Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
I'm standing in front of the full-length mirror, taking in my reflection with critical eyes. My chestnut waves are pinned back in a soft updo, a few tendrils framing my face in what I hope is an effortless sort of elegance. The emerald green dress hugs my curves gently—not too formal, but I’m aiming for that sweet spot of respectful and charming. I suck in a breath, trying to calm the fluttering in my stomach, or maybe it’s to look thinner.
"Okay, Sophia, you've got this," I mutter to myself, attempting to summon confidence from somewhere deep within.
Beside me on the bed lies a small, neat package—a bottle of fine olive oil I picked up from the little Italian deli downtown. It's nothing extravagant, but it’s the kind of gesture my grandmother would have approved: simple, thoughtful, a nod to tradition.
Giovanni leans against the doorway, his dark curls tumbling into his eyes as he watches me with a fond smile. He's dressed in a casual button-up that makes his eyes shine like polished chestnuts, and even though he's the most laid-back person I know, right now, his presence is the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.
"I'm not sure they'll like me," I confess, finally turning to face him. "I mean… I'm not good with parents. Daniel’s parents couldn't stand me, especially not after I got drunk at Thanksgiving and spilled wine on their white carpet." I wince at the memory, the mortification still fresh even though it's been years. "Heck, I'm not even good with my own parents. They don’t like me."
" Amore, mio ," Giovanni says, his voice rich with amusement and tenderness, "they will love you. And you're not giving your charm enough credit."
"Charm?" I scoff lightly, feeling the warmth from his faith in me, even if I can't quite harness it for myself yet. "You’ve seen my charm in action, remember? It's about as smooth as a gravel road."
"Your past doesn't define you, Sophia," he reminds me, closing the distance between us and enveloping my hands in his. "My parents aren't Daniel's parents. Give them—and yourself—a chance."
We drive through the winding roads leading up to the villa, and the sight of the rustic stone fa?ade nestled among the rolling hills sends another wave of nerves crashing over me. I grip the small gift tighter in my hands, reminding myself it’s too late to back out now.
"Is this really necessary?" I ask as we park the car. My heart is a terrier inside my chest, all nervous energy and frantic yapping. “We just met a few weeks ago. Isn’t it too early to meet your parents? Do I need to go inside?”
"Absolutely," Giovanni chuckles, not unkindly. His laughter is a balm, soothing the edges of my anxiety. "Besides, they're more scared of meeting you than you are of them. You’re the woman who stole their son's heart. That's no small thing."
I stare at him. How does he come up with those sentences? It seems surreal and cringy, but coming from him, it’s just right for some reason. I don’t understand it.
As he leads me to the door, his hand firm in mine, I realize there's truth in his words. I did unknowingly take something precious from them, and it's time to show I'm worthy of the treasure they gave life to.
Where did that come from? Am I turning into him now? Saying cheesy stuff?
Oh, dear.
"Ready?" he asks, squeezing my hand as we stand on the threshold.
"Ready as I’ll ever be," I reply, even if it’s a lie. I just want to throw up at this point. Or drink. Whichever comes first.
The door swings open, and there she stands—Rosaria Bianchi, the matriarch of a family I'm desperate to impress for reasons I don’t yet understand. Her smile is as warm as the Italian sun that bathes the vine-covered hills surrounding us yet she seems guarded somehow by the sight of me.
" Benvenuta , Sophia!" she exclaims.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. The nervous terrier inside me calms, curling up for a nap in the sunbeam of her welcome. She pulls me into a quick embrace, and the scent of rosemary and fresh bread envelops me, grounding me in this moment, in this new world that's slowly opening its doors to me.
"Come in, come in," she urges with a gesturing hand, leading me into the heart of their home.
Before I can take in more than the rustic charm of the foyer, Marco Bianchi's presence fills the space. His handshake is firm, his grip strong enough to steady a ship in a storm.
