Chapter one
by Michael Lamonaca
The air in Ragusa, even in the languid heat of a July afternoon in 1863, carried the distinct scent of salt and sun-baked earth, a fragrance Donatina Cabrera knew intimately but rarely truly inhaled. From the plush, velvet-lined confines of her family’s carriage, the world outside was a blur of sun-drenched stone and the occasional flash of vibrant bougainvillea. Her governess, Signora Elena, droned on about proper comportment for young ladies of quality, but Donatina’s gaze, as always, drifted beyond the polished glass
They were on their way to deliver a basket of linens to the local orphanage, a dutiful act of charity orchestrated by her mother, the Contessa Cabrera. Donatina knew the ritual well: a brief, polite appearance, a few murmured blessings, and then back to the cool, shadowed halls of Villa Cabrera, high on the hill overlooking the town. It was a life of gilded cages, she often thought, though she dared not voice such a rebellious sentiment.
Today, however, a peculiar tremor of anticipation stirred within her. She’d heard whispers from the kitchen staff, snippets of conversation about a new, impossibly strong young man who had taken on the daunting task of repairing the ancient seawall near the old fishing quarter. A man, they said, with eyes like the deepest part of the Mediterranean and hands that could carve stone as easily as a sculptor shaped clay. Donatina, whose days were filled with embroidery, piano lessons, and tedious social calls, found herself captivated by the mere idea of such a man. He was a creature of the earth, of honest labor, utterly unlike the preening, powdered fops who frequented her family’s salon.
As the carriage rumbled past the bustling market square, where the shouts of vendors mingled with the bleating of goats, Donatina pressed closer to the window. The scent of fresh fish and ripe figs momentarily overpowered the carriage’s stale perfume. Her eyes scanned the sun-drenched street, past the women haggling over prices and the children chasing stray chickens.
Then she saw him.
He stood near the crumbling seawall, his back to the carriage, muscles rippling beneath a simple, sweat-soaked linen shirt. He wielded a heavy hammer with an almost brutal grace, chipping away at a stubborn piece of rock. The sun caught the dark waves of his hair, turning them to obsidian, and highlighted the strong line of his jaw. He was utterly absorbed, a force of nature against the ancient stone, oblivious to the world beyond his work.
Donatina felt a jolt, a sensation akin to lightning striking a still pond. He was even more magnificent than the whispers had described. His raw, untamed presence was a stark contrast to her own meticulously ordered existence. She watched, mesmerized, as he paused, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his profile momentarily turned towards her. His eyes, indeed, were dark and intense, but they held a weariness, a deep-seated pride, and something else… a flicker of resentment as they swept over her family’s opulent carriage. He didn’t see her; he saw what she represented.
A strange mix of fascination and a pang of disappointment settled in Donatina’s chest. He hadn’t noticed her at all, not truly. He saw only the symbol of the very class he likely disdained. A challenge, then. A most intriguing challenge. She, Donatina Cabrera, would make him see her. And she had a few ideas about how to begin.
The very next morning, Donatina set her plan into motion. She convinced Signora Elena that a morning stroll through the lower town, near the old olive groves, would be excellent for her constitution. It was a route that, coincidentally, would take them past the seawall where the handsome laborer toiled. She chose a dress of pale blue muslin, deceptively simple, yet designed to flutter with every breeze, hinting at the figure beneath. A wide-brimmed hat, adorned with a single, delicate silk flower, framed her face, allowing just enough shadow to enhance the mystery of her eyes.
“Donatina, do be careful where you step,” Signora Elena cautioned, her voice laced with her usual anxiety as they navigated the uneven cobblestones, a stark contrast to the smooth paths of the villa gardens.
Donatina merely smiled, her gaze fixed on the distant glint of sunlight on stone. As they approached the seawall, she saw him. Michele. He was there, just as she’d hoped, moving large stones with an effortless strength that made the other laborers seem like children. He wore the same simple linen shirt, now even more stained with dust and sweat.
This was her moment.
With a subtle, practiced shift of her weight, Donatina allowed her foot to slip on a loose stone. A small, elegant gasp escaped her lips, and she stumbled, twisting her ankle just enough to make her waver precariously. Signora Elena shrieked, rushing forward, but Donatina’s eyes were on Michele.
He straightened, his hammer still in hand, his gaze drawn by the commotion. For a fleeting second, his dark eyes met hers. Donatina offered a look of wide-eyed distress, a delicate hand fluttering to her chest. She was the perfect picture of a helpless lady in need.
