Page 52 of Velvet Chains

VINCENZO

The time between that fight with Antonio and when I finally got to the hospital felt like years. All I could think bout was Isabelle.

Elia must have seen the longing in my eyes because he let me go and promised that his men would take care of the bodies. The only body to be taken back to Italy was Antonio's, proof for the Cupola that he was finally gone.

I rushed to the hospital, and told her everything and she smiled and squeezed my hand tightly. I was finally able to relax.

After a few days, Isabelle was finally discharged. I was finally going to meet her parents. I wanted to ask her to marry me again, this time not for the media and the Cupola, but because I could not imagine life without her.

I stood outside the door, adjusting my tie for what felt like the hundredth time. Meeting my girlfriend’s parents for the first time was a big deal, and I was determined to make a good impression. In a bid to make sure I came off well, Isabelle had told me a lot about them, but I couldn't shake off the nervousness. I knew that I had to keep my nerves under wraps. I reminded myself that Isabelle and I were going to be a family, nothing would change that.

“Remember, my parents don't know about our relationship or engagement. They are not active on social media and do not read the tabloids. I told them I was staying in Italy to be by Sarah’s side after her breakup, and that I was working remotely,” she reminded me and I nodded in response.

She rang the doorbell.

“Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, you have a lovely home.” I said to break the ice, after the first greetings and introductions.

Isabelle's mother, Lisa was a friendly woman who greeted me with a warm smile and a hug. Her father, Jeff, was much less friendly, his firm handshake and piercing gaze making me feel under scrutiny. And I probably was.

I didn't blame him. From what he could tell, his daughter suddenly brought a man home and it would only get worse when he found out that she was pregnant.

Over dinner, they asked me about my life in Sicily, and I regaled them with stories of my childhood, my family's vineyard, and my passion for cooking. They listened intently. I could sense their curiosity, but I made sure to only tell them the clean side of my life. If I told them what I really did for a living, I knew I wouldn't be welcome in their home anymore.

“Really? Your family has a vineyard.” Lisa asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Yes we do. It's been in our family for generations. I spent most of my childhood playing among the vines, watching the grapes grow and change with the seasons."

"That sounds nice. Did you do any of the manual labor or did you have workers to do it?" Jeff interjected, still with a frown on his face. He watched me intently, as if trying to spot any inconsistencies.

"Oh, yes, I worked. My parents wouldn't have had it any other way. Every year, our whole family would pitch in to help bring in the grapes. It was hard work, but we loved it." I said.

"So you're saying you can make wine, right? You would be great to have around the house." Lisa asked, making everyone laugh.

“Mom!” Isabelle interrupted, with a roll of her eyes.

“It's okay, your mom's right. I can make wine. I developed a deep love for wine, of course, but also for cooking and the land itself. I always knew I wanted to stay connected to my roots." I said, however, at the look on Jeff's face, I wondered if I had said something wrong.

“So you're saying that one day I might get a call that you're taking my daughter to Italy forever?” He asked, his displeasure plain to see.

“Dad, we haven't talked about moving yet. But even if we move, we'll fly back to visit a lot.” Isabelle jumped in, rescuing me from that dangerous inquiry.

I let out a small sigh of relief because her father was right, we would have to move to Italy.

As the evening wore on, Lisa excused herself to clear the table, and she pulled Isabelle along, leaving a still stern-looking Jeff and I alone in the living room. He motioned for me to sit beside him, his expression serious.

“Vincenzo, money has never mattered much to me. I don't care if you have a lot of it or a little. The only thing I care about is how you treat my daughter.” He started. "What are your intentions with my daughter?" His words were straightforward and I could tell he wanted an equally straightforward response.

I met his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "Sir, from the moment I met Isabelle, I knew she was special. I want to spend the rest of my life making her happy. I want to marry her. Actually, I was hoping to get your blessing before I would even propose."

His expression softened, a hint of a smile on his face made him look more welcoming.

"It's a bit old school to ask me," he said, sounding amused. "You have my blessing, Vincenzo. But remember, you have to ask her, not me. My daughter is strong-willed. You must always respect and support her, and if for any reason you don't, I will bring her back home."

I nodded, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. "I promise, sir. I know and love her for who she is, and I will always cherish and honor her." I couldn’t hold back my smile. Is this what joy felt like?

Isabelle and her mother returned with cups of coffee, and slices of cake for dessert and the conversation turned to lighter topics. But I knew that Jeff and I had shared a moment of understanding, a bond forged over our shared love for Isabelle. I felt relieved knowing I wouldn't have to worry about him disliking me.

As we left their home that evening, and headed to my hotel, Isabelle took my hand, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "How did it go?" she whispered.

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