"Marco, please, call me Sophia," I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
"Then, Sophia it shall be," he replies, his eyes crinkling with a smile that feels like an unspoken promise of things to come.Yet there is something else in them that I can’t quite grasp. A reluctance.
We awkwardly settle into the cramped living room, family photos hanging crookedly on the walls. Rosaria plops down on the worn floral sofa, gesturing for me to sit next to her. I reluctantly wedge myself onto the cushion, trying not to wrinkle my expensive dress. Giovanni takes a seat across from us while Marco looms over us with his arms crossed.
"So, Sophia," Rosaria says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, "tell us about yourself and your family."
I can feel a shift in the atmosphere in the room as I recount my story, carefully omitting any mention of my wealthy background and troubled relationship with my parents. Rosaria's eyes narrow suspiciously when I mention our small bakery in New York, and she exchanges a knowing look with her husband.
"Ah, panetteria ," Marco interjects. "You know the value of hard work then?"
My smile falters as I sense their disapproval and judgment. Maybe they were expecting someone more traditional and less… complicated, like their son's previous girlfriend.
"I'm not Italian," I admit, bracing myself for their reaction.
"Clearly," Rosaria says.
"But I've always been fascinated by your culture," I hurriedly add, trying to win them over. "The food, the art…."
"Of course," Marco interrupts coldly, his eyes unimpressed. "Another American tourist enamored with our country."
I struggle to find common ground with them. I suddenly don’t even know what I’m doing there. Why am I trying so hard to make them like me? Every attempt falls flat, and I feel increasingly like an outsider in this close-knit Italian family.
"Tell us one of your favorite stories from back home," Marco says.
I take a deep breath before launching into a tale about my family's bakery during a holiday rush. But instead of being met with interest and warmth, I see judgment and superiority in Rosaria's and Marco's eyes.
"Sounds like quite the adventure," Marco says with a chuckle.
I can feel the disapproval radiating from his words, and I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. But before I can answer, Marco interrupts with a sneer.
"So, you’re from New York? What do you know about Italy?" he scoffs.
I try to keep my composure, reminding myself they are just trying to protect their son. But when Rosaria's next question cuts even deeper, I begin to lose my patience.
"And your parents," she asks pointedly, "do they even care enough to visit you in Italy?"
The mention of my parents brings back painful memories of our strained relationship, worsened by the recent breakup with Daniel. And now, here are these strangers dredging it all up and judging me for it.
"They don't need to visit because they've already disowned me," I snap back, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice.
Marco's face contorts into a look of disgust while Rosaria's eyes widen with surprise. I know family is everything to them, and me not talking to my parents isn’t going to be well approved here.
"Isn’t that very American," Marco mutters under his breath.
“So, what are your plans then?” Rosario asks. “When your little vacation here is over?”
I stare at her, not knowing what to answer. “I haven’t made plans for the future at all,” I say. “I just know that I like Giovanni, and I like being around him.”
Rosario gives me a look. “So, he is like—what do you say—like a toy to you? One you can throw away after you’re done? Forget about when you leave and go back to your own country while he is left with a broken heart?”
Her words finally cause Giovanni to speak up.
"That's enough," he says sternly, defending me for the first time since we arrived.
But the damage has been done, and an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air. My attempts at finding common ground or a connection with them feel futile now, and I'm left wondering why I even wanted them to like me in the first place.
I can't help but feel resentful toward these strangers who are judging me based on my nationality and social status. And I know that, deep down, they will never truly accept or understand me.
Rosaria's smile fades into a frown as she watches Giovanni and me exchange a look filled with unspoken tension. She clears her throat uncomfortably, breaking the awkward moment.
"I should probably start dinner," she says quietly, avoiding our eyes. "Sophia, would you mind helping me in the kitchen?"
I glance at her momentarily before turning to Giovanni, who looks conflicted and hurt. "I think I'll just stay here and relax," I say, not wanting to leave his side.
