18. Elysa
EIGHTEEN
Elysa
“ Y ou want a divorce?” my father asked, his tone sharp as glass, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual.
We always spoke in English—my Italian had faded after we moved to New York, especially since my mother insisted we use only English.
Even now, with my Italian much improved, we kept the habit.
That was fine with me.
I struggled to find the right words in any language, let alone one I hadn’t fully mastered.
I had always wanted my father’s approval.
And now, I was doing the one thing that would ensure I never got it.
But I needed to be honest with him.
And a small part of me—the part that still believed in fairy tales—hoped he would finally respect my choices.
Respect me.
I gripped the cool metal edge of the railing behind me for support.
“Papa, I’m not happy with him. ”
The balcony was quiet except for the distant sounds of chatter and music from the hotel bar’s patio.
The vineyards stretched out into the night, dark and endless, their neat rows bathed in moonlight.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and summer heat—usually soothing, but not in my father’s presence.
“Happy? What stupid American notion is that? Marriage is about duty. Your mother didn’t understand that, and it looks like neither do you.”
My parents never got along.
I didn’t remember much as a child, except for screaming matches and that long flight from Rome to New York, where my mother cursed my father and called him Satan.
I’d been four years old.
My earliest memories were not of hugs and kisses and affection but of my parents at war over their disparate values.
“Papa, Dante also wants a divorce,” I told him.
It was true.
I mean, he was changing his tune now, but how reliable was that?
Should I believe the man who had treated me with indifference, the man who told his friend that I was a kid, or this man who suddenly wanted to give our marriage another chance?
“Of course he does,” Papa snapped.
“Look at you dancing with Luca Carrera while your husband is alone. You’re a stupid girl.”
When Papa had said he’d like a nightcap, and I invited him to our suite while Dante did whatever he had to do, I’d thought it would be pleasant.
We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, it was polite .
But, apparently, not this time, not when I was doing something he didn’t like.
I shrugged.
“This is a done deal, Papa.”
He got into my face, and I pressed against the rail, my arms crossed in a protective gesture, not liking how physically close he was when angry.
“You think this decision affects only you?” he snarled.
“You think it doesn’t reflect on me? Do you have any idea how foolish this makes you look? How foolish it makes me look?”
“Papa, this is not about making anyone look…like anything. I’m just trying to be happy.”
“You’re a selfish bitch like your mother.”
My heart pounded in my chest.
There was no excuse for a father to speak to his child in this manner, none at all.
“You need to step back, Papa.” I swallowed the fear and spoke clearly.
He did take a step back, and I moved away from the railing toward the patio door.
I was in flight mode.
I’d never seen my father this angry at me, and I had to admit it unnerved me.
“You will apologize to Dante and make your marriage work. You should be pregnant by now,” he continued.
“The rumor is that he has taken that lawyer woman as his mistress.”
“How nice for him,” I deadpanned.
“You think this is a joke?”
“My whole life is a joke,” I muttered .
“Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped, his tone cutting.
“I have given you everything. Stability, opportunity, the Giordanos?—”
“You didn’t give me anything,” I interrupted irately, the child in me demanding justice.
“You used me. You didn’t arrange my marriage because you cared about my future. You did it because it benefited you. And now you’re mad because I’m finally doing something for myself? Why do you care? You have the vineyard…you have what you wanted.”
His expression darkened.
“You’ve always been ungrateful. You’re throwing away the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“Throwing away what ?” I shot back, my hands trembling at my sides.
“A husband who ignores me? A life where I’m treated like furniture?”
His nostrils flared, his hand tightening on the glass of wine he’d been holding and not drinking from.
For a moment, I thought he might walk away.
But instead, he took a step closer, his fury barely contained.
“You think you can just walk away from this marriage without consequences? Do you know how much I’ve invested in you, Elysa? You have no idea?—”
“Invested in me?” My words wavered, thick with rage.
"I'm your daughter, not a line item in your winery’s fucking balance sheet!”
My words hung in the air for a beat. His face twisted with anger, and before I could react, his hand lashed out, striking me hard across the cheek .
The sound of the slap echoed in the still night air. My head whipped to the side, and I staggered, my hand flying to my face as the sting bloomed sharp and humiliating across my skin.
I froze, disbelief flooding through me. He’d hit me before when I was younger, but this….
“Elysa!” Dante’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. I turned to see him standing in the doorway of the suite, his eyes blazing with fury.
In three long strides, he was in front of me, shoving my father back with enough force to make him stumble.
“If you ever touch her again,” Dante said with a snarl, “you’ll regret it. Do you understand me?”
Vittorio looked stunned, his usually unshakable composure slipping for the first time in my life. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Save it,” Dante yelled, his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get to make excuses. Get out before I beat the crap out of you .”
Vittorio straightened his jacket, his mouth tightening as he shot me one last look. “I…I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
I had nothing to say to him. I had nothing to say to anyone.
Without another word, he turned and walked through the suite, the door slamming shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening. I stood frozen, my cheek still burning from the slap, my heart racing from the adrenaline coursing through me.
“Elysa.”
Dante’s tone was softer now, but when I turned to look at him, the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm as if he wasn’t sure I’d let him touch me.
I flinched, and he dropped his hand.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded automatically, even though it wasn’t true.
The throbbing in my cheek was piercing, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. The man who was supposed to love me unconditionally had just proven, once again, that he never really did.
“I’m fine.” The words came out shaky and thin.
“No, you’re not.” Dante put a gentle arm around my shoulder and led me to the couch in the sitting room.
He tried to sit me down. I shook my head. “I don’t need?—”
“Elysa,” he said with quiet reassurance. “Let me take care of you. Please .”
The please caught me off guard, and I sank into the plush couch, wrapping my arms around myself as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind only fatigue.
Dante crouched in front of me, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he studied my face. His gaze lingered on my cheek, and his jaw clenched .
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” His tone was tight with regret.
“You couldn’t have known,” I murmured.
How could he have known when I hadn’t? My father had hit me. It was as if all my nightmares had coalesced together. My husband wanted another woman, and my father disliked me to the point of physical violence.
He exhaled sharply. “I’m so sorry, bella mia .”
“Why are you sorry?” I asked, baffled.
“For so many things.” He stroked my smarting cheek with a finger, and the sincerity on his face undid me.
“Why does he hate me so much? Is there something wrong with me?” I asked as tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Oh, bella mia , don’t cry.” He was on the couch in an instant. He picked me up, settled me on his lap, and hugged me close. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re sei perfetta .”