8. Dante
EIGHT
Dante
E lysa looked beautiful but unhappy.
Had I spent too much time with Lucia?
I had, but she wanted to discuss some time-sensitive work matters.
So, I was glad that she wasn’t sitting next to me.
I needed a break from talking about contracts and court cases—and I, as always, enjoyed my time with Elysa.
She was speaking to Susanna Colombo about the wine, and I found myself unexpectedly charmed by how well she knew the obscure Italian red being served.
It was an excellent wine—a rare varietal likely first planted by Roman monks centuries ago—and she spoke about it with the ease of someone who understood and appreciated wine.
Of course, it made sense.
Her father was a winemaker in Piedmont .
But from what I had seen, she wasn’t close to him.
At our wedding, he had barely acknowledged her, more interested in sucking up to Nonno than paying attention to his own daughter.
It was what had led me to believe that her family vineyard was part of the marriage contract—a trade, a business move, nothing more.
I knew that Elysa wasn’t close to her mother either—a deeply religious, conservative woman who, from what little my wife had mentioned, had never been particularly warm.
It occurred to me, unsettlingly, that I had never really asked her about them.
And that despite being married for a year, there was so much I didn’t know about my soon-to-be ex-wife.
That moniker didn’t sit right with me either.
Nonno loved Elysa.
He told me that she’d been the apple of her grandfather Elio's eye. Elio and Elysa maintained a long-distance relationship as best they could, which meant that my wife had one person in her life who truly cared for her. He died before she turned fifteen.
She had once told me that she’d had to raise herself.
I could relate to a point.
My parents hadn’t paid me much attention, busy with their lives as Signor and Signora Giordano until they died in a plane crash on their way to Turin during the ski season five years ago.
During his life, my father had done fuck-all for the company. He just used it as a way to live a luxurious life. I’d had to clean up his messes, and I’d built up the Giordano Hotel Group to what it was today, one of the fastest-growing chains in the world.
Nonno had always been proud of my achievements, but he worried that I worked too much, that I had no balance, no real life outside of the empire I was building. He believed I needed to settle down, to have something—someone—to come home to.
Once he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he pushed harder, determined to see me married before he was gone. And he’d decided that Elysa was the right choice.
Probably because, like me, she had negligent parents. Because she had been close to her grandfather, just as I had been close to mine. Maybe he thought that kind of loss, that kind of understanding, would bond us.
Nonno had raised me. He was my person, the only one whose approval had ever truly mattered. In the end, I couldn’t say no to him.
But that didn’t mean I hadn’t resented Elysa for my inability to turn down Nonno.
I’d resented her presence, her role in the arrangement, her mere existence as proof that I had given in. And a part of me had wished—selfishly, unfairly—that she had found a way out of this.
Because if she had, maybe I could have had one too.
Elysa then laughed at something Susanna said. The sound was light and effortless, pulling me out of my thoughts—not with sentiment but with the sharp jolt of desire that always seemed to spark when she was near.
No matter how much I tried to ignore it, there was something about being around her that unsettled me in ways I wasn’t prepared to admit, especially since my cock went steel hard and my hands itched to touch her.
I knew what she wanted. A real marriage. A normal one. She had told me as much and had worked—patiently, persistently—to give us that.
Dinners as a couple. Movie nights on the couch, curled up together.
I had indulged her when it suited me. But, in truth, I had resisted. I had controlled the pace, the boundaries, giving in only when I felt like it—on my terms.
And now, sitting here, watching her laugh at something that had nothing to do with me, I wondered—had she finally stopped trying?
Guilt pinched at my conscience.
She had filed for divorce because she had heard me tell Dean we couldn’t have a long-term marriage. I turned to see Lucia sitting next to my cousin Vittoria, whom she disliked. Their feelings were mutual.
Did I want Lucia? No. If I did, I should’ve been all over her since my wife, who’d filed divorce papers, had given me the green light, and yet, I wouldn’t touch Lucia. Why was that?
I stroked a finger down Elysa’s silken arm simply because I wanted to.
The idea that we were done didn’t sit well with me, though I didn’t know why. I wished Nonno was alive because then, these confusing emotions wouldn’t have taken over my life. I’d still be Elysa’s husband, and everything would be the way it was.
I wouldn’t miss her.
She turned to look at me, startled.
I smiled at her. “Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?”
