Page 35 of Shattered Oath
The car arrived precisely on time. A sleek black sedan with a driver who spoke limited English but smiled warmly and opened the door for me like I was someone important.
We drove south, leaving Milan's gray sprawl behind. The landscape shifted gradually—industrial outskirts giving way to small towns, then farmland, then the rolling hills I remembered from previous visits. Tuscany had a way of overwhelming me every time. The golden light. The cypress trees stand like dark exclamation points against the sky. The sense that time moved differently here, slower and more deliberate.
I'd considered moving here once, years ago. A fleeting fantasy during a particularly stressful fashion week. I'd imagined buying a crumbling farmhouse, learning to make pasta from scratch, trading deadlines for olive harvests and quiet mornings.
The fantasy had lasted approximately forty-eight hours before reality reasserted itself. I wasn't built for stillness. My ambition wouldn't let me rest.
But visiting was different. Visiting, I could handle.
The vineyard appeared around a bend in the road, and it caught my breath.
Old stone buildings covered in ivy, their walls the color of honey in the afternoon light. Rows of vines climbed thesurrounding hills in perfect parallel lines, leaves bright green against the rich brown earth. A wide terrace overlooked the valley below, set with wooden tables and chairs that looked like they'd been there for generations.
And Matteo, standing at the entrance, waiting.
He fit here. That was my first thought. He belonged to this landscape in a way that seemed almost genetic, as if the same soil that grew his grapes had grown him, too. He stood with his hands in his pockets, relaxed, unhurried, watching the car approach with a small smile on his face.
He was wearing a white linen shirt, untucked and casual, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing strong forearms. Dark trousers that fit him well. Simple leather shoes, worn soft with use. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd been running his hands through it, and his skin was golden from the sun.
The car stopped. I stepped out, suddenly nervous for reasons I couldn't name.
"Bella." He crossed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug. Warm, brief, and comfortable. The scratch of stubble against my cheek when he kissed it, the solid warmth of his chest against mine felt overwhelming. "You look beautiful. Tuscany agrees with you already."
"I just got here."
"Tuscany works fast." He stepped back, still smiling. "Come. Let me show you everything."
We walked through the main building first—a converted farmhouse that served as both his home and the vineyard's tasting room. Stone floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Wooden beams overhead, dark with age. Windows that looked out over the valley like paintings, each view perfectly composed.
"My great-grandfather built this place," Matteo said, running his hand along the wall. "Well, not built. It was already herewhen he bought it. But he made it what it is. Planted the first vines. Dug the cellar with his own hands." He glanced at me, something vulnerable in his expression. "It's been in my family for four generations now."
"That's incredible. To have that kind of legacy."
"It's a lot of pressure, actually." He laughed softly. "Every bottle I make, I think about him. Whether he'd approve. Whether I'm honoring what he started."
"I'm sure he would be proud."
"I hope so." He pushed open a heavy wooden door and gestured for me to follow. "Come. I'll show you where the real work happens."
The cellar was cool and dim, a welcome relief from the afternoon heat. It was lined with oak barrels that stretched back into shadow, row after row of them. The smell hit me immediately—earth and fruit and something older, deeper. The smell of time being patient, of transformation happening in darkness.
"This is where the magic happens," Matteo said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "Or science, depending on who you ask. I prefer magic."
"How long does the wine stay down here?"
"Depends on the type. Some, just a few months. Others, years." He ran his hand along one of the barrels. "This one has been aging for three years. It won't be ready for another two."
"Five years for a single bottle of wine."
"Good things take time." He looked at me, and something flickered in his eyes. "Most things worth having do."
The air between us felt thick suddenly, charged. I looked away first, pretending to examine the barrels.
We emerged back into the sunlight and walked through the vineyard itself. Matteo explained the different grape varieties, the soil composition, the way the hills created microclimates that affected each section differently. He spoke with his hands, animated, passionate, occasionally lapsing into Italian when English failed to capture exactly what he meant.
"You really love this," I said.
"I do." He stopped walking and looked out over the vines, his expression softening. "When I was young, I wanted to leave. See the world. Do something important." He smiled ruefully. "I thought winemaking was small. Provincial. Not enough for someone with ambition."
