Chapter 17 - The Shore of Taormina
The Mediterranean breeze was warm and carried the sweet scent of lemon blossoms, wild rosemary, and sea salt.
The Moretti family had arrived at Villa Serena in Taormina three days ago. Perched high on the cliffs of eastern Sicily, the estate was a paradise of ancient stone arches, vibrant bougainvillea, and private staircases leading down to secluded turquoise coves.
For the first time in his life, Roman was completely disconnected from the corporate world. His encrypted phones were locked in a safe inside the villa; he wore casual linen shirts and trousers, spending his mornings walking through the vineyards with Owen, teaching him about the soil, the vines, and the centuries-old history of their ancestors.
Hannah stood on the wide stone terrace of the master suite, wearing a flowing white sundress. She watched the sun dip low over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange, violet, and soft pink.
Below on the lawn, Uncle Richard—who had flown in with them to enjoy the Mediterranean summer—was sitting on a stone bench, patiently showing Owen how to sketch the coastal landscape in watercolor. Clara was fast asleep in her crib inside the cool, stone-walled bedroom.
Roman stepped out onto the terrace behind Hannah, barefoot, holding two glasses of chilled white wine produced from the villa’s own vineyard.
He handed a glass to Hannah, stepping close and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" Roman murmured softly into her ear.
Hannah rested her head back against his chest, watching the waves crash gently against the rocks far below. "I was thinking about the first night I met you, Roman. In that cold, dark emergency room in Chicago. You were bleeding, surrounded by men with guns, your eyes so cold and guarded."
Roman quieted for a moment, his arm tightening around her possessively. "I was a dead man walking back then, Hannah. I lived in a world where trust was a weakness and love was a vulnerability."
"And now?" Hannah turned in his arms, looking up into his dark, soulful eyes.
"Now, love is my strength," Roman said, his voice thick with unfeigned emotion. "You healed more than my physical wounds that night, Hannah. You healed my soul. You showed me that a man isn't defined by the empire he inherits or the enemies he defeats—he’s defined by the love he protects."
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Hannah lifted her hand, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jawline. "We built a good life, Mr. Moretti."
"We’re just getting started, Mrs. Moretti," Roman smiled, leaning down to capture her lips in a deep, passionate kiss as the Sicilian sun set into the sparkling sea.