She seemed baffled by my comment. “Yes, you did,” she replied hotly. “ Actually , no, you didn’t. Your words were to the effect that Patrizia had outdone herself.”
Had I?
Yes. And now that she repeated my words, I realized how insensitive they were. I hadn’t complimented her; I’d praised her stylist, who she didn’t like.
Regret flared in my belly. I shouldn’t have forced Patrizia on her. That had been foolish of me. Why couldn’t I have just listened to Elysa and given her this small thing she asked for? It wasn’t like she asked for much…well, except for the divorce…where she was also asking for nothing, just a legal severing of our relationship .
" Mi dispiace , cara ... Elysa." I corrected myself, knowing she hated being called cara . After all, I called Lucia that, and she was right in feeling slighted by the endearment, regardless of how casually I used it. " Perdonami for being so rude."
She swallowed. “Well…it’s of no matter,” she said with false nonchalance. She did that often, didn’t she? Pretend she didn’t care when she did. How come I hadn’t noticed it before? Because you weren’t looking, testa di cazzo .
“This is such a beautiful location,” Perla Gotti, the woman sitting next to me, said. Her husband was busy flirting with some other man’s wife.
“ Si ,” I agreed. “It embodies the grandness of Rome.”
The Villa Medici was indeed a gem, perched on the Pincio Terrace overlooking the city. Tonight, it was bathed in golden light. The ballroom opened onto sprawling gardens filled with perfectly manicured hedges and Roman sculptures that glowed under the soft illumination. Crystal chandeliers hung from high, frescoed ceilings inside, casting prisms of light over the well-dressed crowd.
“Your wife is lovely,” she commented. She slurred like she was tipsy.
“ Grazie .”
She then looked at her husband, who was staring at the tits of the woman sitting next to him while her companion—her husband, I think—was in his cups .
“I thought we were supposed to sit at that table.” Her chin nodded to where Lucia was.
I arched an eyebrow, and she chuckled. “I think your wife moved us, which I’m grateful for because if I had to hear Vittoria Bellini talk about her shoe collection, I might hit her with my shoe. No offense. I know she’s your cousin.”
“I don’t think my wife?—”
“She did,” she cut me off. “She doesn’t like your friend . Actually, I don’t like your friend either. I don’t know her, but I don’t like her. A woman who chases after another woman’s man has a special place in hell. I think Madeline Albright, the American diplomat, said that.”
I wanted to correct her because I knew the quote—Madeline Albright had said that about women who didn’t support other women—but since the sentiment was the same, I let it go.
“Lucia is not chasing me,” I protested.
Perla’s laugh was bitter. “No? Then why does your wife look at her the way I look at my husband’s little conquests?”
She swirled red wine in her glass, staring at it like it held some secret she was trying to decode. “You think you’re different, but men like you, men like my husband, you make us feel like… props . Decorations. Useful when convenient, invisible when not.”
“I don’t—” I started, but she turned to me sharply, her eyes narrowing .
"Yes, you do. Maybe not on purpose. Maybe you tell yourself you love her. But actions speak louder than that, signore." Perla set her wine glass down in disgust. "You let her sit at these tables alone, watching you flirt with another woman, watching you dance with her." She glared at me now, and I was glad that looks could not kill. "You say nothing is happening with your friend , but what you're really doing is asking your wife to live with your choices—to swallow the humiliation and pretend it doesn’t hurt."
I felt my face heat with embarrassment. “Lucia and I work together, and we weren’t flirting; we were discussing business.” I wanted Perla to shut the fuck up because she was being too forward and that wasn’t done in our society.
Perla’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Do you know what it feels like to sit and watch the man who is supposed to love you act like you’re an afterthought? To feel like no matter what you do, you’ll never be enough? Like every other woman in the room is more interesting, more worthy of attention, more desirable?”
Because she didn’t know the circumstances of our marriage, she was forgiven for thinking that Elysa loved me.
We didn’t love each other.
Perla now downed her wine and set her empty glass on the table. A server would soon be rushing over to refill it for her.
“I used to think I wasn’t good enough for him ,” she continued, her gaze distant now, and I doubted she was even talking to me. “That if I were thinner, prettier, wittier, more… something , then maybe he’d look at me the way he looks at them . But it’s not about me. It’s about him . Men like you”—she gestured vaguely at me—“you think love is something that waits around for you, no matter how little you nurture it. But love doesn’t work like that. Not forever.”
