Page 20 of That's Amore

“Elysa, I told you—Patrizia wouldn’t say something like that. She’s professional. If she made a noise, it was probably because she was focused on the fit of the dress, not you.”

I stared at him, incredulous.

“She’s detail-oriented, Elysa,” he continued. “Which is why she’s one of the best in her field.”

“She’s also cold and condescending,” I snapped, my insecurity replaced by resentment. “But you wouldn’t see that, would you? She makes sure to act perfectly sweet around you.”

He let out another sigh like he couldn’t believe he had to keep talking about this. “You’re reading too much into this. Patrizia isn’t your enemy, Elysa. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Dante, I stood there while she pulled at the dress like it wasn’t going to fit over my thighs, while she looked at me like I was some kind of problem she had to solve.”

“You’re overreacting…again.” His tone was infuriatingly dismissive.

My chest tightened, fury bubbling up so hot I could feel its fervor raging through my body. “Or maybe I’m just reacting for the first time since we married?”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between us stretched thick and uncomfortable. Finally, he looked at me, his eyes blank. No affection, no anger, nothing.

“Let’s just get through tonight,” he clipped. “And since this is the last time we’re going to go to a social event together, there’s no need for an outburst. I’m sure we can tolerate each other for an evening.”

I turned back to the window, blinking hard againstthe sting in my eyes. I wasn’t going to cry in front of him.

But it was hard to swallow the truth—that my husband, the man I had fallen in love with, didn’t respect me. My opinions, my feelings…they didn’t matter enough to him.

He just didn’t care enough.

But by the time we arrived at the ballroom, my emotions were locked away, buried beneath the careful mask I had perfected.

When I first married Dante, I had thought I would enjoy events like this—glamorous evenings where my handsome husband stood by my side, where I wore a stunning dress, and we whispered to each other while the world sailed around us.

But at the very first party, I realized it was all for show.

Couples didn’t stay together; they drifted, mingled, laughed, flirted—always in Italian. Now, at least, I understood and spoke passable Italian. But in the beginning?

I had felt like a doll—brought out to be seen, not heard.

Dante never bothered to translate when I was with him, nor did he switch to English to make me feel included. Oh no, he let me sit there, uncomfortable and excluded, as if it never even crossed his mind.

When Don Giordano was alive, he always spoke tome in English and made sure others did the same. He made me feel like I belonged.

But now he was gone.

My heart ached with the fresh weight of his absence. I missed him. I missed the way he had made me feel seen.

And then my heart hurt some more when Dante was, as always, accosted by Lucia. “Elysa, I just need my boss for a minute.” That was her way of saying this is aboutwork.

Dante smiled and bowed. “I’ll be right back,cara mia.”

“Take your time.” I plastered on a polite smile even though my stomach twisted to the point of physical pain. This hurt more now than before because he’d admitted that he found Lucia more suitable than me to be his wife.

What did it take for me to be accepted for who I was? My mother wanted me to—preferably—be a nun. My father hadn’t bothered to build a relationship with me, though he was all smiles when Don Giordano gave him his vineyard back—which, in all honesty, had only on paper not been my father’s. Don Giordano was a generous man. And now, my husband preferred the willowy Lucia, draped in a silver gown that shimmered underneath the chandeliers at the Villa Medici.

I understood Dante. Lucia fit. I doubted she needed a stylist to help her as much as I did forevents such as this. She grew up with money, and I didn’t know a designer from my ass.

They stood talking, and feeling a little pathetic for watching them, I walked to the bar. Since I put together the menu for this shindig, I knew the wine would be good. I ordered a glass of champagne and watched Dante lean down to Lucia, his hand brushing her elbow.

He’d told his friend he’d not cheated on his marriage vows, but I wondered. There was an intimacy between them that he and I didn’t have.

"Signora Giordano," Renzo Carrera greeted me warmly. In true Italian fashion, we exchanged the customary two-cheek kiss, a brush of cheeks, and air kisses.

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