Page 29 of (UN)Bounded

Chapter 11

Isabella Bianchi

Ican definitely see why Gabo loves this place—this town has charm. With cobbled streets, medieval architecture, and even a castle, it’s enchanting. The locals seem to be kind and friendly since every time I approach a booth, I get free samples of whatever they’re offering. But when they realize I’m with Gabo, their smiles turn up a notch. He’s like their town celebrity; everyone hugs him and invites him to take whatever he wants from their stands. The more time I spend with him, the more I believe what he told me earlier today. He might be a billionaire, but he’s not greedy. He grabs fruit and veggies from the stands but never leaves without paying, refusing to take no for an answer.

“So what are we going to do with all this produce?” I ask him as I eye the tote bag he’s carrying.

“Well, I thought I’d cook dinner for us tonight since you’ve cooked plenty this week,” he tells me like it’s the most natural thing to have a billionaire cooking dinner for you.

“I didn’t realize you cooked.”

“I know my way around the kitchen. I just don’t do it often because there’s nothing more boring than cooking for one. Plus, I’m always busy at work or going out for dinner meetings. But your company has me completely motivated to create an amazing meal tonight.” He winks at me, and I fan myself, which causes him to chuckle.

“Come on, let me show you the best gelato in all the Emilia-Romagna region.” Gabo takes my hand, and we enter a tiny gelateria. They have countless options, and I’m drooling just by reading their sign with all the day’s flavor.

“They’ve been making gelato since they graduated from high school. They’re high school sweethearts,” Gabo says as he greets the old couple behind the counter. After lots of hugs and kisses, the lady makes her way to me while opening her arms. I feel such joy at this moment, being in a peaceful and beautiful place with amazing people who haven’t questioned why I am here with Gabo. Now, receiving the same welcoming hugs he’s been getting? I don’t want to think too hard about this, but I wouldn’t mind living here.

“Oh, Signore Gabo. She’s gorgeous,” the lady says as she looks back at him while cradling my face with both hands. “What’s your name?”

“Isabella Bianchi. Nice to meet you,” I tell her, and she gives me a megawatt smile.

“Bianchi, eh? Are you Italian?” I smile at her comment.

“My grandfather migrated from Gazetta to Argentina. That’s where I’m from.” She nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. After patting my cheeks a couple of times, she motions for me to follow her.

“Eat,” she says bluntly. But she’s offering gelato, so there’s no way I’m going to pass it up. When the rich pistachio flavor hits my taste buds, an involuntary moan escapes me, and everyone chuckles.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so good,” I say sheepishly.

“It’s okay, we know. I’m Giuseppe, by the way. And that’s my wife, Maria,” the old man tells me, and I finally have a name to put to their faces.

“Any other flavor you want to try, principessa?” Gabo asks while looking intently at me, and I’m about to melt on the spot. Those brown eyes of his are soulful and have a glint of a promise. A promise of a good time. Clearing my throat, I ask for the coffee-flavored gelato, and Gabo nods. This one tastes like espresso—intense but delicious.

“Okay, yeah. This is the best thing I’ve tried in my life. Can we get a liter to go?” I ask no one in particular, but Giuseppe busies himself getting my order ready.

“I’m glad you like it. I make a mean tiramisu with this gelato,” Gabo informs me as he kisses the top of my head.

“Yum, you’ll never catch me saying no to dessert,” I tell him, and he replies with a chuckle. After paying for the gelato and with the promise of coming back soon, we leave the ice cream shop.

“Anything else we need for dinner tonight?” I ask, looking around the booths to see if there’s anything we missed.

“I don’t think so. Are you ready to go?” Gabo asks, and I’m about to say yes, but on the far side of the plaza, there’s a small booth with carved wooden pieces.

“Can we go see those?” Gabo starts walking toward the booth, my hand in his. I do my happy dance, which earns me a chuckle and a hand squeeze. I’m really enjoying the fact that he lets me be me and even encourages it. Not like the boys I’ve been with in the past, who were too embarrassed whenever I did my little happy dance. Screw them.

As we get closer to the booth, I can see the intricate details of the wood carvings. They are exquisite.

“Gabo, look!” I call him to get closer to the bed board I have in front of me. It’s made of maple wood, so the coloring is honey brown with lighter speckles here and there. What I love most is the pattern. It’s a beautiful set of arabesques, delicate and simple, but as a whole, this piece is a work of art.

“Ugh, I wish I had a place to put this piece here in Italy,” I say in a low voice because the more things I find and see, the less I want to go back to Chile.

“Funny you say that,” Gabo says, startling me. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to use one of the salons on the main floor of the villa for dancing and displaying your paintings. This piece would fit perfectly there.”

“You would do that for me?” I ask, astonished.

“Yeah, it’s a huge villa, and nothing would make me happier than to give you some space for your art.”

I don’t think. I simply jump and lock my legs around his waist. I hear an “oomph” come out of his lungs, but Gabo doesn’t miss a beat. His hands go around my waist, holding me in place.

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