22. Niccolo
— ? —
Niccolo
I wake to the sound of her humming.
The melody drifts up from somewhere downstairs, faint and unfamiliar, and I lie still for a moment just listening.
The bed beside me is empty but still warm, the sheets tangled from last night.
She came back to me. After everything I did wrong, she chose me again - not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
I pull on clothes and follow her voice down to the kitchen.
Danielle is standing at the stove in one of my shirts, her hair loose and wild, stirring something in a pan. The November light catches the steam rising from whatever she’s cooking.
“You’re making breakfast,” I say from the doorway.
She turns, and her smile hits me somewhere deep. “I’m making frittata. Maria left eggs and there’s still cheese from yesterday. I found herbs in the garden that looked promising.”
“You went to the garden already?”
“I woke up early. Couldn’t sleep.” She adjusts the heat under the pan. “Not in a bad way. More like my brain wouldn’t stop spinning.”
I cross to her and wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. She leans back into me, automatic and easy.
“What was your brain spinning about?”
“Things. Plans.” She slides the frittata onto a plate and turns in my arms. “I had an idea. But let’s eat first. I want to do this properly.”
***
We take breakfast out to the terrace, where the November sea stretches gray and endless beneath the sky. The frittata is perfect - earthy with herbs, rich with cheese. We eat in comfortable silence, passing bread between us.
“So,” I say finally. “This idea.”
Danielle sets down her fork. “I want to expand the restaurant.”
“Another location in Vallechiara?”
“No.” She meets my eyes. “Florence.”
The word lands between us.
“Florence,” I repeat.
“I know how it sounds. The city that made me feel like nothing - why would I want to plant myself there?” She shakes her head.
“But that’s exactly why. I spent years shrinking myself to fit into that world.
Then I spent months building something entirely mine.
I proved I could do it on my own terms. Now I want to prove I can do it in the heart of everything that tried to erase me. ”
“You’ve always belonged there, Dani.”
“I never felt like I belonged. That’s different.” She picks at a piece of bread. “The restaurant is mine. I built it with my hands, my savings, my grandmother’s recipes. If I can make it work in Florence, in your family’s backyard…” She trails off. “It probably sounds like revenge.”
“Does it feel like revenge?”
“A little. But also like reclaiming something.” She looks at me. “Is that petty?”
“It’s bold. It’s exactly the kind of thing the woman I fell in love with would do.”
“You’re not worried about what people will say? Your mother, the whole circle?”
“Let them say whatever they want. You’ve earned this.”
She’s quiet, turning something over. “It would mean being closer to your world again. The galas, the obligations. I don’t know if I can do that and stay who I am.”
“Then we do it differently. We set boundaries. We protect what we’ve built here.” I reach across and take her hand. “You’re not who you were a year ago. Neither am I.”
“I have savings,” she says slowly. “What’s left from before, plus some of what Vallechiara’s brought in. It’s not a lot, but it might be enough for a small space. Something modest - twelve tables, maybe. I wouldn’t need investors or loans. It would be completely mine.”
“Do you want help looking for locations?”
“Eventually, maybe. But I need to do this myself first. Find the space, negotiate the lease, set everything up.” She holds my gaze. “If I let you smooth the way with one phone call, it won’t feel like mine anymore.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because I know you want to help. I know you could open every door in Florence for me.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I need you to believe in me. Support me. Show up when I ask and step back when I don’t.” Her grip tightens on my hand. “Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
“Even when it’s hard? Even when you see me struggling?”
“Even then.” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles. “This is your dream. I’m just glad to be nearby while you chase it.”
Her smile comes back, softer now. “We should start packing. The ferry leaves at two.”
“I’ll bring the bags down. Give me ten minutes.”
“I want to tell my family about the expansion idea when we get back. And Talia needs to know she’s going to be running Vallechiara more than she expected.”
“She’ll handle it.”
“She’ll panic first and then handle it. That’s her process.” Danielle pauses at the door, looking back at the terrace. “Thank you for this week. For not pushing when I needed space.”
“Thank you for letting me try.”
She holds out her hand. I take it, and we walk back into the house together.
***
Mid-May - Nearly Six Months Later
The space smells like fresh paint and possibility.
I’m standing in what will be the dining room of Danielle’s Florence restaurant, watching her argue with an electrician about the placement of outlet covers.
The building used to be a small trattoria that closed two years ago - the kitchen was already fitted out, which saved her months of renovation.
Twelve tables, just like she wanted, arranged in a room that catches afternoon light through tall windows facing a quiet side street.
“The outlets need to be at table height,” Danielle is saying, her hands on her hips. “Not floor level. I need to plug in warmers, not vacuum cleaners.”
