4. Dante
FOUR
Dante
I stared at my phone after I ended my call with Elysa.
How had a docile woman become this ?
Or was she always like this and that submission had been an act?
The truth was I didn’t know my wife.
We’d been together a year, and I had spent a fair amount of time with her, sure, but I didn’t know her.
What I did know was that she desperately wanted a divorce and quickly .
Once again, I wondered if she’d met someone, and that was why she’d moved so fast to break ties.
The idea didn’t sit well with me, not that I had the moral high ground.
I understood that she thought I wanted Lucia and believed that viscerally, I’d broken my marriage vows.
So, if Elysa had as well, I couldn’t hold it against her, could I ?
Like hell!
I picked up my phone and contemplated calling the private investigator we had on retainer and ask him to find out if my wife was screwing around.
It left a bitter taste in my mouth.
It was disrespectful, especially since Elysa had never given me any reason to believe she was cheating on me.
She’d been loyal and affectionate, even loving, despite my need to keep an emotional distance between us.
She never used sex as a tool to manipulate.
We made love often.
And the thought struck me that she never initiated sex.
I always did because I was hungry for her all the fucking time.
She participated actively and vocally, but she didn’t make the first move.
Why?
The knock on my suite door pulled me out of my reverie.
I hadn’t gone back to the flat since Elysa left.
I couldn't.
There was too much of her in the flat because of the empty spaces she’d left, and it made me uncomfortable and sad as fuck. It made me miss her, which was ludicrous. I was just surprised she’d made the first move when it came to a divorce—that’s all. I just needed to get my head around that, and we could move on with our lives. She would find someone and?—.
“Come in,” I bellowed, angry at the thought that Elysa would find someone else to go on walks with, cook gnocchi with fresh truffles for, and make gelato for. She’d suck some other man’s cock and let someone lick her and….
Just the thought made me want to kill the motherfucker.
Lucia came into my suite. Her Victoria Beckham skirt suit was impeccably fitted to her body. Eight years ago, we’d been together for six months. She’d wanted more, and I’d not been ready. She’d taken it well, and a couple of years ago, when she started working for me, I’d felt a spark. I didn’t act on it for two reasons. One, she worked for me, and the other was that Nonno kept talking about this girl from his village. I didn’t want to string a woman along if I’d have to submit myself to marriage with a stranger.
Lucia didn’t know about the circumstances of my marriage. She was our corporate lawyer, so she had nothing to do with the marital paperwork that had been drawn and signed by Elysa and me, which included a very strictly worded prenuptial agreement that I insisted upon. Nonno had seen no reason to have one. After all, marriage was forever—until death do us part.
I didn’t tell him about the prenup and told Elysa not to as well.
She had not blinked. She had taken the document and presumably enlisted Maura’s aunt’s help to translate both the Italian and the legalese into English.
“I want these parts struck.” She’d placed the contract on my desk at work, where we’d met for lunch to talk about the upcoming wedding.
I read the parts and frowned. “Explain,” I demanded.
She’d been nervous but firm. “If we have a child and we get divorced, I’m not giving you full custody. We will co-parent.”
“This is standard Giordano prenuptial agreement language,” I told her.
She shook her head. “No way.”
“You’re fighting over something that doesn’t exist, Elysa, and like I ? —”
“No,” she cut me off emphatically.
Looking back, that was the only time she’d fought me on something, well, until she handed me divorce papers.
Lucia sat down next to me on the couch, sitting a bit too close, her breasts brushing against my arm. Uncomfortable as fuck but hoping it was just an accident, I got up, went to the bar, and poured her a glass of champagne from the fridge, her after-work drink of choice.
She took the glass and looked at me with her beautiful blue-gray eyes. “ Grazie , Dante.”
Lucia was stunning. Beautiful . She always wore makeup that looked like she didn’t. Her skin glowed like porcelain. Her body was thinner than I’d prefer, but she worked out and controlled her diet like a fiend—how she looked was important to her, and she took pride in it.
I thought about Elysa, who loved to eat, but ran, and walked to avoid gaining weight. She had curves, delicious ones. Naked, she looked like one of those voluptuous Venuses by Botticelli or Titian.
“So, how are things?” she asked.
I shrugged.
Things were not okay.
My wife had filed for divorce because she heard me tell Dean I wondered if you’d make a better wife.
