Chapter Eight – The Rossi Legacy
Elena never liked the Rossi gatherings. They weren't about togetherness, not really. They were about power, appearances, and who could whisper the cruelest gossip behind the prettiest smile.
The Rossi villa was grander than her grandmother's farmhouse, with chandeliers dripping crystal light onto polished marble floors. Tonight, it was filled with cousins she hadn't seen in years, uncles who still measured her worth by the last name she carried, and aunts who eyed her like a misplaced ornament.
As she walked into the grand hall, all eyes turned. "The prodigal granddaughter," someone muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her aunt Caterina swept forward first, a vision of silk and perfume. "Elena, darling! Back from the city to play farmer?" The words dripped sweetness but carried a sting.
"I'm here to manage what my father left behind," Elena replied evenly.
That silenced the room for a heartbeat. Mention of her father was like lighting a match in a room soaked in gasoline.
Uncle Vittorio, tall and sharp as a blade, raised his glass. "Ah, yes. The man who abandoned us all for Wall Street and left us to clean his mess."
Elena's jaw tightened. She had been expecting this. They never forgave her father for leaving Tuscany—or for squandering what should have been Rossi wealth.
"My father made mistakes," she said carefully. "But I am not him."
A scoff came from the corner. Her cousin Marco, already three glasses of wine in. "Blood doesn't lie, Elena. You'll leave just like he did. City air doesn't stay out of the lungs."
Elena's grandmother Rosa, seated in her carved chair at the head of the hall, tapped her cane sharply against the floor. The sound silenced them all.
"She stayed," Rosa said firmly, eyes burning into Elena. "When every one of you was too busy squabbling for scraps, she stayed."
It was rare for Rosa to defend her so openly, and for a moment, Elena's throat tightened. But the reprieve didn't last.
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Dinner was a battlefield in disguise. Courses of pasta and roasted lamb paraded out of the kitchen, but the real feast was in the verbal sparring.
Aunt Caterina leaned close enough for only Elena to hear. "Do you know why your cousin Isabella despises you so much?"
Elena kept her eyes on her plate. "Enlighten me."
Caterina's smile was thin. "Because your father was supposed to marry her mother. But instead, he ran off with your mother. A scandal the Rossi name still carries like a stain."
Elena's fork froze mid-air. She had never heard that version before.
"And you wonder," Caterina continued, sipping her wine, "why you'll never be truly accepted here."
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After dinner, Elena slipped onto the balcony to catch her breath. The night air was cool, the stars scattered like spilled diamonds above the hills.
She thought about her father—how little she really knew of the man beyond fragments of family bitterness and Rosa's guarded stories. Did he ever regret leaving? Did he ever think of her when the city lights drowned the stars?
"Elena," a voice called softly.
It was Isabella. Perfect, polished Isabella, with her flawless curls and eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"Enjoying the show?" Isabella asked, leaning against the balcony rail.
"If by show you mean my public execution, then yes," Elena replied dryly.
Isabella's laugh was humorless. "You think you're better than us. You come back from the city, waving your degrees and big ideas, and suddenly you're the savior of the Rossi name?"
Elena turned to face her. "I didn't come back for the Rossi name. I came back for the vineyard."
Isabella's smile turned icy. "The vineyard is the Rossi name. You can't separate them. And no matter how hard you try, you'll always be the daughter of the man who betrayed us."
Her words lingered like smoke long after she walked away.
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Later that night, Elena found Rosa alone in the library, a single lamp illuminating stacks of dusty ledgers.
"Nonna," Elena whispered, "why didn't you ever tell me about the marriage arrangement? About Isabella's mother?"
Rosa's eyes softened, but her voice carried its usual steel. "Because some stories are poison. And once you drink them, you can't spit them out."
"I deserve to know."
Rosa studied her, then nodded slowly. "Yes. Your father was promised to another. But he loved your mother instead. And love is rarely forgiven in families like ours."
Elena sat heavily in the armchair. "So I'm paying for their choices."
Rosa reached for her hand. "Every generation pays for the one before. But you—" she squeezed Elena's fingers—"you have the chance to break the chain."
Elena stared into the firelight, heart heavy but determined. She wasn't her father. She wasn't a scandal to be whispered about at dinner tables. She would make her own legacy.
But as the night deepened, she couldn't shake Isabella's words. In the Rossi family, love wasn't just personal. It was political. And Elena was standing in the crossfire of a feud older than herself.
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