Michele, however, merely observed. His expression remained unreadable, perhaps a flicker of annoyance, but certainly no concern. He watched as Signora Elena fussed over Donatina, helping her regain her balance. He said nothing, did not move, did not offer a hand. After a moment, he simply turned back to his work, the rhythmic clang of his hammer against stone resuming, a clear dismissal.
Donatina felt a flush creep up her neck, not from the feigned stumble, but from the sting of his indifference. Her carefully orchestrated “damsel in distress” act had fallen flat. He hadn’t been charmed; he’d barely been bothered. He saw only the inconvenience, the frivolousness of her presence in his world of hard labor.
“Are you quite right, Donatina?” Signora Elena fretted, oblivious to the true nature of Donatina’s distress.
“Perfectly fine, Signora,” Donatina replied, her voice a little sharper than intended. Her first attempt had failed. But a challenge, she reminded herself, was only truly a challenge if it required more than one try. And she was nothing if not persistent.
Undeterred by her initial misstep, Donatina spent the next few days refining her strategy. The “damsel” approach was too simplistic for a man like Michele. She needed something more subtle, something that would appeal to his intellect, or at least, his sense of observation.
Her next idea involved the local market. It was a vibrant, chaotic hub, and a place where people of all classes sometimes mingled, however briefly. Donatina convinced her mother that she needed to select fresh flowers for the villa’s grand salon herself, a task usually relegated to the servants. This time, she chose a dress of soft, flowing cream, adorned with delicate lace that hinted at her status without being overtly ostentatious. She wore her hair in a simple, elegant braid, allowing a few artfully loose tendrils to frame her face.
As she moved through the stalls, feigning deep contemplation over a bunch of jasmine, her eyes darted, searching. There he was, near the fishmonger’s stand, haggling with a fierce intensity over the price of a catch. He was even more compelling in this setting, his dark hair falling across his brow as he gestured, his voice a low rumble that carried over the market din.
Donatina positioned herself strategically, close enough to be noticed, yet far enough to appear absorbed in her floral selection. She held a vibrant red rose to her nose, inhaling deeply, her eyes briefly fluttering closed in a display of delicate appreciation. She imagined him seeing her, a vision of beauty and refinement amidst the rustic chaos, perhaps even admiring her discerning taste.
After a moment, she opened her eyes and, as if by accident, allowed her gaze to drift towards him. Their eyes met. Donatina offered a soft, almost ethereal smile, a hint of genuine warmth in her expression, designed to melt any lingering prejudice. It was a smile that had disarmed many a young nobleman.
Michele’s expression, however, remained impassive. He merely held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, his dark eyes unreadable, before turning back to the fishmonger with a curt nod, concluding his purchase. He then moved away, a basket of fish clutched in his strong hand, disappearing into the crowd without another glance.
Donatina’s smile faltered. He hadn’t smiled back. He hadn’t even acknowledged her beyond a brief, assessing stare. Her “intellectual curiosity” through flower appreciation had been completely lost on him. He seemed utterly immune to the subtle allure she had perfected among her own set. It was as if he saw right through her carefully constructed facade, or simply didn’t care to look beneath it.
A new frustration bubbled within her. This man was truly a puzzle. He didn’t respond to helplessness, nor to elegant charm. What did he respond to? Donatina clutched the jasmine a little tighter. This was proving to be far more difficult, and far more intriguing, than she had anticipated. She needed a new approach, one that might genuinely catch his attention, even if it meant stepping further outside the bounds of proper aristocratic behavior.
Michele Bonanno, at twenty-six, had seen more than his share of young women. From the village girls who blushed and giggled when he passed, to the ambitious daughters of merchants who tried to catch his eye with calculated smiles and lingering glances, he could read their intentions like the worn pages of an old book. He was handsome, he knew, in a rugged, sun-baked way that appealed to many, but he also knew his place. And he knew theirs.
The Contessa’s daughter, Donatina Cabrera, was no different. He’d noticed her carriage, of course, a gilded cage that announced her family’s wealth and, to his mind, their exploitative nature. That gilded cage, a constant, mechanical roar in his periphery, symbolized promises broken and a societal decay he once thought he’d escaped, only now, it was inescapable and amplified right outside his childhood memories. He’d felt her gaze on him by the seawall, a fleeting curiosity from a pampered lady. And the staged stumble? He’d almost scoffed. It was a performance as transparent as the clear waters of the bay. He’d seen similar antics from girls trying to snag a more prosperous husband.
