together, two people bound not by vines, but by the weight of blood and the ghosts it carried.
And though neither would admit it, in the middle of family wars, they had found a strange, fragile ally in each other.
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