20. Elysa
TWENTY
Elysa
D ante left me alone after we returned from Piedmont for exactly three days.
On day four, I found him at Bistro Marmorata, at table seven, which was set up for two people.
Initially, I hadn’t noticed.
The dinner rush was in full swing, and the bistro was alive with the kind of energy I loved—plates clinking, laughter echoing off the walls, and the hum of lively chatter blending with the soft jazz playlist I had carefully curated.
I was at the bar, finishing up a review of our wine inventory, when one of my servers, Sofia, approached me, looking flustered but starry-eyed.
“Elysa,” she whispered loudly .
“Dante…Giordano is here.”
I froze, my pen hovering mid-note.
“Excuse me? ”
“Table seven.” She gestured subtly toward the back of the room.
“Is he with someone?” With Lucia, maybe?
“Alone, said he wants a table for one. And he looks... um...”—she flushed—“ really hot.”
Against my better judgment, I turned to look, and Sophia was right; he was hot .
He was also an asshole.
For a year, I’d worked here, and he’d never bothered to show up, but now he was sitting at a table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was dressed casually—no three-piece suit, no tie choking the life out of him—just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans that hugged him a little too well.
I marched over, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
When I reached his table, he looked up at me with a smile so easy and charming that it stopped me in my tracks.
“ Mi leoncina , how are you?”
Since I barked every time he called me cara , he’d started calling me his little lioness.
A part of me loved it, and another bristled like I was indeed a big cat who was being stroked the wrong way.
I put my hands on his table.
“What are you doing here?” I spoke in a quiet, controlled tone.
“You look beautiful.” He seemed entirely at ease.
“I’m here to eat.”
I stared at him, suspicious.
“Why? ”
His grin widened.
“I’m very excited to try Basilicata cuisine with a Roman twist.”
This was ridiculous.
“Dante, if you’re here to make a point, just go ahead and make it.”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence.
“Can’t a man come to support his wife’s business without being interrogated?”
“She’s not your wife anymore,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it because his grin only deepened.
“Legally, bella mia , you’re still very much my wife.” His words dropped just enough to feel more intimate than they had any right to be.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Fine. You want to eat? Eat . Sofia will take care of you.”
I turned to leave, but he stopped me by saying, “I’ll take the special. Can you tell me more about it?”
I gritted my teeth.
“It’s pasta.”
“Ah, come on, Elysa, it’s more than pasta.” He turned to the table next to him.
“Signor, did you get the special?”
I closed my eyes.
The man was going to make a scene.
He just didn’t care that this was my place of work.
“ Si , it’s excellent,” the guest exclaimed.
Dante turned back and grinned at me.
“So…pasta? And?”
I sighed.
“Pasta con Peperoni Cruschi e Mollica is hand-rolled cavatelli tossed with crispy peperoni cruschi and golden breadcrumbs toasted in olive oil.”
“Sounds delicious. Can you suggest a wine pairing? I’ve heard that the wine program here is excellent.”
The couple at the table he’d just disturbed, who were listening to us unabashedly, intervened.
“Amazing wine. The sommelier,” the guest tilted his head toward me, “suggested a wine we’d never heard of. I want a case of it.”
“The sommelier,” Dante looked at me as he spoke, his eyes bright with challenge, “is my wife. Isn’t she lovely?”
The couple looked from my stiff face to Dante’s and snickered.
They went back to their meal, but I distinctly heard them murmur in Italian, “Marriage troubles” and “So cute.”
I decided not to let him rattle me and spoke like a Somm in some snooty French restaurant.
“For the wine, I recommend the Aglianico del Vulture.”
And I hope you choke on it.
“Interesting.” Dante checked the menu to find the wine I had mentioned.
“Can you tell me about the wine?”
It’s red, you son of a bitch, like your blood that’s going to pour out when I stab you with something!
“It’s a bold and structured red wine with smoky and earthy notes. It will complement the flavors of the dish beautifully. ”
But since it doesn’t cost over a hundred euros, you probably won’t like it.
“I’d like a bottle.”
He licked his lower lip, and he looked at me the way he did right before we’d end up naked.
The man wasn’t playing fair, but I wasn’t some hormonal moron who could be led around by my clitoris.
“Maybe I can convince my wife to join me after she’s finished work,” he said huskily.
Not even with a gun to my head.
"I’m afraid after work, I’ve been hired to repaint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel," I retorted, flashing him a saccharine smile.
He chuckled.
"If I didn't know any better, bella mia , I'd think you have a thing for Michelangelo."
The bastard.
He was up to something—I just didn’t know what yet.
“Sofia will be with you shortly with your wine.” I stormed back to the bar, flagging Sofia down.
“Handle his table with care ,” I told her as I entered Dante’s order into the point-of-sale system.
“Your husband is?—”
“I know, sexy as hell.”
Sofia giggled.
“I was going to say very charming, but let’s go with sexy as hell .”