I sat next to Lucia and appraised her frankly. She was attractive, yes . I knew sex with her was damn good. She was a great partner, ready to try anything. But right now, I couldn’t imagine being with her, not while Elysa’s taste was still on my tongue, not when I closed my eyes at night, my hand on my stiff cock, I thought of my wife, of the sounds she made, of how she called out my name when she found release.
And then there was the fact that I’d lied to Elysa when I said the lawyers were looking at the paperwork. They weren’t. The papers were still in the flat in the top drawer of my dresser. I hadn’t looked at them. It had been over a week, and I had done nothing. First, I told myself I was busy. Now, I wasn’t sure what was the cause of my hesitancy.
I was confused as hell.
My bewilderment stemmed from how I was behaving .
I’d thought that once Nonno died, I would get a divorce—and yet, I’d just convinced Elysa…okay, blackmailed her, into being my plus one for the Carrera Charity gala.
I could say it was because Signora Carrera had insisted that Elysa come so she could thank her for all her help. But I also knew that it didn’t feel right to go without her, especially since, for the past year, she’d always been with me.
I didn’t even know Elysa had done charity work. I thought she worked as a server at the bistro, and besides that, she worked as my wife.
I cringed at the thought.
Yes, she did work as my wife—and she did all the work.
She made all the adjustments. She left her home and moved into my flat. She changed her wardrobe to meet my societal needs. She learned Italian because it was my language.
She worked very hard to ensure that we had a good relationship as two people sharing space and a life. While she did all that, I took what I wanted and gave back…nothing.
I gave back nothing!
I rose and walked up to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Palazzo Giordano’s presidential suite. I looked at the sea of red and white floating over the roads and tried to understand myself. I’d been so confident when I talked to Dean that I wanted a divorce now that Nonno was gone—and yet, now, when, as Elysa said, she’d handed it to me on a silver platter, I was dawdling.
Was I a cliché? Now that she was gone, I wanted her but when I had her I didn’t appreciate her.
I saw Lucia coming up behind me, and before she could put her hands on me, I turned around to face her, even as I stepped away from her.
She seemed surprised by that. She shouldn’t have been. I’d always kept it professional between us. It was inappropriate for us to have anything else between us. Not only was I a married man, but we also worked together.
Don’t dip your pen in the company ink, not unless you want to marry the ink.
Lucia searched my face for answers and then smiled uneasily. “Dante, we should get to work.”
“ Si , cara ,” I conceded and sat on the couch.
Cazzo ! I did call Lucia cara . How disrespectful was that to my wife? Very .
If my wife went around calling other men darling, I’d be arrested for assault because those men would feel my wrath, and yet I’d done that to my wife.
I was a fucking moron.
“Did you get an invitation to the Carrera gala?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She grinned. “I’m hoping we can close the Buenos Aires franchise deal that day, so we may have to sneak away to work a little.”
“Sounds good.”
She settled into the couch and, as if it were a secondary thought, said, “You know, you’re married to a saint. Elysa never seems to mind how often you and I end up spending time working at these events.”
Lucia was right. At these parties, I ended up spending time with Lucia and not my wife. Elysa and I came together, and we left together, except for that one time when she wasn’t feeling well, and everyone assumed she was pregnant.
“No, Elysa doesn’t.” I smiled tightly, wanting to reassure myself that it hadn’t been as bad as it sounded. If it had, Elysa would have said something. But even as I thought that, I knew she wouldn’t.
In the year we’d been married, Elysa had asked for nothing. If I said I was busy and couldn’t go for a walk with her, she didn’t insist and went by herself. If I said I couldn’t make dinner, she thanked me for letting her know. If I told her that I needed her on my arm for something social and she had to take off work, she did it without a question.
I had—I realized, a little dazed—treated my wife like a doormat.
I used her when it was convenient for me, and when it was not, I ignored her. I thought we had a nice time together, and I wondered what Elysa thought. I didn’t know because I never asked her. She didn’t complain, not until now, when she hit me with a divorce decree.
“You work with Patrizia, don’t you?” I asked Lucia, walking toward the windows.
She sipped her wine. “ Si . Patrizia is wonderful.”
“She apparently called Elysa a fat cow,” I told her.
Lucia chuckled. “She may be thinking it, but I doubt she’d say it to her face.”