Rosaria nods and leaves the room, leaving us alone in this new atmosphere of tension. We sit in uncomfortable silence until, finally, Giovanni speaks up.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his tone sharp with worry. “My mother is trying to be nice when asking you for help in the kitchen. Why did you say no?”
My heart races at the thought of confessing my doubts and fears to him. Will he understand? Or will he be angry and push me away?
“I don’t cook,” I say.
“It’s not about cooking. It’s about getting to know you.”
"She’s your mother," I blurt out, unable to hold back any longer. "Not mine. Plus, she doesn't trust me. She thinks I'll leave as soon as I am tired of you. She thinks I’m not serious about you."
Giovanni seems taken aback by my words, his face softening into an expression of sadness mixed with frustration. "No, that's not true," he argues, reaching for my hand across the couch.
"But it is," I insist, pulling my hand away. "I can see it in the way she looks at me. Like I'm not good enough for you or this family."
"That's not true," he repeats firmly. "My mother just wants what's best for me."
"Which is why she wants me out of your life, right? Because I'm not Italian enough or pretty enough or woman enough or whatever else she thinks makes a suitable partner for you."
"That's not it at all!" he exclaims, standing up abruptly. "You are more than enough for me, Sophia. You are everything I want."
"Then why does it feel like your mother is trying to push me away?" I retort, standing up to face him.
"I don't know," he admits, his voice laced with frustration. "But I do know that I love you and won't let anyone come between us."
I feel a surge of conflicting emotions as Giovanni's words wash over me. His declaration of love is both comforting and overwhelming, and I can't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of his family's disapproval. But deep down, I know that this isn't just about Rosaria; it's about the divide between our worlds and backgrounds that seems impossible to bridge.
Giovanni's grip on my hand is tight and almost accusatory as he leads me to the dining table where his parents sit, their expressions guarded. The spread before us seems to mock me, a lavish display meant to impress but only serving as a painful reminder of my own deficiency.
It’s a mosaic of colors and aromas that beckon with the promise of culinary delight. My gaze sweeps over the dishes—plump olives, sun-kissed tomatoes, and glistening strands of pasta—but I can't enjoy them, not with the tension in the air.
"Everything looks… elaborate," I force myself to say, trying not to let resentment taint my words. My gaze lingers over the dishes—exotic ingredients and expensive cuts of meat, all beyond my reach. My stomach churns with hunger and bitterness.
"You’re probably not used to good food, just burgers and hotdogs, huh?" Giovanni's mother, Rosaria, says with a thinly veiled sneer. I can feel her judgment piercing through her polite smile. “And ketchup. You Americans put ketchup on everything.”
The last part makes her laugh, and her husband chimes in with her.
I try to push back the rising anger and insecurity, reminding myself that this is just another test of my worthiness in Giovanni's eyes. But as we sit down and the first course is served—a dish I've never even heard of—my hesitation turns into fear. I have no idea how to navigate this world, and I realize I don’t feel at home anymore. Yet I try… to be polite at least.
"Rosaria, I must say, your cooking is exquisite," I say with false enthusiasm, knowing that my skills would never meet her standards, even if I did learn to cook. "I'm sure you have some secret recipe for these… gnocchi?" It comes out more as a question than a compliment.
Rosaria gives me a condescending smile before turning to Giovanni. "Yes, it’s an old recipe. I’m glad you like it, but I don’t think it takes much to impress an American, huh?"
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger as Giovanni laughs along with his family at my expense. With each bite of food, I am reminded of my place in this unfamiliar world—an outsider who will never truly belong. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. And as the meal goes on, I can't help but feel like an impostor in their midst.
I sink back into my chair, trying to hide the disappointment in my eyes as I listen to Marco's enthusiastic retelling of their trip to the Amalfi Coast. Every detail he describes feels like a punch to the gut, reminding me of all the places I've never been and may never go. As the laughter and conversation flow around me, I can feel Rosaria's disapproving stare burning into my skin. She does not approve of me, an American woman who may steal her son's heart and take him away from this place forever.
