Lines in the Dirt
By the third day, Elena decided the vineyard was trying to kill her.
Her city shoes had sunk in mud, her hair had frizzed in the Tuscan humidity, and her manicured hands now bore tiny scratches from the vines. Worse, every time she stumbled—or mispronounced the name of a tool—the workers tried not to laugh. Luca didn't bother hiding his amusement.
"This," he said, plucking the clippers out of her hand, "is not how you prune a vine. You're strangling it."
Elena glared at him. "I was doing fine until you barged in with your farmer ego."
He leaned close, voice low and mocking. "If you were doing fine, the plant wouldn't look like it survived a war."
"Maybe it has," she shot back. "Surviving you."
The workers pretended to be very focused on their tasks, but Elena swore she heard a muffled snicker. Her cheeks burned.
"I don't need an audience," she snapped. "Why don't you go… milk a cow or something?"
Luca's smirk widened. "Wrong farm, principessa."
Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.
---
Later, in the villa kitchen, Elena plotted her revenge. She found the jar of salt, unscrewed it, and poured a generous handful into the sugar tin. If Luca wanted to humiliate her, she'd return the favor—one ruined coffee at a time.
But the next morning, when she heard a loud spit followed by a string of Italian curses, she realized he'd caught her trick.
He stormed into the dining room, holding the tainted coffee. "Really?" he demanded. "You think this is funny?"
Elena batted her lashes innocently. "Maybe the sugar just… wanted to be salty. Nature works in mysterious ways."
For a moment, he simply stared at her, jaw tight, and she thought he might actually explode. But then he laughed—a deep, genuine sound that caught her completely off guard.
It was the first time she'd heard him laugh since her return. And it unsettled her more than his anger ever had.
---
By midday, their bickering was interrupted. One of the workers, Marco, came running up the dirt path, his face pale.
"Luca! Signore De Santis!" he shouted.
Luca's expression shifted instantly, humor gone. "What is it?"
Marco gestured frantically. "The south field—the vines—they're yellowing. Too fast. Something is wrong with the soil."
Elena froze. Even she knew enough to realize this was serious. Grapevines didn't just yellow overnight.
"Show me," Luca ordered, striding down the path with Marco at his side. Elena followed, heart thudding.
When they reached the south field, her stomach sank. A wide patch of vines stretched out, their leaves dull, curling, fading to yellow. The sight was eerily wrong, as if the life was being drained out of them.
"It could be disease," Marco said grimly. "Or pests."
Luca crouched, inspecting the soil. His brow furrowed, his hand tightening around the earth. "No," he muttered. "This is chemical."
Elena frowned. "Chemical? You mean fertilizer?"
He shook his head. "Not fertilizer. Poison."
The word made her blood run cold. "You're saying someone… did this on purpose?"
He rose to his full height, eyes stormy. "Yes."
---
They gathered the workers in the barn, the atmosphere tense. Everyone muttered theories—accident, sabotage, bad luck. But one name kept surfacing, whispered like a curse: Giovanni Moretti.
Elena leaned toward Marco. "Who's Moretti?"
"A businessman from Florence," Marco explained. "He's been trying to buy the vineyard for years. Your grandmother always refused."
Elena's stomach dropped. Of course. She'd only been here three days, and already the vultures were circling.
"Moretti wants the land," Luca said aloud, confirming her fear. "And he'll ruin it piece by piece if it forces us to sell."
Us. The word caught Elena off guard. She almost reminded him she wasn't part of this place. But the thought of someone destroying Nonna Rosa's vines—her vines now—ignited something fierce inside her.
"So what do we do?" she asked.
Luca's gaze snapped to her. For once, his eyes weren't mocking but calculating, weighing her. "We fight back. We protect the vineyard."
The workers nodded, murmuring in agreement.
But Luca wasn't finished. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "This is why I told you this isn't a game, Elena. You can't waltz in here with city shoes and pretty speeches. This land has enemies. Real ones. If you want to stay, you'll have to fight harder than you ever have in your life."
His words hit her like a challenge, heavy and undeniable.
And though she wanted to retort, to tell him she wasn't afraid, all she managed was a steady breath and: "Then show me how."
For the first time, Luca's expression shifted. Not smug. Not angry. Almost… surprised.
But then he gave a short, sharp nod. "Fine. You'll regret asking."
---
That night, as the villa fell quiet, Elena stood by her window, staring out at the rows of vines under the moonlight. Somewhere in those shadows lurked a threat—an enemy willing to destroy everything her grandmother had built.
And somewhere in those shadows was Luca, probably patrolling the fields, stubborn as ever.
She clenched her fists. She didn't know how long she could survive in this world, with its dirt, sweat, and battles. But one thing was certain: she wouldn't let Luca—or Moretti—decide her fate.
The war had already begun.
---