16. Elysa
SIXTEEN
Elysa
T he Giordano family vineyard was breathtaking.
Rows upon rows of grapevines stretched across the rolling hills, their green leaves shimmering.
The family villa, a sprawling stone estate with terracotta roof tiles and ivy creeping up its walls, stood dignified and timeless.
The reception was set just beyond the main house, with long linen-draped tables arranged in the courtyard, wine glasses already sparkling in the golden light of early evening.
We’d come straight to the Giordano family home after the award ceremony at the Palazzo del Tramonto.
I had thought Dante wanted me around to stop wagging tongues, but he insisted that I go on stage with him and accept the award posthumously honoring his grandfather like I was his wife, which I technically was, but I also wasn’t.
The speeches, the applause, the cameras—it had all blurred together in my mind, but I couldn’t forget the way Dante’s hand had lingered on my back as we stood before the crowd.
His touch wasn’t casual or cold; it was steady, deliberate, almost…
protective.
Now, as I walked through the courtyard at the vineyard, surrounded by Dante’s family, colleagues, and friends, I felt like I’d stumbled into some kind of alternate universe.
“Elysa, cara mia !” Cristina Carrera pulled me into a hug as I passed her table.
“What a wonderful honor for your family. And you look stunning, my dear.”
“Thank you.” I managed a polite smile.
I was nervous about how I looked as this was the first time I’d dressed myself for a social event—how bizarre was that—since I’d married Dante.
I had gone shopping with Maura, but my budget didn’t stretch to in-season designer wear.
We’d prowled through vintage stores, and I’d found a dress that felt like a miracle.
It was an ethereal creation from Alberta Ferretti, all soft organza and chiffon in a delicate shade of champagne.
The bodice hugged my torso with just enough structure to feel elegant, while the flowing skirt moved like water with every step.
Thin straps framed my shoulders, and the neckline dipped low enough to feel feminine but not too revealing.
The craftsmanship was unmistakable—every seam, every delicate pleat spoke of Italian artistry.
It was the kind of dress I’d never dreamed I could afford, and if it hadn’t been tucked away in the back corner of the store, a forgotten relic from some long past season, it would’ve been far beyond my reach.
But there was pride that I’d not only chosen it but also paid for it.
I’d paired it with simple gold earrings that Don Giordano had given me as a wedding present.
They had belonged to his wife.
My hair was swept into a low, loose chignon that I’d somehow managed to wrangle on my own.
It wasn’t showy, but it felt like me—and not a version of me that Patrizia had made me into.
My makeup was light.
Some concealer to hide the dark circles and blemishes, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick…
and we’re done!
Dante had complimented me and not said one rude thing about my appearance.
That in itself was strange—not that he was usually rude, but he usually gave me left-handed compliments.
There was none of the “you look nice even though….”
He’d simply said I looked stunning .
I wished I could believe him, but he had broken my trust, and now I didn’t know what to think.
My nerves were on edge.
Dante’s attention wasn’t helping.
He hadn’t left my side during the ceremony, and now, at the reception, I could feel his eyes on me no matter where I moved.
It was a stark contrast to how things normally were—him distracted, distant, or worse, completely ignoring me while he played “we’re discussing work” with Lucia.
But tonight, he was attentive.
Present .
And I didn’t know how to feel about it .
I spotted my father near one of the tables, speaking with a small group of men I recognized from Piedmont’s wine consortium.
He glanced up as I approached, his expression unreadable.
“Papa,” I greeted him politely.
“Elysa.” He gave me the perfunctory air kisses.
“You were excellent on stage. You carried yourself well. That’s what’s expected in situations like these.”
Was this why I was attracted to Dante?
My father’s compliments were just as uninspiring as my husband’s, though he had been different today.
“ Grazie ,” I replied, though the word tasted bitter on my tongue.
“Your Italian has improved. Good.”
I was about to respond when I felt a hand slide around my waist.
I smelled his cologne before I heard him.
“Vittorio,” Dante greeted him smoothly.
“Dante,” my father replied, doing a one-eighty when it came to demeanor.
He’d gone from critical to appeasing faster than one of those Italian cars Dante loved to drive.
“Wonderful, wonderful ceremony.”
“ Grazie , Vittorio. I hope it’s okay for me to steal Elysa.” Dante sounded pleasant enough, but I had a feeling he didn’t like my father.
Vittorio raised an eyebrow, glancing at me briefly before nodding.
“Of course. She’s your wife, after all.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and say, “ But not for long . ”
The courtyard glowed under strands of twinkling lights that crisscrossed between the villa’s tall stone walls.
The reception was in full swing now, with guests clustered around the tables or strolling through the vineyard paths, wine glasses in hand.
Near the dance floor, a string quartet had transitioned from their more formal repertoire into something lighter— O Sole Mio , played with soft, lilting notes that carried the romance of Italy into the warm night air.
Dante led me onto the dance floor, where couples were already swaying to the music.
The warmth of his palm against mine made my stomach tighten, though I told myself it was just the wine—or the strangeness of the night.
But deep down, I knew better.
I loved this man, and whenever he was near, the butterflies in my stomach turned riotous.
“Dante”—I glanced at him suspiciously—“what are you doing?”
He pulled me closer.
“Dancing with my wife.”
His hand slid to the small of my back as his other held mine firmly.
We moved in easy, fluid steps.
I hadn’t danced in ages—certainly not with him—but somehow, we fell into a rhythm like we had done this a hundred times before.
The quartet transitioned to a romantic waltz, the soft and unhurried Ti Voglio Tanto Bene .
The song’s gentle melody weaved through the air, drawing couples closer as though the rest of the world had faded away .
It was intimate, a bit too intimate for a couple on the verge of a divorce.
I tilted my head slightly.
“You don’t usually dance with me.”
“We dance when we’re at parties.”
“No. You usually dance with Lucia.” The words didn’t sound quite so accusatory and sharp in my head as they did when they came out of my mouth.
Dante’s expression shifted just enough for me to catch a flicker of guilt.
“That was an oversight,” he said quietly.
“One of many.”
“Are these the fuck-ups you’ve been talking about lately?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he kept his eyes on me as he spun us slowly, the soft scent of the vineyard in the air and the warm glow of the lanterns flickering in his eyes.
“I’ve made mistakes, Elysa,” he admitted finally.
“A lot of them. But I’m trying to…see things clearly now.”
I didn’t know what to do with that.
Dante wasn’t the kind of man who apologized, but he’d been doing it a lot these past days.
And now, holding me in his arms, he looked at me like he meant every word.
It made my chest ache.
“What kind of game are you playing, Dante?”
His brow furrowed.
“None.”
“Then what is it?” I pressed.
“Because I don’t trust this. I don’t trust you. ”
His grip on my waist tightened slightly, though his steps didn’t falter.
“I don’t blame you.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that either, so I looked away, focusing instead on the couples around us.
My father was talking with some business associates near the edge of the courtyard, barely sparing a glance at the dance floor.
Luca was entertaining his mother and a few others.
I scanned the room and realized I hadn’t seen Lucia all evening.
Was she not here?
When the song ended, Dante didn’t immediately release me.
His hand lingered on my waist, his eyes searching mine for something I wasn’t willing to give.
“Thank you for the dance, bella mia .”
I stepped back, putting distance between us, and forced a tight smile.
“I need a drink.”
Without waiting for his response, I walked toward the bar, my heels clicking sharply against the stone.
My pulse was unsteady, my thoughts a tangled mess.
Dante was up to something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was.