“Get to work, Sofia,” I grumbled.
She nodded, looking a little too eager to get to Dante’s table.
By the time I checked on the kitchen and made my rounds, it was clear that Dante was putting on a show of being Mr.
Amiable & Sexy.
I caught glimpses of him laughing with Sofia and Paolo, charming them with that effortless charisma that had drawn me to him in the first place.
My staff, of course, was eating it up.
Paolo looked like he wanted to propose on the spot, and even Maura, who never left the kitchen, came out to yank my chain after she heard my estranged husband had deigned to come to our bistro.
“My, my, your husband is certainly wooing you,” Maura noted, amused.
“He’s…what?” I choked the words out.
“No! He’s up to something.”
“That much is obvious. He’s here for you.” She grinned.
“Am I to assume you’re moving out?”
“You want me to move out?” I demanded.
“No.” Her smile was unwavering.
“But I think he does.”
Dante looked at us and toasted us with his wine glass.
Maura waved back.
“He’s the enemy,” I hissed at my friend.
“He’s your husband,” she retorted nonchalantly.
“Not for long.”
“He did say he wasn’t letting you go, didn’t he?” Maura reminded.
“Whose side are you on?” I asked, baffled.
“Always yours, darling.” She winked at me and went back to the kitchen .
The people sitting next to Dante’s table laughed then at something he said.
I didn’t know this Dante.
This wasn’t the man I’d been married to—the brooding, ambitious, workaholic who always had his mind somewhere else.
This was someone different.
Someone.
.
.
carefree.
I didn’t trust him for a second.
We were getting ready to close, and Dante was still there.
He’d finished his meal, and then he’d finished his bottle of wine.
He’d also ordered dessert.
He was the only guest remaining in the bistro, and I was way past ready for him to leave.
“Elysa,” he called out.
“Join me for some dessert.”
He ordered my favorite: torta della nonna , a classic Italian dessert.
It is a creamy custard-filled tart topped with pine nuts and powdered sugar.
It was simple yet irresistible.
Heat rushed to my face.
I came to his table.
“I’m working,” I hissed.
“Take a break.”
“I can’t.” I won’t.
He smiled, completely unbothered.
“Why not? You’re my wife, and I want you to join me for dessert. Surely that’s not too much to ask?”
I glared at him, but my staff was watching, and I didn’t want to cause a scene.
Gritting my teeth, I slid into the chair across from him, shooting him a look that I hoped conveyed how much I hated this.
“What do you want, Dante?” I murmured .
His expression softened just enough to unsettle me.
“To share this lovely torta della nonna with you.”
Lifting a forkful, he held it out, and before I could think better of it, I parted my lips, letting him feed me.
Just like that, we shifted—from adversaries to something far too intimate in a single breath.
I had to hand it to Dante—he was smooth.
He had all the moves, and worse?
They worked.
“Have your lawyers finished going through the divorce papers?” I asked, desperately wanting to put some distance between us.
The smile on his face didn’t waver, but his eyes were sharper.
He casually swirled the glass of red wine in his hand.
“They haven’t even looked at them.”
“ What ?” If my eyes could get any bigger, they would have.
He put the wine glass on the table.
“I have no intention of divorcing you.”
I blinked, stunned.
“ What ?” I repeated like a fool.
“I’m going to contest the divorce, Elysa,” he said, his tone calm, almost casual.
“I’ll take you to court if I have to.”
I stared at him, completely at a loss.
“Why the hell would you do that?”
His gaze was steady and unflinching.
“Because you’re my wife.” He looked at me long and hard and then added softly, “And because I love you.”
My mind scrambled for something to say, but all I could feel was the heat rising in my chest and the tightness in my throat.
He didn’t mean it.
He couldn’t.
This was Dante—calculating, manipulative, and always playing the long game.
“You’re lying.” I was trembling.
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not lying, and if you weren’t so insecure, you’d be able to see that.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Name-calling? Really, Elyssa, you’re going to?—"
Before he could finish, I grabbed his glass of wine and flung the contents at him.
The red liquid splashed across his face, staining his white shirt and dripping down his jaw. I felt my entire staff still, all eyes on us, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of satisfaction. But it didn’t last because he did something that completely disarmed me.
He laughed.
Not a polite chuckle or a nervous laugh. A deep, genuine laugh that lit up his face and made him look like a completely different man.
“ Diamine !” He wiped his face with a napkin, his grin wide and unbothered. “Next time, I’ll remember not to wear white when I come here to eat.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “What’s wrong with you?”
“So many things, mi leoncina .” He dabbed at his shirt. “But I don’t think throwing wine at me is going to fix any of them.”
This wasn’t the Dante I knew. The Dante I knew would’ve been furious, his pride wounded, his anger barely contained. But this man, this version of him, was utterly foreign to me. And I hated that a small part of me found it...endearing, and him…charming.