24. Elysa
TWENTY-FOUR
Elysa
S ummer nights in Rome were magical, with the lingering warmth of the day melting into something softer and slower.
When I first moved here, these were the nights Dante and I would walk together.
At the time, I believed anything was possible.
But I didn’t believe in magic anymore.
Or maybe a part of me still did because once again Dante was walking beside me on uneven cobblestones.
The air smelled of jasmine and hot stone as the streetlights smoothed out the rough edges of the city.
It was as easy as apple pie to fall into step with him—natural, inevitable, and scary.
Earlier, I’d hoped that we’d make our marriage a success, but now I wasn’t sure what to hope for.
“Sofia calls you Signor Irresistible,” I told him.
“I sort of am, you know.”
He insisted on holding my hand when he hadn’t before.
Then we used to walk as friendly companions—now we were a couple?
Since the evening we had dinner together, this had become a routine.
Dante kept showing up at the bistro, ordering dinner, charming my staff, and leaving generous tips that I pretended not to notice.
Maura had started to come out of the kitchen to talk to him, and he was allowed into her sacred kitchen and ate there while he watched the staff work.
He had become part of the Bistro Marmorata family.
At first, I had doubted his motives—but not anymore.
Even Maura agreed that Dante truly wanted me back.
Every night, he asked me to go for a walk with him—just like I used to ask him when we lived together.
Back then, he didn’t always join me.
And now, I understood why.
Whenever we got too close, he pulled back.
But now?
Now, he waited.
Patiently.
Politely.
He stood by as I closed up the bistro, no longer the man who made demands and expected the world to fall in line.
He wasn’t pushing.
He was proving.
“Dante, why do you want me?” I asked him one night.
He had told me to ask all the questions I wanted and promised he’d answer them honestly.
According to him, we’d not gotten to know one another, and that had led to communication gaps and misunderstandings .
“In the beginning, right after you left, it was because there was a hole in my heart. I missed you all the time.” Dante glanced at me, and even in the dim light, I could see the faint curve of his smile.
“But then it changed when I realized that I missed you because I loved you. Then I started to understand why I loved you. It’s because you’re generous, bella mia . Fiercely loyal and protective. You work hard without constantly looking at what you get in return—you do it because you love the work.”
We walked along Via Marmorata, the main road through Testaccio.
The air still carried the lingering scent of fresh bread from Panificio Passi, the little bakery that had been a staple for decades.
The sidewalk was quiet now; the rush of the day had faded, leaving only the occasional Vespa zipping past and the soft murmurs from a nearby café.
“How do you know that you love me?” I asked as we crossed Piazza Testaccio, where the streetlights shimmered off the Fontana delle Anfore, the grand travertine fountain at the square’s center.
The amphorae carved into its base were a tribute to the neighborhood’s history, a reminder that Testaccio had once been the heart of Rome’s ancient trade, where jars of olive oil and wine arrived by the Tiber.
A couple sat by the fountain, while an old man walked his dog past the bronze boar statue near the market.
“Nonno always said that emotions and feelings can sometimes not be trusted.” He entangled his fingers with mine.
I liked his firm hold.
I liked that we held hands when we walked.
I liked a lot of the things this new Dante was doing.
But I worried it was a phase, and eventually he’d revert to the man who treated me like I was a burden.
“So, you can’t trust how you feel about me?” I asked cautiously.
He left my hand and pulled me into a hug.
“Nonno also said that the heart knows the truth long before the mind catches up.”
His arms tightened around me, warm and steady, as if holding me was the most natural thing in the world.
I wanted to believe that.
I wanted to believe him.
But hadn’t my own heart once told me that he’d never love me?
That I would always be second to duty, convenience, or something—someone—else?
That he had sex with me only because he didn’t believe in cheating on his marriage vows.
These were my insecurities.
I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the embrace for just a moment before I pulled back, searching his face.
“And has your mind finally caught up?”
Dante’s gaze held mine, dark and unwavering.
“ Si, bella .”
We fell silent as we turned onto Via Galvani, the street narrowing as it led toward the old Mattatoio, the sprawling 19th-century slaughterhouse that had long since been transformed into an arts and culture hub.
