1 - A Decade of Friendship

The late afternoon sun spilled like molten gold over the De Luca estate, painting the marble columns in soft shades of amber. Laughter echoed through the gardens — the kind of laughter that only old friends shared. The De Luca and Bruno families had been inseparable for more than a decade; every summer they gathered in Tuscany, sharing stories, wine, and the comfort of tradition.

Marcello De Luca stood near the balcony that overlooked the vast vineyard stretching into the horizon. At twenty-six, he had grown into the image of quiet dominance — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even in silence. The weight of the De Luca legacy sat easily on him, though the sharp glint in his grey eyes hinted at the darker life he led beyond family gatherings.

Yet here, among laughter and love, he wasn’t the feared heir of the De Luca empire. He was simply Marcello, the protective son, the teasing brother, and the man whose mother never stopped reminding him to eat more at dinner.

Down in the garden, Felicia Bruno sat beneath the shade of a wisteria tree, her sketchbook open on her knees. A soft breeze played with a few strands of her dark hair, and she brushed them away gently, her eyes focused on a sketch of the villa’s fountains. There was a gentleness to her — quiet and graceful — yet beneath it lay a spark of determination that few noticed.

Her family adored her for her innocence, but Marcello had always sensed something deeper when he’d seen her — even years ago, when she was just his sister’s shy friend trailing after Cecelia during their summer visits. He had been twenty then, she sixteen — all long dresses and soft smiles. Time had changed them both, yet the memory of that shy girl sitting at the edge of the garden still clung to him like a faint fragrance.

“Marcello, don’t look so serious, figlio mio,” his mother Lucia teased, appearing beside him with a glass of lemonade. “It’s a gathering, not a business meeting.”

Marcello’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You know I don’t do small talk, Mamma.”

“You should learn,” she said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Especially if you’re to host these dinners someday—with a wife by your side.”

Marcello raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He’d heard that tone before — the same one she’d used when trying to set up Lorenzo years ago. “Not again,” he murmured under his breath, though his mother’s laughter made it clear she’d heard him.

Across the courtyard, Alessandro Bruno was shaking hands with Damian De Luca, their voices booming with warmth. Their wives sat nearby, already discussing something in hushed tones that sounded suspiciously like wedding plans.

And then — Felicia looked up.

Her gaze met Marcello’s for the first time that evening, and the air between them seemed to pause. It wasn’t dramatic or loud — just a small moment, quiet and electric. She smiled — hesitant, polite — the kind of smile that asked for permission before fully blooming.

Marcello inclined his head in acknowledgment, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. Something in that look — something soft and curious — lingered even after she turned away.

“Marcello,” Lorenzo called from behind, breaking his thoughts. “Come, help me carry the wine boxes before Mamma scolds us both.”

Marcello sighed but followed, his eyes drifting once more toward the garden where Felicia sat. He told himself it was nothing — just familiarity. But the way his pulse subtly quickened disagreed.

Dinner that evening stretched into the soft warmth of twilight. The long table was lined with flickering candles, wine glasses, and laughter that carried into the air like music. Cecelia, the ever-dramatic sister, told a story about her latest modeling shoot while Camila, Lorenzo’s wife, tried not to choke on her laughter.

Felicia sat beside her mother, quiet but smiling, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She spoke when asked, listened when others spoke — the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention yet somehow drew it effortlessly.

When the waiter poured more wine into Marcello’s glass, he found his gaze wandering again. Felicia’s laughter, soft and genuine, reached him across the table. She caught him looking this time — and instead of turning away, she met his eyes directly.

He was used to people looking at him with fear or respect — never curiosity. But there it was in her gaze: gentle curiosity, and a kind of warmth that unsettled him in ways he couldn’t name.

“Something wrong, Marcello?” Lorenzo asked, breaking his stare with a grin.

“Nothing,” Marcello said, sipping his wine, though the warmth spreading through him wasn’t from the drink.

Later, as the evening ended, the elders gathered on the terrace, speaking in low, serious tones. Words like family, trust, and future floated in the air. Marcello caught pieces of the conversation but stayed silent. He’d always known his life wasn’t entirely his own — it belonged to the family, to duty, to loyalty.

Yet when his mother’s hand brushed his arm and she whispered, “We’ve been thinking — you and Felicia…”

Something inside him stilled.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked toward the garden, where Felicia stood saying goodbye to Cecelia, her laughter floating like a quiet melody.

Lucia smiled knowingly. “She’s kind, strong, and comes from a family we trust. Think about it, Marcello. Sometimes fate doesn’t ask—it simply unfolds.”

When the Bruno family finally prepared to leave, Felicia turned once more toward the balcony, sensing his gaze before seeing him there.

“Goodnight, Marcello,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the quiet air.

“Goodnight, Little Petal,” he murmured before he could stop himself — the words slipping out like instinct.

She blinked in surprise, her cheeks warming, but she smiled — a small, glowing thing that reached her eyes. Then she turned and walked away, her soft steps fading into the night.

Marcello watched her go, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t know why he’d called her that. Maybe it was because she seemed so delicate — yet he could already tell she had the quiet strength of someone who’d bloom through anything.

Whatever it was, he knew one thing for certain as the night settled over the villa —

this time, fate had whispered something he wasn’t ready to ignore.

✨ End Of The Chapter ✨

I hope you enjoyed it....

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***