I couldn’t understand why Patrizia would think that. Elysa was a good-looking woman. So, she wasn’t cocaine chic, but she was very Sophia Loren with her big eyes and generous curves.
Nobody would call Sophia Loren a fat cow, would they?
“Why would she think that?” I demanded.
Lucia shrugged. “You know Patrizia. She’s a fashion person, and anyone who isn’t a size zero is fat . But, Dante, she’d never say it out loud.”
“She said it in Italian. Maybe she doesn’t know that Elysa speaks the language,” I suggested.
Lucia waved a hand. “But Elysa’s Italian, we know, isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “But she has come a long way this past year.”
“Of course, but she’s hardly fluent. Patrizia is a professional, Dante. Do you really think she’d say something like that to a client’s face?” Lucia set her glass of champagne down.
Lucia was right. I had known Patrizia for a long time, and she’d always been the epitome of professionalism.
“Elysa must’ve misunderstood,” Lucia advised. “Maybe it’s best to tell Patrizia to only speak in English when she’s with Elysa so there are no misunderstandings.”
That made sense. I’d talk to Elysa. I hadn’t canceled the appointment with Patrizia and, now, decided not to.
“That sounds like a good idea. Thank you, Lucia,” I remarked appreciatively. I liked how professional and level-headed Lucia was.
“You know, Dante, I love how easy it is to work with you.”
“I feel the same about you.”
“Now, why don’t we look through the franchisee contracts while we eat dinner?” She got up and pointed to the dining table.
We ordered dinner and worked as we ate.
We spread out the franchisee contracts on the coffee table next to our plates of food and dissected the fine print.
I was reminded again why Lucia was a better match for me. She was sharp, methodical, and grounded in a way I admired. Where Elysa was about living in the moment and keeping life easy and uncomplicated, Lucia was all about the adventure of cutthroat business. She had an eye for details I sometimes missed and a way of slicing through complications with ease .
She pointed to a clause in one of the contracts, tapping her pen against it. “This isn’t worded strongly enough. They could take advantage of us if there’s an operational hiccup.”
Lucia was a confident woman who thrived in situations like this, where logic and precision ruled. Elysa lacked Lucia’s gravitas and dynamism.
“Good catch.” I made a note of it on my tablet.
She glanced up at me, her lips curving into a soft smile. With Lucia, there was no chaos. No second-guessing. No wondering if she was happy, if I was doing enough, or if I was enough.
Lucia didn’t need endless reassurances. She had enough self-esteem and confidence—unlike Elysa, who was constantly looking for validation. Or maybe it was her age. Elysa was in her mid-twenties, while Lucia was in her early thirties.
As Lucia and I worked through the contract, that hollow, unsettled feeling that had been plaguing me for days crept inside me. It was like trying to fill a sieve with water—no matter how much I accomplished, it still leaked away.
“Dante,” Lucia called and pulled me out of my head. “You’ve barely touched your wine.” She tilted her head toward my glass.
I looked at the untouched glass of Barolo and felt a pang in my chest. “Nonno loved this vintage and winemaker. ”
Her eyes softened as she studied me. “You miss him.”
“Every day.” The words were raw and hoarse from unshed tears and a grief that was all-consuming in how it came and went from moment to moment.
People said there were five stages of grief, but what they didn’t say was that they were not linear. One minute, I was angry; the other, I was in denial, and then I was bargaining. The worst part was that the grief I felt for Nonno was wrapped in how I was feeling about Elysa leaving. I felt a surge of rage at her for being so inconsiderate, for throwing divorce papers at me while I was dealing with the death of my grandfather. But the anger dissipated as I remembered how she’d sobbed at Nonno’s bedside, her heart breaking at his loss. The past year, she’d spent more time with Nonno than I had. No, Elysa’s grief probably matched mine. She was probably angry with me for having caused a situation where she needed to do something drastic, like ask me for a divorce while she was grieving the loss of a man she thought of as her Nonno.
Lucia reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “You’re allowed to grieve, Dante.”
I moved my hand away almost instinctively.
Was I always this careful about physical contact?
It hit me then—I didn’t like Lucia touching me. Not even casually. Not a hand on my arm, a brush of fingers when she reached for her wine, or the way she leaned in just a little too close when she spoke .
When had that happened?
When had I gone from tolerating it—hell, sometimes even enjoying it—to feeling like my skin crawled under her touch?
