The Don's Forbidden Love

Villa Lombardi, Tuscany Tuscany was nothing like Milan. The heat rolled in soft waves across the golden hills; cypress trees stood as silent sentinels along the roads. Sofia Morano rested her head against the car window, the landscape a blur of vineyards and dusty roads. Each turn seemed to take her further away from the controlled, clinical world of her city life and into something she couldn’t yet identify. The estate, a mirage on the hill, was all ancient stone walls wrapped in ivy, flanked with olive groves and the.sweet smell of lavender. The great iron gates opened with a wail, and the black, gleaming car carried her up the long curved driveway. She didn't know Don Emilio Lombardi. Not really. She had heard of him over the years from her father, who had mentioned him to be— a friend, a business partner. “A man of integrity.” Marco Morano had said. Yet there was always something clipped to his tone, a sense that the words not said hung just behind his teeth. And now Sofia was here. For the summer. On his estate... The car slowed down in front of the villa. At the top of the steps, a man waited—a tall, slender figure of darkness. He was dressed in a black suit with a new shirt, but it was how still he was that made her heart jump… perfectly still, as if sculptured by a petulant god. Their eyes met. She recognized him right away. “Miss Morano.” His voice was low and gravelly. “Welcome.” Sofia got out of the car, straightening her skirt. “Don Lombardi,” she returned. Her voice was confident. It had to be. He studied her, those dark eyes unwavering. He let the silence stretch — not rude, not warm. Just… assessing. “You’re younger than what I was thinking,” he murmured at last. “And you are more intimidating.” His lips twitched. “Come inside.” Inside the villa was a cathedral of hushed elegance—vaulted ceilings, antique tapestries, light streaming through skinny windows. She went through rooms she could swear must have once had old oil paintings and antique furniture in them, but none of it was more imposing than the man at her side. “You will be in the east wing. The staff will take care of you.” “I’m not that fragile,” she said, looking to the side. “No,” he agreed. “But Tuscany has teeth.” *** It was that night Sofia roamed the castle alone. The villa appeared to rearrange itself in the dark, changing shapes and sounds. There was the far-off laughter from the back of the house, the tinkle of glass, the faint murmur of an alien tongue. She pushed open a door she hadn't been shown. The room was dark except for the moonlight coming through a pair of sheer curtains. A large desk was against one wall… papers ordered, a half-empty tumbler of something like amber next to a silver-and-gold pistol. Her breath caught. Before she could change her mind, a voice sounded from behind her. “Curious already?” She turned, startled. Emilio was in the doorway, with his jacket off, his white shirt open at the neck and his sleeves rolled up. The shadows made his jaw appear stronger. Dangerous. “I was just exploring,” she blurted. “This isn’t for wandering guests, it’s a room.” He stepped inside. Slowly. “I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she whispered, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from him. Emilio stepped inches away from her, his eyes staring down hers. She felt his heat, the murmur of violence beneath his control. Then, leaning over her, so close she could feel his breath, he closed the desk drawer with a soft click. The tension tighthened sharply between them. Sofia swallowed hard with a pulse. “Goodnight, Don Lombardi.” He didn’t reply. But in the hall she could still feel his gaze resting on her back. *** Just as she shuts her bedroom door, someone slips off into the shadows by the stairwell — watching her. Someone who was not supposed to be in that wing. And certainly not the guest of the Don. *** The door softly shut behind her, and Sofia pressed her back against the wood, exhaling the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her heart drummed in her breast… panic, shame, or something worse, she couldn’t tell which. She wasn’t supposed to be in that room. And yet there was something about it that drew her in… the papers on his desk, the silence of the gun next to the decanter, the faint smell of cedar and whiskey that would linger after him. It wasn’t mere curiosity any longer. It was him. “Stop it,” she scolded herself, peeling off her cardigan. This was no mere romance of the imagination. This was Don Emilio Lombardi, her father's intimate friend. Twice her age. Untouchable. And he had made that perfectly clear in the way he had looked at her… like she was a problem he hadn’t asked for but now found himself having to solve. She tried to sleep. But in the stillness of the night, after midnight, she was awake and couldn’t shake the image of him leaning close. The heat of his body. The warning in his eyes. She got up, barefoot, and went to the tall French doors that led to her private terrace. The vineyard lay beneath the moonlit and ghostly quiet. Owls called in the dark. The air had a scent of rosemary and wine grapes. Then… movement. At the bottom of the balcony steps, at the far edge of the garden, a dark figure emerged from the trees. They did not walk like a servant. Their posture was different. Guarded. Predatory. Heart pounding, she stretched out, squinting into the dark. A cell phone twinkled in the moonlight. Who was that? Before she had time to think, another figure darted into view… bigger, faster. A man emerged from around a tree, gun in his hand, and seized the intruder by the throat in a single, swift act of brutality. No shouting. No struggle. One glimmer of steel and a hint of violence. Sofia placed a hand over her mouth and stumbled backward, leaning against the railing. The silence returned. When she summoned the courage to look again, the garden was empty. *** She didn’t sleep after that. Morning filtered in soft gold through her curtains. She put on a pale linen, trying to calm her racing mind, and made her way to the sunny courtyard where breakfast was laid out under a jasmine-covered pergola. Emilio was already there. Composed, reading a newspaper with an espresso in his hand. Not a hair out of place. Not a trace that hours before, everything transpired in the garden. “Slept well?” he asked without looking up. Sofia sat slowly. “Mostly.” A pause. “I thought I heard… something out… out there last night,” she said, watching him closely. Emilio folded the paper. His eyes finally met hers. “Out here,” he said. “You hear all sorts of things at night. Best not to chase every noise.” “But someone was out there.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “You have no business wandering through the estate at night.” “I wasn’t wandering,” she said, raising her chin. “I saw someone. Two men. One of them had a…” “Enough.” The word was like a knife between them. Neither spoke for a long time. Emilio then reclined, calm once more. "I don't want you scared, Sofia. But you need to know something.” He picked up his espresso, his voice velvet and steel. “This estate is mine. What occurs on my land is my business.” Her fingers wrapped tight around the stem of her glass. He wasn’t denying it. He simply had no regard for what she had seen. *** She roamed the vineyard later that afternoon… with intentional steps. If Emilio didn’t want her to ask questions, there was something to hide. And she was done pretending she didn’t want to know. Sofia followed a line of muddy boot prints in the dusty shed on the other side of the vineyard, covered by a screen of drying grapevines. And next to them… half-buried in straw… a spent bullet casing. She bent down to inspect it, her fingers just grazing the metal… “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of places you don’t belong?” Emilio’s voice breaks the silence behind her. And there was no warmth in this one.