Under The Tuscan Sun Novels & Stories

A neat row of terracotta pots lined the cracked concrete steps, overflowing with vibrant basil and blooming jasmine. "Where are we?" I whispered. "Why are we here? Whose house is this?" Dante unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned his entire body toward me, taking both of my hands in his. His dark eyes were completely unguarded, swimming with a raw emotion that made my breath hitch. "In Tuscany," Dante began. "Standing in the cemetery... you told me the one thing you were missing. The one thing you wished you could have had at our wedding."

The light was different. This was the first thing Elena noticed when they arrived on a Thursday afternoon — the specific quality of the Tuscan light, which was warmer and more golden and more completely itself than any light she had been in recently. It did something to the air. Made it thick with a very pleasant thickness, the thickness of a place that has been beautiful for so long it has begun to generate beauty rather than simply receive it. They had dinner on the terrace. Local wine. Local food. The specific, uncomplicated pleasure of eating something made with the specific ingredients of the place you are in, which could not be approximated anywhere else.

"What are they doing in Italy? I thought they were on a Mediterranean cruise, not." "I thought so too." His expression sobered, the laughter fading. "Unless they changed their plans. Or cut the cruise short." "But why? Why would they, " "I don't know." His hand found mine, squeezed. "But we'll figure it out." The SUV climbed back into the hills, leaving the village behind. Twilight was settling over the Tuscan countryside, painting everything in shades of purple and gold. Under other circumstances, it would have been romantic. Instead, my stomach churned with anxiety.

Six months had passed since the sky over the Hudson had burned. The Amalfi Coast was supposed to be their purgatory—a paradise of lemon groves, salt air, and azure water where "Sloane and Julian Vane" could cease to exist. Under the names Elena and Marco Rossi, they had bought a villa perched on a jagged cliff known as Il Picco della Vedova—The Widow’s Peak. Sloane stood on the terrace, the silk of her white sundress fluttering in the Mediterranean breeze. It was a far cry from the bruised purple of Manhattan, but she still wore the black diamond ring on a gold chain around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt.

In the distance, the Tuscan hills continued to roll in waves of green and gold, indifferent to the fact that the sky over the English Channel was currently being pierced by a nightmare. Maya lay on the sun-warmed stones of the terrace as her breath came in shallow and jagged hitches. The golden light of Italy felt mocking now. Beside her, Lucian was a heap of mangled linen and suppressed agony. His arm was set at an impossible angle, the bone fractured by a woman who looked like a librarian but hit like a hydraulic press. "Lucian..." Maya’s voice was a dry rattle.

Sunlight bathed the private terrace in warm gold. The view stretched across rolling Sicilian hills down to the distant sea, beautiful enough to feel like a cruel joke. Adrian sat at the heavy iron table wearing the clothes Luca had given him. The soft gray sweatpants and white t-shirt felt too intimate against his skin after what happened in the shower. Luca sat across from him, relaxed and powerful in his black button down. He watched Adrian with those icy gray eyes while a servant placed plates of food between them: fresh fruit, warm bread, eggs, and cured meats. The servant disappeared quickly, leaving them alone.

Tuscan Arrival Sandro returned from Sicily sooner than expected, thirty-six tense hours after he’d left. He found Elena pale and withdrawn in the penthouse, the burner phone hidden again, the weight of Luca’s betrayal video burning behind her eyes. She hadn’t confronted him. Not yet. The words stuck in her throat, tangled with fear and the fragile hope they had begun rebuilding. When he announced they were leaving immediately for Tuscany, “honeymoon optics for the European families”she went without argument. Anything to escape the suffocating walls where every shadow now whispered of treason.

To feel the sun on my skin, to breathe in the natural air—it was exhilarating. I wish I could enjoy it alone, but Emily was beside me and two bodyguards walked behind us. She was quiet, and she also looked over the scenery, almost as though she was looking at it for the first time. I could not lie, whoever was in charge of Dominic's estate was doing a very good job with it. The grasses were properly trimmed, the flowers were blooming, and even the exterior of his mansion was exquisite. It suddenly occurred to me that I did not even know where I was. “What part of Italy is this?” I asked Emily.

The sun cast a golden glow over the Marcello estate as I stepped out onto the balcony. The cool morning breeze tangled a wayward strand of hair across my forehead while the morning light kissed my cheeks in warmth. Like a queen surveilling her lands, I gazed down on the sprawling grounds and gardens. Had it really only been a few short months since I’d stood in front of everyone I knew and loved to exchange vows with Aldo Marcello? Honeymooning in the rolling Tuscan countryside had certainly altered my perception of time.

But she seemed nice, and at least I wouldn’t be surrounded by the older women. “Great,” I said. “Can’t wait.” We set out from the manor about twenty minutes later, the five of us trekking down a dirt path that wound away from the vineyard and into the rolling Tuscan hills. The sun was warm but not brutal, and a breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and dry grass. Lucia led the way, while Gabriella followed closely beside her, already chattering about some recipe she wanted to try for dinner. Rosa hung back a bit, pointing out some flowers to Elena, who nodded politely but seemed more comfortable listening than talking. I walked beside them silently with my hands in my pockets, grateful for