“Signora, I think?—”
“My husband doesn’t love me anymore,” she muttered bitterly.
Right then, her husband laughed loudly, his face too close to the woman who was ignoring Perla’s presence.
A server, as expected, refilled Perla’s glass.
“Maybe he never did,” Perla said after a short silence.
“Did what?” I asked, startled.
“Never loved me.” She looked at me with pity. “You don’t love your wife either, do you?”
I was about to say something to change the topic when her question caught me off guard. Did I not love Elysa? No, I didn’t. Right? But the words felt bitter inside my mouth. I cared for her. A lot. I knew that much.
Perla drank some more. “Your wife adores you.”
“Signora—” I tried again, and she cut me off again.
“She changed the seating cards,” she added as if she were thrilled that Elysa had done that, though I couldn’t imagine her doing something so petty. That wasn’t like her. Or was it?
Thankfully, Cristina Carrera stepped on the stage then. She smiled warmly as she tapped the microphone, and the chatter of the room quieted. I had a lot of respect for Cristina. She was a force of nature. In her sixties, she was as regal as a queen, and today was no exception. She stood tall in a floor-length, sapphire-colored gown that complemented her silver hair.
“ Buonasera ,” Cristina began, and the murmurs across the ballroom quieted. “First, I want to thank all of you for being here tonight to support this cause. Your generosity will directly impact the lives of women and children who need it most.”
She spoke in Italian, and my gaze drifted to Elysa, wondering how much she understood. The way she nodded her head and smiled told me nothing—she could be faking it, or maybe she did understand. And that took me back to Patrizia and the fat cow remark.
Cristina thanked a lot of people, naming names, and everyone applauded each time.
“And now,” she continued, “I have a very special woman to thank who made this evening and so many others possible.”
Everyone waited to hear who that special woman was. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. It had a message from Lucia: “ I am so bored. I wish I were sitting with you.”
I set the phone face down on the table .
"I want to ask you all what you think of the wine?" Cristina raised her glass.
The room responded with murmurs of approval, a few heads nodding in agreement, before someone called out, " è eccellente !"
Another chimed in, “ Perfetto, Cristina! Davvero un’ottima scelta !"
Cristina smiled, clearly pleased. “We have one woman to thank for the menu tonight and the event. She helped plan it and has been helping me ever since I met her a year ago. She has fundraised. She has catered some of our events for free. She has helped raise nearly a hundred thousand euros for the women’s shelter.”
I saw Elysa stiffen. She clasped her napkin tightly. I didn’t know what had upset her, but something had. I put a hand on her fist, and she looked at me uneasily and gave me a pathetic smile.
“All okay?” I asked.
She shook her head.
But before I could investigate further, I found out why she wasn’t happy.
“Please join me in applauding Elysa Giordano,” Cristina concluded.
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. Elysa? My Elysa? The woman who claimed she didn’t belong in my world, who hated events like this, had helped organize it ?
The crowd erupted in applause as Cristina gestured for my wife to stand. Elysa hesitated, shaking her head slightly, but Cristina waved her up with a warm smile. Reluctantly, Elysa stood and bowed and then sat right back down, her movements graceful despite the apparent unease in her posture.
“Today, it’s been a month since we lost Dante Giordano.” She looked at me then with kindness in her eyes. “He was a true friend, and through him I met Elysa. I will forever be grateful to him for the work he did to help our charitable efforts and for giving us Elysa.”
My chest tightened. Nonno’s friends had become Elysa’s friends. Who had I introduced her to from my world? She’d met my friends, yes, and she met my colleagues and my leadership team, which included Lucia, but she’d not gotten close to any of them because I hadn’t made the effort. Nonno had.
Cristina wasn’t finished. “I’m so happy that Dante’s legacy continues to inspire us all. To Nonno, and to Elysa.”
The applause was thunderous, and I moved my hand away from hers to clap. She wasn’t looking at anyone, just her lap. I knew she didn’t like attention and shied away from it—but as she nodded when Susanna complimented her, I saw the faintest trace of pride beneath her discomfort.
I realized then, to my chagrin, that Cristina and Renzo hadn’t invited Elysa tonight as my wife—but I was here as her husband.
I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more—the fact that I hadn’t known or the fact that it seemed Elysa hadn’t felt the need to tell me about her accomplishments.