The red-brick arches loomed ahead, their history woven into the very fabric of the neighborhood.
The contrast between old and new, history and reinvention, was everywhere in Testaccio—just like it was between Dante and me—our lives when we lived together and now as we reinvented our relationship.
“So, what do we do now?” I asked him.
“Well, I intend to keep showing you how much you mean to me, how much I love you— and that you can trust me. Trust me to keep you safe.”
He had been proving it in small but deliberate ways—insisting we spend time together, asking about my job, truly listening.
But more than that, he had started sharing his own world with me—his work, his thoughts—things he had never done before.
“And what do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you to give us a chance.” He held my hand again as we strolled.
“A real chance where we become a couple, and I’m not just following you around.”
“Stalking me, you mean?” I teased.
“Stalking has such a negative connotation,” he responded in kind, and then his tone became somber.
“I know that you’re afraid. I get it. But I also know that you love me.”
“I’ve never told you that,” I immediately objected.
“ Mi leoncina , the only reason you put up with my shit for a year is because you loved me, and love doesn’t just disappear.” He squeezed my hand gently.
“I was foolish and arrogant. A part of me didn’t want to believe you could love me—you’re so much younger, and I remember when I was your age, there was no way I could be serious about anyone.”
“But now you believe I can be?”
“We’re different people. You’re a more mature twenty-five-year-old than I ever was.” He raised our joint hands to his mouth and kissed my knuckles.
“But that doesn’t mean all of this is not confusing for you. I failed to appreciate that you’d moved countries to live here. You had to learn the language, the social norms, me.”
It felt good to have him acknowledge the challenges I’d faced.
“I wish I’d talked to you before we married, told you I wanted a real marriage.” I leaned into him as we stopped in front of Bistro Marmorata.
The terrace was dark, and the chairs were stacked for the night.
I turned to face him.
“How would you have reacted if I’d said that?”
“Poorly,” he admitted with a small smile.
“I wasn’t ready to get married, Elysa. I didn’t want to because it meant that Nonno was worse off than I was willing to admit. I always assumed I’d meet someone appropriate —someone I could have good sex with, maybe even love—and that we’d marry as part of a strong, practical partnership.”
“Maybe even love? Not for sure?”
He cupped my cheeks in both hands and dropped a kiss on my mouth.
“I never expected you . Your generosity, your positive nature, your kindness…it isn’t what I’m used to. There was no subterfuge in you, and I couldn’t believe what my eyes and my heart told me about you.”
I slid my hand into the crook of elbow, and we continued to walk to Maura’s flat on Via Aldo Manuzio.
“You said you wanted us to have a second chance. What does that mean?”
“It means we keep doing what we’re doing. But this Monday, on your day off, I want to take you out on a date.”
“No sex?” I licked my lips.
I missed making love with him, especially now that he was around all the time, smelling as nice as he always did, being charming and sexy.
“Baby, I’ll fuck you anywhere any time,” he said in his deep voice that hit me right on my clit.
“But you don’t trust me and I need you to do that before we make love again.”
“What if…I want to now ?”
He took a deep breath.
“Don’t make it and me harder than I already am, bella mia .”
I chuckled as we approached Maura’s flat, which was above a fruttivendolo .
Her small iron balcony was barely visible through the tangle of potted plants that carried some of the herbs we used at the bistro.
When we stopped at the door of the apartment building, I wrapped myself around him and just held on.
He stroked my back and my hair.
This was intimacy—more potent than sex could ever be.
This was us opening ourselves to each other.
This was easy affection.
It was scarier than a commitment.
I raised my head.
“Kiss me. Per favore .”
He settled his lips against mine, slow and steady.
Dante could kiss.
He knew when to go soft when to give it to me hard, when to seduce, and when to just show me he cared for me.
I always liked his kisses, but recently, I’d fallen in love with them.
By the time we let go of each other, we were both breathing hard.
“Ah…I’d…like to go out with you next Monday,” I said boldly.
“ Grazie, mi leoncina .” He brushed his lips against mine, just a soft nibble, no tongue.
That night, I replied to his ‘ goodnight’ text with more than just a simple ‘ buonanotte .’ I told him I had enjoyed our walk, our talk, and—most of all—that I was looking forward to our date.