Page 90 of That's Amore

When we reached Sienna, her doubts vanished,and she excitedly enjoyed the medieval city, which seemed untouched by time.

We strolled through the famous Piazza del Campo, which stretched wide at the center and sloped gently down like a perfect shell. Its terracotta bricks radiated heat from the summer sun. The Torre del Mangia rose tall above the square, a proud reminder of the city’s storied history.

Elysa and I wandered through the labyrinth of streets, which were alive without being chaotic like Rome could be. Here, time slowed down and stretched out. It was the perfect place to forget about the rest of the world for a while and live in the moment.

We spent time in Sienna, but I had another surprise in store for Elysa. More wine for her to taste to make up for the times she’d not been able to go on wine buying trips because I’d been an insensitive ass who didn’t think to ask if she was busy before demanding we show up for some society bullshit that I didn’twantto attend but knew I had to.

Our first stop was one of the most exclusive wineries in the area: a sprawling estate perched atop a hill with a panoramic view of the vineyards below. Dante Alighieri quotes were carved into the stone archway at the entrance, faded but still visible, a nod to the estate’s history.

One read,L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle. The love that moves the sun and the other stars.

The vineyard exuded luxury, from the perfectlylined rows of vines to the immaculately kept tasting room that smelled faintly of oak and citrus.

The owner, Santo Rossi, a wiry man with a thick Tuscan accent and a gruff smile, greeted us personally. I was a Giordano, and in Italy, that name meant something.

He and Elysa discussed the nuances of Brunello, and he was enthusiastic about introducing my wife to his prized wines.

He poured the first glass—a deep, garnet-red wine that shimmered in the sunlight coming through the windows.

“This is our 2015 Brunello di Montalcino,” Santo explained, his hands gesturing dramatically as he spoke. “A perfect year. Elegant, complex, with notes of dark cherry, leather, and tobacco.”

I took a sip, letting the wine coat my tongue before swallowing. It was incredible—smooth but bold, with a depth that lingered long after the first taste.

Elysa swirled her glass delicately, closing her eyes as she brought it to her nose. Her face softened, and when she finally took a sip, her lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

“Plums,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “A touch of balsamic, and... rosemary.”

The owner’s face lit up as though she’d just uncovered some great secret. “Bellissima!” he exclaimed. “It’s herbaceous, and that gives it a superior kick.”

I watched her, her confidence growing with everyglass. She didn’t just taste wine—she understood it, felt it. It was instinctive, effortless. And it struck me then how little I’d truly known about my wife. At least now, I was finally making up for it.

“You’re incredible,” I told her when Santo went to fetch a bottle of wine.

She glanced at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“The way you talk about wine,” I clarified. “You’re not just reciting tasting notes. You really know it.”

She shrugged, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I might have read a lot about wine. I thought...maybe it would help me connect with my father.”

I heard the sadness beneath her words and wanted to pound Vittorio’s face into the dirt. It was evident that Elysa didn’t justwanta family—she craved it. She’d spent her life reaching for it, trying to mold herself into what others wanted so they would love her. And I’d almost taken that away from her.

“Elysa”—I took both her hands in mine—“you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Not to your father, not to me. You’re already more than enough.”

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought she might cry. But she just smiled faintly, shaking her head. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way,” she whispered.

“I know, but I’m going to change that,” I promised.

Our second stop was the polar opposite of thefirst.

The small, family-run vineyard didn’t advertise or have a polished tasting room. Instead, we were seated at a wooden table under a trellis of grapevines, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns.

Silvia Benetti, who knew my grandfather, took care of us. She was a stout woman with flour on her apron and a smile that could light up a room. She brought us glasses of red wine and plates of bread, olive oil, and pecorino cheese.

“This is the Rosso di Montalcino.” She poured generously. “Simple, young, but full of life. Like my teenage daughter. And like my daughter, a little rough around the edges.”

Elysa laughed softly, the sound light and unrestrained. I wanted to hear her like this all the time, I decided.

She sipped the wine and smiled, her shoulders relaxing as the owner began explaining the history of the vineyard, her hands gesturing animatedly.

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