Fire and Vine
The morning sun poured through the villa's tall windows, flooding the kitchen with gold. Elena Rossi sat at the wooden table, clutching her coffee cup like it was a weapon. She had not slept well. Her grandmother's condition—that ridiculous one-year sentence—played on repeat in her head all night.
She had half a mind to pack her bags and return to New York that very moment. But then she remembered Luca's smug expression, his quiet certainty that she'd fail, and something inside her refused to give him that satisfaction.
No. If she left, it would be on her terms, not his.
She was still glaring at her coffee when Luca walked in. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat, his hair pushed back as if he'd been working in the fields since dawn. Without so much as a glance her way, he strode to the counter, filled a glass of water, and downed it in one breath.
"You're up late," he muttered, setting the glass down.
"Excuse me?" Elena blinked at him.
"The workers start at five. It's nearly eight." His tone was casual, but the jab was deliberate.
She narrowed her eyes. "Not all of us are obsessed with dirt and grapes."
He turned then, one eyebrow arched, his mouth tugging into the faintest smirk. "This 'dirt and grapes' has fed your family for generations. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"
Elena slammed her cup down harder than necessary. "You think you know everything about me, Luca, but you don't. I didn't ask for any of this. And frankly, I don't want it."
"Then leave." His voice was sharp now, cutting the morning air. "No one's begging you to stay."
Her pulse kicked up. God, he was infuriating. Broad-shouldered, confident, every word dripping with challenge. He stood there like he owned not just the kitchen, but the entire world outside it.
"I'll stay," she said through gritted teeth. "I'll do exactly what Nonna asked. One year. And I'll prove I can handle it just fine without your… lectures."
His eyes darkened, like a storm rolling in. "You'll last a week."
"Watch me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. His jaw tightened, and hers did too. Then he turned, grabbing a set of keys from the counter.
"Fine," he said, his voice cold. "Come with me."
"Where?" she demanded.
"To see what you're supposedly inheriting."
---
The drive through the vineyard was both breathtaking and suffocating. Rows of vines stretched across rolling hills, their leaves glittering in the sun. Elena wanted to admire the beauty, but Luca's presence beside her ruined everything. He drove the old truck with one hand on the wheel, his forearm flexing as the vehicle bounced over dirt paths. He didn't look at her once.
"So," Elena said, folding her arms, "is this where you bring all your victims? To scare them with endless green fields until they beg for mercy?"
"Victims?" he snorted. "You flatter yourself. You're not important enough to be my victim."
Her jaw dropped. "You're unbelievable."
"No," he said smoothly, "I'm realistic. You've never worked a day in these fields. Do you even know how long it takes for a vine to bear fruit?"
Elena blinked. "I don't know, two months?"
His laugh was sharp, humorless. "Three years. That's how much patience this land demands. That's what your grandmother understood. But you—" his eyes flicked to her, quick and piercing—"you're just passing through."
Heat crawled up her neck. He was right, of course. But she refused to admit it.
"I may not know vineyards," she snapped, "but I do know business. Marketing, sales, branding—the things that actually keep a place afloat in the modern world. While you're busy talking to grapes, someone has to talk to customers."
He shot her a sidelong glance, and for the first time, she thought she saw surprise flicker in his eyes. Then his mouth curved into that infuriating half-smile again.
"Talking to customers, huh? Do they swoon at your charm, Elena Rossi?"
"Probably more than they swoon at your attitude."
The truck jolted to a stop. Luca killed the engine and stepped out without another word. Elena followed, muttering under her breath about arrogant farmers.
They stood before a stretch of vineyard where workers moved methodically between rows, trimming, tying, inspecting leaves. The air smelled of earth and sun.
"This," Luca said, his tone suddenly solemn, "is what you're responsible for now. Hundreds of vines. Dozens of workers. Generations of tradition." He turned to her, his gaze fierce. "It's not a toy, Elena. It's not some side project you can abandon when you're bored."
Something in his words sank deep, tugging at the guilt she tried to bury. She remembered her grandmother's hands, wrinkled and stained from years of harvest, gently guiding her through the vines as a child.
But before she could respond, Luca leaned closer, his voice dropping low. "So tell me. Are you here to honor her, or to ruin everything she built?"
Her heart stumbled in her chest. For a second, his nearness unsettled her—the heat of his body, the intensity in his eyes. She wanted to look away, but couldn't.
Then anger surged back, her shield against everything he made her feel.
"I'm here," she said firmly, lifting her chin, "to prove you wrong."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval. More like the recognition of a war declared.
"Then welcome to the battlefield," Luca murmured.
And just like that, the fight between them was only beginning.