I knew. It was since I got married—since Elysa.
It didn’t matter that our marriage had started as an arrangement, that I had once convinced myself it was nothing more than obligation and convenience. The moment I said, “ Si, lo voglio ” in the small chapel in Piedmont to the priest marrying Elysa and me, something had shifted.
I had belonged to my wife in a way I hadn't fully understood at the time.
And now, standing here, recoiling from a woman I once thought I could have wanted, I realized that even though Elysa wasn’t with me, wasn’t wearing my ring—I was still hers.
Lucia noticed that I pulled back, and she frowned.
“I’m here for you, as a friend and… your person, Dante.”
She tried again to put a hand on my shoulder, but instead of taking her hand in mine and smiling at her, I put her hand right back where it belonged—anywhere other than my body.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
We were friends, and I was treating her like she was a stranger.
She frowned.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing, cara.” I sighed when she raised her eyebrows because it was evident that I was lying.
“I’m just…grieving. ”
“I know.” Her eyes were soft, and this time when she took my hand in hers, I let her.
It felt rude not to.
“It’s going to take time to mourn him, to…move forward.” I looked at her hand on mine.
Her skin was porcelain pale.
Her nails painted a deep burgundy like a good glass of cabernet sauvignon.
She wore two rings, both with somewhat larger diamonds; neither was on her ring finger.
These were ornamental.
Elysa had left her wedding band and diamond engagement ring in a small plastic Ziploc bag in the same envelope as the divorce papers.
They were Giordano family jewels, passed on from older son to older son—and she’d given them back as was decreed in the prenuptial agreement.
“You don’t need to have everything planned out, Dante,” Lucia soothed.
“I’m here. I’ll take care of the company, and I’ll take care of you.”
The sentiment was kind, and I appreciated it in theory, but I didn’t know how to let myself be taken care of like that.
The company relied on me.
I had made it my mission to be unshakable, and now, when everything felt like it was shifting beneath my feet, I didn’t know how to admit that I didn’t know what the future held—the one without Elysa.
Drowning in legalese was an excellent way to not indulge in sadness.
Lucia’s presence felt like a balm.
She focused on the work and helped me do the same.
This was why Lucia and I could have a future.
She didn’t demand parts of me I wasn’t ready to give.
She didn’t stir up the kind of tempestuous emotions Elysa did.
She was steady, like a lighthouse guiding me back to shore.
And yet, when she looked up at me with that tentative smile that silently but loudly said, “ See? We make a good team ,” I didn’t feel a damn thing.
Elysa leaving was fucking with my head.
I had to get back to the original plan.
Nonno was dead, and I had to move on.
We’d get through this gala.
And then, I’d give Elysa what she wanted, let her go live her life the way she needed to, so I could do the same.
But as I watched Lucia scribble another note in the margins of the contract, a faint crease forming between her brows, her face gaunt with tension, I couldn’t help but think of Elysa’s laughing eyes.
Her positivity and cheerfulness always caught me off guard because it felt like a torrent of sunlight breaking through clouds.
Her chaotic, beautiful energy filled my senses in a way that had never happened before.
Her passion was in bed, where she gave as much as she took—never making me feel like it was my job to give her pleasure as so many of the other women I’d been with believed.
I had a reputation for bedding women and the women wanted me to show them what was so fucking special about fucking me.
Not, Elysa.
She asked me what I liked, how I wanted my cock sucked, how I wanted my eggs cooked…
cazzo!
I pushed the mental image of her flushed naked body aside with practiced efficiency.
She didn’t understand my world.
She didn’t fit in.
While Lucia was all about work, Elysa would say things like, “ There’s more to life than work, Dante ,” when I didn’t turn off my laptop during movie night.
Elysa had insisted that Monday night, her day off, would be movie night, and so, after dinner, she’d pick a movie or, worse, make me pick it.
She’d be so sweet about it that I’d just sit on the couch with my laptop instead of going into my office.
She encouraged me not to work so hard—but that was because she didn’t understand the load I carried.
As a server at a bistro run by a friend doing a job that she didn’t really need to do because money wasn’t an issue for her, she had the luxury of believing that there was more to life than work.
I could now see things clearly since I wasn’t caught in the haze of dinners, walks, and sex with Elysa.
She wanted out, and I wasn’t going to stop her.
This was the right path.
Right?