"Have you always dreamed of traveling, Sophia?" she asks with a hint of disdain.
"I have," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "But, unfortunately, it seems like just a dream."
Rosaria scoffs and turns her attention back to the men at the table. But I can see the worry in her eyes, the fear that I will convince Giovanni to leave his homeland and return to mine.
"Perhaps you should visit Florence next," Marco suggests, unaware of the tension between his wife and me. His words are like daggers, twisting in my heart.
Giovanni's hand reaches for mine under the table, but this time, it feels more like a lifeline than a comforting gesture. Can he read my mind? Does he know what his mother is thinking? Is he having second thoughts about wanting a future with me already?
As we discuss our favorite books, I can feel Rosaria's eyes boring into me like knives. Her love for literature is genuine, but it's clear she doesn't want an outsider infiltrating their family dynamic.
"Ah, Dante's Inferno ," she says with a tight smile. "Such a tragic tale with no hope or redemption."
I can sense her disapproval toward me seeping through her words.
"Giovanni has always been surrounded by books, by stories," Marco interjects with a nod in my direction. "You two are a perfect match."
But Rosaria does not agree. Her eyes flicker between her son and me, and I can see the fear in them. She doesn't want him to be happy if it means he may leave her.
" Si ," she says coldly, "he hasn't stopped talking about you since the day he met you. You bring such joy to his life, cara . But will you take him away from us?"
Her words hang heavy in the air, crushing the promise of a future with Giovanni that I had begun to believe in moments ago.
But most of all, I fear that perhaps they are right—that I will never truly belong here and that my presence will ultimately lead to heartbreak for everyone involved.
I reach across the table, my fingers brushing against the linen napkin as I pass the homemade focaccia to Marco. He accepts it with a grateful nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that reminds me so much of Giovanni when he's pleased. The scent of rosemary and olive oil lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Rosaria's kitchen is a symphony of scents and warmth, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of my own childhood home.
"Your cooking is divine, Rosaria," I say, meaning every word. The flavors she coaxes from simple ingredients are nothing short of miraculous. She beams at the compliment, her brown eyes twinkling with pride.
"Ah, you are too kind, Sophia. But you must learn to make these dishes for Giovanni. A man should be fed well," she teases, and there's laughter in her voice. “Between you and me, I think that’s why he got rid of the last American woman he dated. What was her name again? Marco, do you remember? Well, she wasn’t very memorable, I guess.”
I glance at Giovanni, who is watching me with a tightness in his jaw and a hardness in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
“You dated another American?” I ask. “Recently?”
“He did,” his mother says. “I was so happy to learn it didn’t last. She had no style, no manners. Awful woman. Luckily, she went home. I believe she stayed at the same place you’re in. No?”
This is what betrayal feels like–a punch to the gut I never saw coming. Once again, I realize I have been a fool. This is all I am to him—just another conquest. One that will never fit in, one he and his family will mock and laugh about once I am gone—once he is done having his fun with me. I see it now.
"Thank you," I offer as I get up, my voice laced with bitterness and hurt. "For welcoming me into your home and into your lives. But clearly, I was just another naive American tourist to add to your collection."
Giovanni's face twists with anger as he stands up from the table. "Sophia, let me explain…."
"No, there's nothing left to say," I interrupt, pushing back my chair and standing up. "I thought we had something special, but it turns out you were just using me for some cheap thrill. This is nothing but a game to you."
The room falls silent as we both stare each other down, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Marco and Rosaria exchange worried glances before excusing themselves from the table.
Giovanni steps closer to me, his voice low and seething with emotion. "You have no idea what this is really about."
"Oh, please," I scoff, trying to mask my hurt with anger. "Just save it. I'm done playing this game."
With that, I storm out of the villa, tears streaming down my face as I realize that my newfound family was all just an illusion—a cruel joke played by fate to remind me that love is just a fantasy for someone like me.