26. Elysa
TWENTY-SIX
Elysa
T he flat felt different this time.
Not because the walls had changed or the furniture had moved, but because I had.
I wasn’t just stepping back into Dante’s space—I was reclaiming it as mine .
I didn’t change much—just little touches to make it feel like home.
I added my books, tossed in a few extra throw pillows for color, and hung some of my favorite prints in the hallway.
Gone were the cold, impersonal glass vases—replaced with handmade ceramic ones, each holding fresh flowers from the market.
Not the kind arranged by a high-end florist to make the flat look like a hotel—just simple, living things that made the space feel like mine.
When I finished, I stood in the center of the living room and took a deep breath.
For the first time, the flat felt like home.
Not his.
Not mine.
Ours .
Dante walked in, his jacket slung casually over his arm, and looked around.
He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over to the coffee table where I’d placed a stack of mismatched coasters that I’d found at a flea market.
“These are new.” He picked one up and inspected it.
“Everything is new.” I threw open my arms.
“You like?”
“Yes.” He glanced around again, his gaze landing on the colorful throw I’d draped over the back of the couch.
“I like it a lot, Elysa.”
“Maura is pissed with me.” I settled on the couch.
He draped his jacket on the back of the couch and sat next to me.
“Really? She told me she was happy that we were getting on with it as you Americans say.”
I looked at him drolly.
“Yeah, she’s happy that we’re…working on us . But sad that she and I can’t paint our nails on a Monday night while we sing tunelessly to Taylor Swift songs any more.”
“I’m happy to paint my nails with you if it makes you happy,” he offered.
“But I have to draw the line on Taylor Swift.”
It was sweet.
Sexy.
Adorable.
I kissed his cheek.
“Hot pink nails for Dante Giordano.”
He looked at his hands.
“I think they’ll suit me.”
I laughed.
We cooked together.
I made the roast chicken, and he tossed the salad.
Dinner was easy and comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected.
We talked, laughed, and fell into an old rhythm that felt like slipping on a well-worn sweater.
But underneath it, something new simmered—a quiet awareness, a tension I wasn’t sure what to do with.
Now, as Dante stood, slipping his jacket over his shoulders, I felt it shift again.
He was leaving.
Going back to his suite at the Palazzo Giordano.
And I didn’t want him to.
The realization lodged in my throat, unexpected and unnerving.
I had spent so long convincing myself that distance was safer, that keeping him at arm’s length was the only way to survive him.
But tonight, I wasn’t sure.
I swallowed hard and forced a casual tone.
“Leaving so soon?”
Dante turned, his hands adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
“I should. It’s late.”
It was.
But I still didn’t want him to go.
I stood, smoothing my hands over my dress, unsure what to say.
Stay?
No, too desperate.
Goodnight?
Too final.
We could have dessert.
No, because dessert would turn into more, and…
was I ready for that?
Dante watched me, his expression unreadable but knowing.
He took a step closer, lifting a hand to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
I swore I could hear my own pulse, a quiet drumbeat beneath the hush of the flat.
“I get it,” he murmured.
“We have a good thing right now, and you don’t want to mess with it.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Yeah.”
He nodded, his thumb grazing my cheek for the briefest second before he dropped his hand.
“Then don’t worry about it, bella mia .”
I blinked.
“Don’t worry about it?”
“Just get ready for our next date.” His smile was soft, self-assured.
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re awfully confident that there’s going to be a next date.”
He stepped back, grabbing his wallet from the console.
“There will be.”
I rolled my eyes, but a laugh slipped out anyway.
“ Buonanotte , Dante.”
He kissed my lips.
“ Buonanotte , amore .”
And just like that, he was gone.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, listening to the faint echo of his departure.
The flat still smelled of dinner, wine…
and him.
I picked up my phone and called him.
He wouldn’t have gotten far.
“Elysa, everything okay?”
“Come back,” I whispered.
He didn’t say anything.
“Stay the night with me.”