Page 65 of Taken By Sin
Sin lets half of a smirk pass through. “No, it’s too early for that. We’re taking Magnolia to explore the village for a bit.”
The narrow street leads us back toward the heart of the village.
The driver drops Bria, Sin, and I off. Maxwell, Rollins, and Zeik go ahead without us. “Where are they going?” I ask, glancing after them.
Sin gestures to the SUV as it goes. “To the house, getting things prepared for our arrival.”
I don’t know what that means, but right now, I don’t care. This place is adorable.
The scent of freshly brewed espresso drifts through the air, mingling with the faint tang of the sea. A tiny coffee shop tucked between two bright yellow buildings catches Sin’s eye. Its striped awning and wooden sign, weathered by years of salty air and sun, make it look like it’s been there forever.
“This is the place,” he says, nodding toward it. “Best espresso in Portofino. Maybe in all of Italy.”
I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “That’s a bold claim.”
Bria walks in. “He’s not lying. I promise, it’s divine.”
“You’ll see,” he says with a grin, pulling me gently inside.
The café is small and cozy, with just a few tables and a long wooden counter where a shiny espresso machine hisses and steams. The walls are lined with black-and-white photos of Portofino through the decades, and the warm, earthy scent of coffee wraps around me like a hug.
“Buongiorno, Bria and Sin!” the barista calls out from behind the counter, his face lighting up when he sees them. They exchange a few rapid words in Italian, and he hugs Bria.
“This is Magnolia. It’s her first espresso in Italy,” Sin tells him.
The barista nods seriously like this is a matter of greatimportance. “Then she must have it perfect,” he says, bustling to prepare the drinks.
We find a table by the window, and I watch as Sin leans back in his chair, completely at ease. Bria sits to my right, tapping on her phone. “So, I assume you come here a lot when you’re here?” I ask, fiddling with the sugar packets on the table.
“Every time I’m home,” Sin says. “It’s tradition. And trust me, after you taste it, you’ll understand why.”
A few moments later, three tiny porcelain cups of espresso are placed in front of us, the dark liquid topped with a thin layer of golden crema. The barista gives me an approving nod. “Piano, signorina.” (Slowly. Enjoy, miss.)
I lift the cup carefully, the warmth seeping into my hands. The first sip is strong and smooth, the bitterness perfectly balanced with a hint of sweetness. It’s unlike any coffee I’ve ever had—rich, bold, and impossibly satisfying.
“Okay,” I admit, setting the cup down with a smile. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
Sin laughs softly, his fingers brushing against mine as he takes my hand across the table. “Told you. There’s nothing like it. Better than Alice in Brewland.”
I laugh, nodding my head. “Victoria would love it here.”
Bria tosses back her espresso in one gulp. “Running to the bathroom!” she sings, dancing away.
The café hums quietly around us, with locals chatting softly in Italian, the sound of cups clinking against saucers blending with the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Outside, the morning sun dances on the cobblestones, and the village feels alive with its own kind of music.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Not just the coffee, but… everything.”
Sin’s eyes soften, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “There’s no one else I’d rather share it with.”
For a moment, the world narrows to just us, the warmth of his touch and the lingering taste of espresso making me feel completely and utterly present. This place, this moment, it feels like a beginning.
Why does it feel like something bad could happen at any second?
The cobblestone streets of Portofino curve gently beneath our feet, each twist and turn revealing something even more picturesque than the last. Vibrant pastel-colored buildings stand shoulder to shoulder along the waterfront, their reflections shimmering in the calm, turquoise harbor. Fishing boats bob lazily in the water, their painted hulls bright against the glimmering sea.
Bria bustles easily in and out of shops; I see her every so often with another bag in hand and rushing into another. She’s adorable.
Sin walks beside me, his hand warm and steady in mine, his pace unhurried as if savoring every moment of being home. He stops occasionally to point things out—a tiny bakery where he and Bria used to buy focaccia as a children, a narrow alley leading up to a church perched high on the hill, the trattoria where his family celebrated birthdays and holidays.