Then, at the market, her an attempt with the rose. He’d caught her looking, seen the practiced, soft smile. He knew that smile. It was the same one the young noblemen used when they thought themselves irresistible. He’d merely met her gaze, a silent challenge, before turning back to his fish. He wasn’t a fool to be distracted by a pretty face, especially one that belonged to the family who squeezed every last lira from his people. Her beauty was undeniable, yes, but it was the beauty of a hothouse flower – delicate, ornamental, and utterly disconnected from the real world he inhabited. He had no time for such games, no interest in a woman who lived off the sweat of others. He saw her, alright. He just saw her for exactly what he expected her to be.
Donatina, unaware of the cynical assessment she was receiving, was already plotting her next move. If overt charm failed, perhaps a more direct, yet still socially acceptable, approach was needed. She remembered the whispers about his skill, his reputation as a master craftsman with stone. That, she decided, was his pride. And perhaps, his weakness.
Back in her opulent, yet increasingly stifling, bedroom at Villa Cabrera, Donatina found herself consumed by thoughts of Michele. The afternoon sun, filtering through the heavy damask curtains, cast long, golden stripes across the polished marble floor, but she barely noticed. She lay on her chaise lounge, a forgotten book of poetry open on her chest, her gaze fixed on the frescoed ceiling.
Her mind replayed every fleeting interaction, every dismissive glance. He saw her, yes, but not her. He saw the Contessa’s daughter, the symbol of the very injustices he resented. It was infuriating, yet, perversely, it only fueled her fascination. The challenge of breaking through his defenses, of making him see the real Donatina, was more compelling than any social triumph she had ever achieved.
Her imagination, usually confined to the polite narratives of her approved novels, now ran wild. She pictured him, not in his dusty work clothes, but in a simple, dark suit, his strong hands gently cupping her face. She imagined his dark eyes, no longer filled with disdain, but with a searing intensity meant only for her. She felt the phantom warmth of his arms wrapped around her body, the slow, firm movements of his embrace as he pulled her closer. Her breath hitched at the vividness of the fantasy, a blush rising to her cheeks. She, Donatina Cabrera, who was supposed to dream of grand balls and advantageous marriages, now dreamt only of the calloused hands of a laborer, of a fierce, untamed passion that defied every rule of her world. The thought was scandalous, exhilarating, and utterly consuming.
Donatina’s next plan was born from a conversation she overheard between her father and his estate manager. They spoke of a particular section of the villa’s ancient garden wall, a masterpiece of local stone masonry, that had begun to crumble. The Contessa had been fretting about it, fearing it would mar the beauty of their summer festivities. And then, the manager mentioned Michele Bonanno, the very man working on the seawall, as the only one with the skill to properly restore it.
A spark ignited in Donatina’s mind. This was it. Not a feigned accident, not a subtle glance, but a direct appeal to his expertise, to his pride in his craft. It was a legitimate reason for them to interact, one that transcended her usual frivolous pursuits.
The following morning, Donatina, accompanied by Signora Elena, made her way to the section of the garden wall. She wore a simple, yet elegant, riding habit, the kind that allowed for ease of movement but still spoke of her station. Her hair was neatly pinned, and her expression was one of serious contemplation, a stark contrast to her previous attempts at charm.
Michele was already there, examining the crumbling stones with a focused intensity that made him seem oblivious to their arrival. He ran a calloused hand over the rough surface, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Good morning, Signor Bonanno,” Donatina said, her voice clear and steady, devoid of the affected lightness she sometimes employed. She had practiced the address, wanting to convey respect for his work.
Michele straightened slowly, his dark eyes turning to her. There was still that familiar guardedness, but perhaps a flicker of surprise at her direct approach. “Signorina Cabrera,” he acknowledged with a curt nod, his voice a low rumble, rougher than the soft tones she was accustomed to.
“My father, the Conte, spoke highly of your work on the seawall,” Donatina began, choosing her words carefully. “And we understand you are the most skilled in Ragusa for such intricate stone repair. This wall,” she gestured to the crumbling section, “is very old, and very dear to my family. It requires a master’s touch.”
She watched his face for a reaction. His gaze swept over the wall, then back to her, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. Was it suspicion? Or had she finally touched upon something that resonated with him?
“It is old stone,” Michele stated, his voice flat, neither confirming nor denying her compliment. “And neglected.”
Donatina felt a flicker of annoyance, but quickly suppressed it. He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Indeed,” she replied, stepping a little closer, though maintaining a respectable distance. “Which is why we seek the best. My father wishes to commission you. We would, of course, pay fairly for your time and expertise.”
He finally lowered his hammer, resting it against the wall. His eyes, dark and assessing, met hers fully. “Fairly, Signorina?” he repeated, a subtle edge to his tone that sent a shiver down her spine. “The Cabrera family’s definition of ‘fair’ often differs from ours.”
