Under The Tuscan Sun Audiobook Novels & Stories

Joseph felt the wind knocked out of him as he heard the whistle followed by the loudest sound he's ever heard in all his 16 years under the Tau Ceti sun. A whiz and BOOM. Whiz and BOOM. Explosion after explosion came pummeling down onto them. An unending barrage of terrifying heat and sound and fireball crashed all around them. Joseph covered his face as clods of disturbed earth pelted and rained down on him. His screams were drowned out by the loud thunders. It went on forever. Until it didn't. Then it stopped. He heard nothing afterwards except the constant ringing in his ear.

After a quick, steamy shower with Stefano that left more teasing than satisfaction, he led her to breakfast. Susan—bless her soul—had prepared a feast that belonged in a Tuscan travel magazine. There were golden, fluffy ricotta pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, a sun-dried tomato and goat cheese frittata, thin slices of prosciutto curled like rose petals beside thick-cut mozzarella, a rainbow of fruits drizzled with honey, and warm cornetti oozing silky cream at the corners. Serena's stomach flipped. Part hunger, part pure nerves. With Stefano sitting at the head of the table, Serena settled at his right, her eyes feasting on the meal already, while he just smiled with delight and appreci

I was reclined on a low linen lounger beneath the shadow of a silk canopy, the rhythmic crash of the Pacific lulling me into a dangerous state of relaxation. I felt a presence beside me, the scent of expensive cedarwood and salt air announcing him before he spoke. "You're going to burn, Marissa. Your skin was always too stubborn for this much sun." I opened my eyes to find Tristan kneeling in the sand beside my lounger. He held a bottle of high-end sunscreen, his expression uncharacteristically soft. Without waiting for an invitation, he poured a pool of the cool lotion into his palm and began to run it along the length of my arm.

Underneath the careful. Both things at once. We talked for another twenty minutes. About Tuscany. About October. About the Henderson amendment that had produced three additional pages of correspondence that nobody had requested. About the specific terrible optimism of a man who believed he could follow a recipe and whether the optimism extended to Italian cooking which he thought it might and I thought it categorically did not. We laughed. The real kind. Both of us. And at the end of the call he said goodnight Aria in the specific register that meant the evening was ending and he was putting it away and tomorrow would be the 34th floor again.

I look at the photo again. Aria. In my kitchen. In my house. And now, in Victoria’s crosshairs. I should have never hired her. I should send her home. But I don’t. Because Marco’s right. We don’t bow either. I pick up the phone. "Get me Caruso," I tell my assistant. "Tell him I want to talk." Outside, the sun is up. The war starts today.

“Now get out of bed. Rosa left fresh fruit on the kitchen counter and if we don't eat it before the driver gets here, she will complain to her cousin.” I laugh, the sound short and real in the quiet morning, and the last of the tight feeling in my chest dissolves completely. The drive to the airport is quiet. The sun is fully up now, lighting the Tuscan countryside in brilliant shades of yellow and green, but the clouds are rolling in from the coast just like the morning air promised. I watch the narrow roads disappear behind us through the rear window of the car, watching the whitewashed walls of the villa fade into the trees until they are gone entirely.

Lifting the fabric of my gown, I climb the wide stairs to reach the upper floor. I walk down the hallway and enter the last room that is bathed in the reddish light of the setting sun thanks to the wide windows of the turret room. “What are you doing?” I ask, taking a bite of the mini Bruschetta. Alessio groans as he looks at me while lying in a comfy chair. “Reading. What does it look like I’m doing?!” “Hmm… It looks like you are missing your sister’s welcome home party. And she is very sad about that,” I say while munching.

Next morning, I started packing. Margaret hugged me tight. "Keep in touch, darling." "I will." At the edge of the village, I looked back one last time. Daniel was still there, scribbling in his notebook. The wind carried his voice. "Day 91... still haven't found her..." Tuscany hit different—sunlight hotter, sharper, like it could burn straight through you. Luca's studio sat inside a 16th-century villa, stone walls swallowed by ivy. When I stepped in, the smell of oil paint hit me hard.

JACE POV. The Third Day, Pranzo di Ringraziamento(Thanksgiving lunch) The villa courtyard was awash in golden light, the late morning Tuscan sun kissing the vineyard walls and casting soft shadows beneath the canopy of olive trees. Laughter floated around us—cousins and relatives clinking glasses, old family friends toasting our new union. From the outside, everything looked perfect. But my eyes kept darting toward the gates. I was waiting for Vincent.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞 The tranquility of the Tuscan morning felt like a carefully constructed lie. Maya stood by the nursery window, watching the mist cling to the olive groves in heavy, silver shrouds, but her mind was anchored like a quarter-million miles away. The whisper she had heard the night before that chilling, electronic lilt still echoed in the marrow of her bones, a reminder that the silence of the moon was never truly empty.