Chapter 11 - The Voice of the Foundation
One year later, the grand hall of the Romano Cultural Center in Tribeca was filled with the soft sounds of classical violin music, clinking champagne flutes, and low, pleasant conversation.
Hanging on the central gallery wall was a massive, framed original page of Don Vito Romano’s 1894 journal, alongside its official English translation—signed by the Foundation’s Chief Academic Director: Isabella Marino-Romano.
Guests, diplomats, and historians wandered through the exhibition, admiring the restored artifacts that had transformed a family once feared in the shadows into a beacon of art, history, and international philanthropy.
Isabella stood near the grand entrance, wearing an exquisite emerald-green silk dress, holding a glass of sparkling water. She was four months pregnant, a delicate, beautiful bump showing beneath the silk fabric.
Footsteps sounded beside her.
Matteo walked up, wearing a sharp black tuxedo, placing his arm around her waist and resting his hand gently over her stomach.
“How is our little translator doing tonight?” he asked softly, kissing her cheek.
“She’s kicking,” Isabella laughed softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I think she’s criticizing the violin player’s tempo.”
Matteo smiled, looking around the crowded, joyful room—a room that had once been filled with secrets, security threats, and hidden tension, now overflowing with light, life, and hope.
Signora Rossi walked past, carrying a silver tray of fresh cannoli, offering them a warm, maternal nod before attending to the guests.
Isabella looked up at Matteo’s profile, tracing the smooth line of his jawline with her eyes.
“What are you thinking about, Mrs. Romano?” Matteo asked, turning his head to catch her staring.
“I was thinking about that rainstorm in October,” she murmured, a mischievous glint touching her eyes. “When a very arrogant man stepped into Trattoria Luna and demanded a 2016 Brunello di Montalcino.”
Matteo chuckled—a low, rich sound that warmed her heart. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered in a low, wicked tone:
“And what would you say to that arrogant stranger if he walked in tonight, my love?”
Isabella turned her head, looking straight into his grey eyes, her heart overflowing with an overwhelming, eternal love.
She smiled, leaning up on her tiptoes, and whispered softly against his lips:
“Testa di ferro arrogante... ti amo.”
May you like
Arrogant iron head... I love you.
Matteo grinned, wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, and kissed her deeply under the sparkling crystal chandeliers, welcoming a bright, beautiful future where no shadow could ever touch them again.