“Signora, the wiring-”
“Can be adjusted. I’ve seen it done. My electrician in Vallechiara managed it in a space half this size.”
The electrician sighs, the sigh of a man who has learned that arguing with Danielle Ellis-Morelli is a losing proposition. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask.”
He retreats to the back, muttering, and Danielle turns to find me watching. Her hair is tied back in a messy knot, and there’s a smudge of paint on her cheek that she hasn’t noticed.
“You have paint on your face,” I say.
“I have paint everywhere. I’ve accepted it as part of my new aesthetic.” She crosses to me, wiping her hands on her jeans. “What do you think?”
“I think you just won a negotiation through sheer force of will.”
“I learned from watching your cousin Giancarlo try to haggle at the fish market. He’s terrible at it, but very confident. I figured confidence was the part that mattered.”
“Giancarlo couldn’t haggle his way out of a paper bag.”
“Exactly. And yet people keep selling him fish.” She looks around the room, and I can see the restaurant taking shape in her mind - the tables filled, the kitchen humming, the warm light of evening service. “One month. Maybe five weeks if the permit office keeps dragging their feet.”
“They’ll come through.”
“They’d better. I’ve already hired staff. Talia’s been training for months to cover Vallechiara while I’m here.” She pulls a list from her pocket, scanning it. “Tables arrive next week. Final kitchen inspection on Thursday. Menu tasting for the staff on Sunday.”
“Is there anything I can actually help with, or should I just stand here looking decorative?”
“You can help paint the bathroom. I fired the last contractor.”
“You fired him?”
“He kept calling me ‘sweetheart’ and explaining how toilets work. I decided I could install a toilet myself with less aggravation.”
“Can you install a toilet yourself?”
“I watched three videos. How hard can it be?”
“Famous last words.”
She grins, that sharp quick grin I’ve missed seeing. “You’re welcome to try talking me out of it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve learned my lesson about telling you what you can’t do.”
“Smart man.” She reaches up and brushes something off my shoulder - sawdust, probably, from the trim work I was doing earlier. “My mother called this morning. She wants to come up for the opening.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“She’s bringing Emil. He’s officially done with school and has no idea what he wants to do with his life, so she’s decided a road trip will help him figure it out.”
“Will it?”
“Probably not. But at least he’ll eat well.” Danielle tucks the list away. “Speaking of family obligations - did you call your mother back?”
I pause. “You saw that?”
“Your phone was on the counter. Her name came up three times while I was making coffee.”
“She wants to know if I’m coming to the Castellani summer gala. It’s in two weeks.”
“And?”
“And I told her I’d be busy helping you with the restaurant.”
“Niccolo.” She gives me a look. “You can go to a gala. I’m not going to fall apart because you attend a party.”
“I know you won’t. But I’d rather be here.”
“Painting bathrooms and arguing with electricians?”
“Painting bathrooms and arguing with electricians,” I confirm. “It’s remarkably satisfying.”
“Your mother must be thrilled.”
“She said something about duty and appearances. I said something about priorities. We agreed to disagree.” I shrug. “It’s becoming a pattern.”
Danielle studies my face for a moment, that careful look she gets when she’s trying to read what I’m not saying. “She’s not going to stop, you know. The guilt, the pressure. That’s who she is.”
“I know.”
“And eventually she’s going to push back harder than just phone calls.”
“I know that too.” I pull her closer, my hands settling on her hips. “But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be. In a half-finished restaurant with a woman who just threatened to install her own plumbing. What more could I ask for?”
“A functioning toilet, for starters.”
“Details.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the empty room, bouncing off the fresh paint and the tall windows. This is the woman I married - sharp and stubborn and absolutely certain that she can bend the world to her will if she just pushes hard enough.
“One month,” she says again, quieter this time. “In one month, this place opens. And everything changes.”
“Everything’s already changed.”
“I mean for them. For Florence. For everyone who looked at me like I didn’t belong.” Her jaw sets in that determined way I’ve come to love. “They’re going to have to make room for me now. Whether they like it or not.”
I don’t doubt her for a second.
But I also know this city, and I know the people in it - the ones who smiled at our wedding and whispered behind their hands, the ones who took my mother’s side without ever asking for mine. They won’t make this easy for her.
They never do.
“Come on,” Danielle says, breaking away. “That bathroom isn’t going to paint itself. And you promised to help.”
“I promised to look decorative.”
“Same thing.” She tosses me a paint roller. “Make yourself useful, Morelli.”
I catch it and follow her toward the back, already calculating how many coats we’ll need and whether the hardware store is still open, and trying not to think about all the ways this city might try to break her before she’s even begun.