The bluntness of his statement, the open accusation, struck her. It was a direct hit, a reminder of the chasm between them. Her carefully constructed facade of polite charm crumbled. This was not a game to him. This was his life, his livelihood, and the struggles of his people.
“I assure you, Signor Bonanno,” she said, her voice losing its practiced calm, a hint of genuine passion entering it, “I intend to see this wall restored beautifully, and for you to be compensated justly. I… I do not wish to be like those who exploit. I simply wish for things to be right.”
Michele’s eyes narrowed, studying her. The flicker of surprise returned, stronger this time, as if he hadn’t expected such an earnest, almost vulnerable, response from her. The air between them thickened, charged not with the light flirtation she had intended, but with the heavy weight of unspoken class divides and a burgeoning, unexpected tension. He said nothing more, but his gaze lingered, a silent question in its depths. For the first time, Donatina felt as though he truly saw her, even if he still didn’t like what he saw.
Days turned into weeks, and the crumbling garden wall became Donatina’s new obsession. She found reasons to visit the site daily, often with Signora Elena in tow, sometimes under the guise of inspecting the villa’s extensive rose gardens. She brought her hidden sketching pad and charcoal, finding a secluded bench where she could observe Michele and his crew.
At first, her sketches were of the wall itself, the intricate patterns of the old stones, the way the sunlight fell upon them. But inevitably, her gaze would drift to Michele. She captured the powerful curve of his back as he lifted a heavy stone, the focused intensity in his eyes as he chipped away at a stubborn piece, the way his muscles flexed under his damp shirt. She drew his profile, the strong line of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw. These were not the polite, idealized portraits she was taught to create; they were raw, vibrant, filled with the energy of his labor. She felt a deep, almost primal, appreciation for his strength and dedication, an admiration that went far beyond mere physical attraction.
One sweltering afternoon, she found herself sketching him as he paused for a moment, wiping sweat from his brow, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. Her charcoal moved swiftly, capturing the exhaustion mingled with pride in his posture. She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear him approach until his shadow fell over her page.
“What are you doing, Signorina?” His voice, deep and resonant, startled her.
Donatina gasped, her hand flying to cover the sketch. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a mixture of fear and exhilaration. “Michele! Signor Bonanno!” she stammered, her cheeks flushing. “I… I was merely admiring the stonework.”
He stood over her, his presence commanding, a faint scent of dust and sun-warmed skin clinging to him. His eyes, usually so unreadable, held a flicker of curiosity as they darted to her hidden pad. “May I see?” he asked, his tone neutral, but with an underlying firmness that left no room for refusal.
Reluctantly, Donatina moved her hand, revealing the half-finished sketch of him. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he took it in. He leaned closer, his gaze fixed on the drawing, and Donatina became acutely aware of his proximity: the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of him, the way his shadow enveloped her. Her breath caught in her throat.
He studied the sketch for a long moment, a muscle ticking in his jaw. It was a truthful, unvarnished depiction, capturing his essence in a way no society portrait ever could. He saw the strength, yes, but also the weariness, the quiet dignity. It was him.
He held the drawing out to her, his calloused fingers brushing against hers as she took it. For an instant, his hand lingered, a spark of unexpected heat passing between them, a silent acknowledgment of something more than stone and charcoal. Then he withdrew, though his gaze remained locked on hers, piercing through her composure.
“You can also understand all sorts of things by touching,” Michele countered, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent a shiver through her. “Who knows why people are so afraid of touching?”
Donatina’s mind raced, recalling her own fantasies, the phantom warmth still on her skin. “Perhaps because they think it is something to do with pleasure?” she ventured, her voice barely audible.
A ghost of a smile, almost imperceptible, touched his lips. “That is just another good reason for touching instead of talking,” he murmured, his eyes still locked on hers, a silent, profound understanding passing between them.
Donatina felt truly exposed, truly seen, not as a Contessa’s daughter, but as the artist she secretly was, and a woman whose innermost desires felt laid bare. And in his gaze, she felt a profound, exhilarating tremor that had nothing to do with feigned stumbles or charming smiles. It was a connection, raw and undeniable.
Enjoyed this first glimpse into Donatina and Michele’s world?
If you’re eager to read Chapter 2 and continue their captivating journey in 1860s Ragusa, please send me an email at: mikelamonaca0@gmail.com. Just let me know you’re interested in Beneath the Sicilian Sun, and I’ll personally guide you on how to purchase and receive the next chapter.
Thank you for reading!