25. Dante
TWENTY-FIVE
Dante
" G et on, Elysa." I patted the seat of the yellow Vespa, watching as she crossed her arms and eyed me with deep suspicion.
"Do you even know how to drive this thing?" she asked, tilting her head.
"You’re more of a limousine and private driver kind of guy.”
I smirked, adjusting my grip on the handlebars. “ Amore , I grew up in Rome. I was riding a Vespa before I could legally drive a car.”
She huffed, still eyeing me as if I might crash us into the nearest monument.
“You’re hesitating,” I mocked. “That’s not like you. What happened to fearless, take-no-prisoners Elysa?”
“I was never that,” she muttered.
“No time like the present to take some chances,” I suggested.
She let out an exasperated sigh, but I caught the twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth before she got behind me.
"Hold on," I warned.
She scoffed. “I think I’ll be?—”
I hit the gas, and she barely had time to yelp before her arms flew around my waist. I laughed, the sound rumbling through my chest as we weaved into the chaos of Rome’s streets, her grip tightening. She wasn’t so confident in my driving skills…yet, but she’d get there.
We spent the afternoon as tourists in our own city. The last time I’d done this was with Elysa, back when we’d first married. I had spent a few hours—grudgingly—as she dragged me to the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, and every little alleyway that caught her eye. She had been so eager, so determined to make the best of our marriage, to make us work, and all the while I’d been impatient.
Now, seeing the way she took in the city with the same quiet reverence she always had, I realized how much time I had wasted.
I took us down Via del Corso, past the grand palazzos, dodging taxis and motorini . We stopped at the Trevi Fountain, where she tossed in a coin, rolling her eyes at the tradition but still making a wish.
"What’d you wish for?
" I asked.
She smirked. "If I tell you, it won’t come true.
"
A teasing smile played at my lips. "That’s just an old wives' tale. Now, tell me. "
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I’ll tell you.”
So, I kissed her into submission. She still didn’t tell me.
From there, we wound our way to Piazza Navona, where street performers, artists, and musicians entertained the passing tourists.
Elysa’s eyes lit up as she spotted a caricature artist, and before I could protest, she grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the stand, insisting we get a sketch done.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, sitting stiffly on the stool while the artist sized us up with a critical eye.
"Loosen up, Signor Irresistible," she mocked, nudging me with her knee.
The artist exaggerated my jawline and made Elysa’s cheeks more pronounced. By the time he was done, she was laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.
"You look like a brooding soap opera villain," she gasped between giggles.
I glanced at the drawing. She wasn’t wrong. I did look ridiculous. But then I looked at her—light, happy, unguarded—and I decided that I’d look like this all the time if it made her feel this way.
We got gelato near the Pantheon, sitting on the steps of the fountain in Piazza della Rotonda. She had chocolate and hazelnut, and I had pistachio .
She tapped her spoon against mine. “To unexpected days.”
I clinked my spoon against hers. “To good company.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
“I should’ve taken you around when you first came to Rome,” I said, regret heavy in my words. “And that time you asked me to play tourist…I should’ve been more present. More gracious.”
She put her hand on mine. “We can’t go back.”
“That is correct.”
“We can move forward.”
“On the Vespa?” I asked to lighten the moment.
She rolled her eyes again. “ Fine , on the Vespa.”
As the afternoon bled into the evening, we found ourselves at the Gianicolo Terrace, which offered one of the best views of Rome. The city stretched out before us, golden under the setting sun, with domes and rooftops bathed in warm light.
Elysa rested against the railing, staring out at the skyline. I watched her instead.
“I have to ask.” She turned toward me, frowning. “How are you even here right now? No work, no urgent calls? Aren’t you usually surgically attached to your phone?”
I smirked but shook my head. “I’ve made some changes.”
Her brows lifted.
“I’ve cut back on my workload,” I admitted. “ Delegated more to Tomasso. I realized I don’t have to be in control of everything for the company to run. And…I don’t want to spend my life locked in an office.”
She studied me carefully like she was trying to decide if she believed me.
“And what brought on this great epiphany?” she asked.
I hesitated, but there was no point in lying. “You.”
She blinked. “Me?”
I nodded. “After you left, I worked even more, thinking it would distract me. But it didn’t. It just made me realize how empty it all felt without you.”
“Dante—"
“Then I started leaving the office early so I could have dinner with you at the bistro, and I liked it,” I cut her off. “I liked how nice it was to have that time without thinking about work. So, I made changes. Real ones. I’m also going to take time off so we can spend time together.”
Something flickered in her expression—surprise and something softer.
After a beat, she smiled, slow and genuine. “I’m proud of you.”
It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did. I exhaled, letting the moment settle between us as the sky deepened into dusk.
Elysa turned back to the view, resting her arms on the railing. I reached for her hand, just lightly, letting my fingers graze hers.
She didn’t pull away.
“I have a request,” I said to her.
“What?”
“Move back to the flat.”
“Dante—”
“I’m not there. It’s your home. It’s ours, which means it’s yours , and I want you there.”
She seemed to consider my request, and then, after what seemed like fucking forever, she said, “Okay.”