Wine and War
The next morning, Elena swapped her heels for a pair of muddy work boots she found by the villa's back door. They were two sizes too big, clearly abandoned by some worker years ago, but she shoved her feet into them anyway. If Luca thought she'd quit after yesterday, he was in for a surprise.
When she arrived at the south field, he was already there, crouched low, examining the vines. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, his hands buried in the earth like he could read secrets in the soil.
She cleared her throat. "I came to help."
He didn't look up. "Go back to the villa."
"I said I came to help," she repeated firmly, stepping closer. "Unless you think I can't handle getting my hands dirty."
Finally, he glanced up, eyes narrowing. "You'll slow me down."
"Or," she countered, crossing her arms, "I'll save you from thinking brute force is the only solution."
Something flickered in his gaze—annoyance, but also curiosity. Slowly, he rose to his feet. "Fine. Let's see what you can do, principessa."
---
For the next hour, Luca explained how to check the vines for damage, pointing out details Elena never would have noticed: the texture of the leaves, the smell of the soil, even the angle of the morning sun. His voice was rough, patient only when absolutely necessary, but she absorbed every word.
When she offered her thoughts—suggesting soil tests, even a partnership with a university agricultural program—he surprised her by not dismissing them outright.
"You think some professor in Florence can fix what's happening here?" he asked skeptically.
"Not alone," she admitted. "But data doesn't lie. Combine science with your experience, and maybe we'll find the answer faster."
He studied her for a long moment, as though seeing her differently. Then he gave a reluctant nod. "Maybe."
It wasn't much, but it felt like a victory.
---
By midday, they retreated to the villa's veranda, where the heat shimmered off the stone walls. Elena set her laptop on the table, fingers flying over the keys.
"What are you doing now?" Luca asked, sipping water from a glass bottle.
"Research." She didn't look up. "I'm checking soil restoration techniques, suppliers, alternative pesticides… and," her lips curved faintly, "I'm drafting a marketing strategy."
He nearly choked. "Marketing?"
She grinned. "Yes, farmer. If Moretti is trying to ruin us in the fields, we fight him in the market. Build a name so strong that no one would dare touch Villa Rossi wines."
Luca set his bottle down slowly. "You think a fancy brochure will scare Moretti?"
"Not a brochure." She turned the screen toward him. "A brand. Social media campaigns, online sales, international recognition. We make Villa Rossi bigger than anything he can buy."
For once, Luca didn't immediately argue. He stared at the glowing screen, then at her determined face, his expression unreadable.
"You really believe you can do that," he murmured.
She held his gaze. "Yes. With your wine and my strategy, yes."
Something shifted between them then—an unspoken acknowledgement that they might, against all odds, make a formidable team.
---
The moment shattered when Marco appeared, breathless. "Luca! Elena! You need to see this."
They rushed back to the south field. A delivery truck stood parked on the dirt road, men unloading large sacks marked with Moretti's company logo.
"What the hell is this?" Luca demanded, storming toward them.
"Delivery for Villa Rossi," one worker replied, looking confused. "Fertilizer order. Signed by…" He glanced at the clipboard. "…Elena Rossi."
Elena's blood ran cold. "That's a lie. I never signed anything."
The man shrugged helplessly. "Then someone forged it."
Luca grabbed the clipboard, scanning the forged signature. His jaw tightened. "He's trying to poison us again. Slowly. Quietly."
Anger roared through Elena. She wasn't going to let Moretti reduce her grandmother's legacy to dust.
"Send it back," she said sharply. "Every last bag. And make sure every supplier in the region knows we don't take Moretti's deliveries."
The workers hesitated, glancing at Luca. He gave a curt nod. "Do it."
Elena exhaled, heart racing. For the first time since she'd arrived, she felt like she belonged here—not as a guest, but as someone who had a say.
Luca studied her, his gaze softer than usual. "Not bad, principessa. Maybe you're good for more than coffee sabotage."
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Careful, farmer. You might actually start respecting me."
For a fleeting second, his mouth curved too. And standing there in the heat of the Tuscan sun, surrounded by vines and defiance, Elena realized something dangerous:
She didn't just want to win this war.
She wanted to win it with him.