29. Dante
TWENTY-NINE
Dante
I didn’t tell her where we were going.
In the past, whenever we traveled, it was always for a social obligation—some event where I needed her by my side as Mrs.
Giordano.
To my chagrin, this was the first time we were going on vacation.
In my exciting journey of getting to know Elysa, I learned that she had never been to Tuscany but had always wanted to go.
She had mentioned it in passing once, her voice wistful as she spoke about golden hills, quiet vineyards, and long afternoons tasting incredible wine.
I felt like an idiota for not bringing her here sooner—especially when it was so close.
But I was learning from my mistakes.
Elysa hadn’t grown up like I had, with the resources to travel wherever and whenever she wanted.
Most of the traveling I’d done had been for work, always with a purpose, always on a schedule.
Now, I wanted to see those places through her eyes.
Not for business.
Not out of obligation.
Just the two of us, as tourists, together.
So, when we arrived at Santa Maria Novella station, and Elysa saw that our train was bound for Florence, she turned to me with wide eyes.
“We’re going to Florence?"
"Yes. And…,” I continued sheepishly, “we’re going to be gone for longer than a weekend."
Her lips pressed together. “Dante, I have work.”
"I talked to your boss. She was more than happy to clear your schedule. And it’s sort of a work trip, Elysa. You will be tasting wine and meeting winemakers.”
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
But she didn’t argue.
If anything, I caught the barely contained anticipation in her eyes.
"Pretty sneaky of both of you.”
“I want to take you to all the places you’ve always wanted to go,” I told her.
She gave me a shy smile and kissed my cheek. “I’m so excited.”
It felt like a honeymoon.
Not the one we never had—our wedding had been a business arrangement, and a honeymoon had been a laughable concept—but one we might have taken if things had been different. If I had been different.
“I really, really like that you did this,” she told me when we got to our hotel .
The warm Tuscan sun kissed my face as we stepped onto the balcony of our hotel room; the view stretched out in golden waves before us.
Florence glowed in the late afternoon light, its red-tiled rooftops rolling toward the horizon, and the Arno River, a ribbon of blue winding through the heart of the city.
From our perch, we could see the Ponte Vecchio, its medieval arches lined with shops, as if they had simply grown out of the bridge, clinging precariously to its sides.
Elysa stepped beside me, her hands braced on the wrought-iron railing. She exhaled softly and looked at me for a long moment.
“This view is something else,” she murmured.
She was something else, I thought with pride and love . “Yes, amore , it is.” But I was looking at her.
"It reminds me of the book," she mused.
I raised a brow. "What book?
"
" A Room with a View .
" A small smile played at her lips. "Lucy Honeychurch comes to Florence and stays in a room without a view and she’s very disappointed.
”
“But then she gets the room,” I reminded her.
“Yes, though it was risqué wasn’t it? To accept the rooms from two men, one whom she’s attracted to.” Her eyes glinted with amusement.
“But worth it. She got a room with a view of the Arno and she got a man in her life who was much, much better than the stick in the mud Cecil she was engaged to.”
“I’m surprised you’ve read E.M. Forster.”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“It’s a romance, Dante.”
“You know there’s a lesson to learn from Lucy.”
“There is?” She tilted her head, intrigued.
I glanced back at the city.
"Sometimes, you have to trade what you thought you wanted for something better even though it’s messy and complicated."
I watched the way her fingers traced patterns against the railing.
She hesitated, then looked at me, her expression vulnerable.
"Do you think that’s what this is, us, is something messy and complicated…but real?"
“I do, amore .”
We ate dinner at a small trattoria and, after, tore our bed apart.
It was precisely like a honeymoon because we couldn’t get enough of each other.
I was like a teenager.
I looked at her legs, and I got hard.
She saw me buttoning my shirt, and she wanted me to take it off.
This meant that we missed breakfast and got out of our room at noon.
We wandered through Florence, the city unfolding around us like a painted masterpiece come to life .
We had lunch at Trattoria Mario, a lively, no-frills spot near the Mercato Centrale that deliciously smelled like simmering ragù and freshly baked bread.
The eatery was packed as it was the kind of place where strangers squeezed into communal tables, passing plates and exchanging stories as if they’d known each other forever.
The menu was handwritten on a chalkboard, and it changed daily based on what was fresh.
Elysa let me order.
“It’s partly because you seem to know the waiter and partly because I trust your taste.” She told me.
A bottle of Chianti was delivered first, deep ruby in color, swirling easily in the glass.
Then came the food—pappa al pomodoro, thick and rich, the tomatoes bright with basil and good olive oil for her, and tagliatelle al ragù, the pasta golden and perfectly coated in a slow-cooked meat sauce for me.
"If I lived here, I'd have to walk everywhere just to make up for this." She patted her stomach.
I smirked over my wine glass. "We’ll find other ways to burn calories.”
She flushed.
“But first dessert.”
She groaned, but when the tiramisu arrived—layers of espresso-soaked savoiardi, mascarpone, and cocoa dusted just right—she didn’t argue, and we fought over the last bite.
Our conversation flowed effortlessly—light, playful, filled with stolen glances and lingering smiles. The heaviness of earlier had passed, leaving only the simple joy of being together. It felt easy, unforced… liberating.
After lunch, Elysa insisted on a long walk, claiming that if we didn’t, she’d have to unbutton her shorts because she was so full.
“I can help you take them off,” I offered salaciously.
“As much as that holds appeal, I need to walk before anything else goes inside me.”
I laughed at that and wrapped my hand around hers.
We walked past Piazza della Signoria, where tourists tilted their heads back to admire the towering Palazzo Vecchio, its medieval facade proudly standing against the sky. In the shade, artists sketched, their hands swiftly moving over the paper, capturing the city's timeless beauty. By the Fountain of Neptune, lovers lingered, as if the world around them had paused just for them.
At the Accademia, I watched Elysa stare up at David, her head tilted in quiet reverence. I had seen the statue before—I walked past it a dozen times on business trips, never stopping long enough to appreciate it. But with her, I did.
At the Duomo, we climbed Brunelleschi’s dome, our breath coming faster with every step. When we finally reached the summit, Florence stretched out before us, the terracotta rooftops and rolling hills bleeding into the horizon.
"This"—Elysa gestured at the endless expanse—"is why people fall in love with Florence.
"
I didn’t look at the city. I looked at her.
"I can see why," I murmured, my heart so full of love for my wife that I thought it would burst out of my chest.