@mightofrome
Goethe was right after all. Italy does hold a special place in my heart—the food, the landscape, the layers of history pressing in from every corner. If only the people weren’t so...chaotic. In other words, if Romano wasn’t such a belligerent idiot, I might actually enjoy myself more. But life rarely hands you perfection. Irritating, I know.
A few days of peace after back-to-back meetings. I’m in Positano, standing outside a small wine shop tucked along one of those impossibly narrow alleys that somehow all smell like lemons, salt, and something older. A little indulgence I allow myself when business drags me into this country.
“I wasn’t sure it would work,” I say, quietly, almost to myself. “Thinking about the Roman Empire to summon you. Sounds ridiculous.” A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth—rare, reluctant. “But here you are.”
I turn, both hands full—two bottles of wine raised slightly like offerings. One in each hand as I meet the eyes of the man who shouldn’t still exist—and yet somehow does for he became immortal in all our minds. “Primitivo,” I say, lifting the left. “Complex and deep.” Then I lift the other. “Or chianti. Bold, flirty, impossible to ignore.”
