Page 96 of That's Amore

“Thank you, Tomasso.” I stalked across the room and planted myself next to Tomasso. Dante settled into his chair across from us at his desk. “I’m stillveryangry with that…bi…woman.”

We were at Dante’s workplace, so I knew I had to be a little circumspect with regard to language.

Tomasso chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Well,duh,” Dante added, mimicking my American accent with a smirk.

“And to set your mind at ease, I want you to know that Ferdinando Fontana, who is our outside legal counsel, has already looked over the matter and thinks that a judge would agree that what she did was calculated, defamatory, and damaging.”

I exhaled, some of the lingering frustration easing. “Good. She doesn’t get to do this and walk away.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he agreed.

Dante smiled at me. “I told you we’d handle it,bella mia.”

Tomasso glanced at his watch. “We have a meeting, but I’ll follow up with Fontana and get back to you both.”

“You guys should work. I need to get to the bistro.”

I gave Tomasso a quick hug. I liked him, and I liked that he worked with Dante—he was good people.

“I’ll walk you out,” Dante said, falling in step with me.

We reached the elevator, and he turned to me, studying me with something unreadable in his eyes.

“What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “I just… I didn’t know you could be so protective.”

I rolled my eyes, but his words sent warmth curling through my chest. “You’re my husband, in case you missed the memo.”

The elevator doors slid open, and before I couldstep inside, Dante brushed his lips against mine—soft, quick, but enough to make my breath hitch.

Then, with a teasing smirk, he nudged me into the elevator. “I’ll see you at the bistro.”

“Yes, you will.”

Since I was now working evenings on weekdays, Dante continued coming to the bistro for dinner. He’d sit at the bar, working while I did the same, our routines effortlessly syncing. Once the rush died down, we’d move to a table and share a meal.

I had told Maura I wouldn’t be working weekends—otherwise, I’d never see Dante. Fortunately, with our well-trained staff, I knew the bistro would run smoothly without me.

Monday nights had become movie nights again—but Dante insisted that I choose all the movies so he could complain about them.

“I don’t know how you can’t likeLord of the Rings. Viggo Mortensen ishot.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why I don’t like it,” Dante pointed out. “It’s not particularly wifely of you to keep talking about how much you like when another man takes his shirt off.”

“He’s a movie actor, for God’s sake,” I protested. “And you get all googly-eyed whenever Scarlett Johansen is on the screen.”

“I do not get googly whatever,” Dante said loftily.

Before I could answer, my phone rang, and I saw it was the building’s front desk. I answered and told the concierge to send our guest up to our flat.

“Who?” Dante asked.

“Papa,” I told him, feeling more than a little apprehensive. I hadn’t seen him since that terrible evening in Piedmont.

I opened the door and watched my father walk out of the elevator. Usually, there was confidence about him, but today, he seemed nervous and unsure, and I hoped that was a good sign of how this was going to go.

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