Page 21 of That's Amore

"Signor Carrera,come stai?"

“I’m doing very well,” he responded in English.

Just then, Lucia laughed loudly at something Dante said, her head thrown back. She touched his arm, and he smiled at her, his expression softer than it had been when he had told me I was a toddler throwing a tantrum just a while earlier in the car.

Renzo’s eyes didn’t miss the show that Lucia and Dante were putting on.

Why did he bring me here if he was going to flaunt to everyone that he was interested in another woman? How did this help his case with Renzo Carrera?

“I never thought talking work was that amusing,” he remarked, his eyes narrow.

“Oh, you know Dante, he makes work fun. Well, that’s what Giulia, his assistant, told me.”

No, she didn’t. Dante didn’t make work fun—he was a demanding boss and ruthless in his ambitions.

Renzo arched an eyebrow as if he knew what I was doing. “Dante loved you.”

He wasn’t talking aboutmyDante; he was talking about Don Giordano. Still, a rush went through me at the thought thatmyDante…well, Lucia’s now, could love me.

“I miss him very much,” I murmured and sipped my champagne, the delicate bubbles of the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs soft against my tongue. I’d have preferred an Italian sparkling wine, but I knew this crowd would expect the real deal—champagne.

“You know I know about your marriage,” Renzo continued and nodded to the bartender, pointing to his empty glass of wine.

I cleared my throat. Well, this was awkward. “Signor, ah….”

The waiter slid a glass of wine close to Renzo, who exchanged the full glass for his empty one and raised it to toast.“Saluti.”

I clinked my glass against his, wishing very much to find a way out of this conversation. Even Don Giordano and I hadn’t talked about the circumstances of my marriage—he only asked how I was doing since I was anew bride.

“Does your husband know you’re in love with him?” he asked.

I had just taken a sip of champagne, and it went down the wrong pipe. I had to set the glass down on the bar counter as I coughed. Renzo gave me a cloth napkin, and it took a moment before I stopped wheezing. He looked at me, amused when I was breathing normally again.

“Si, Dante knew,” he answered my unasked question if Don Giordano had known, “And, Elysa, anyone with eyes can see that you love him.” He kissed my cheek. “If you love him,cara, you must fight for him.”

I sighed and then shrugged. “I’m tired of fighting for the love and attention of people in my life, Signor. I’d now like to have someone fightfor me.”

Renzo nodded appreciatively. “You deserve that. My wife adores you. My son thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. You’re right; a man should be afraid of losing you.” He turned to look at Dante, and I followed his line of sight. Now, he and Lucia were dancing, looking like a happy and perfectly-suited couple. “I think Dante’s loss will be another fortunate man’s gain.”

“I don’t need a man, Signor,” I quipped. “I think I’m done with men for a while.”

“We’ll see,” Renzo stated enigmatically.

I wandered to our assigned table and sat where my name card rested, the elegant script looping over crisp ivory cardstock.

The table was stunning—a masterpiece of understated beauty. A delicate centerpiece of creamy roses and deep burgundy peonies spilled from a low crystal vase, surrounded by flickering votive candles that cast a soft, golden glow. The place settings were pristine: gleaming silver cutlery, fine porcelain plates with intricate gold edging, and crystal glasses that caught the light like tiny prisms. It was a table designed to make you sit up straighter as if the elegance could rub off on you.

I slumped in my chair, setting my champagne glass on the table with a quiet clink.

With nothing else to do, I pulled out my phone—not because I had any urgent messages, but because staring at a screen was better than sitting here, feeling invisible.

I didn’t know many people in Dante’s world, and at events like this, that meant one thing: I sat alone.

Alone, while my husband mingled, charmed, and—more often than not—flirted with Lucia. And when he finally did return to our table?

He barely looked at me, sinking instead into conversation with whoever was beside him—more often than not, her.

I glanced down at the table and then—because an imp inside me begged for release—slid Lucia’s name card out of its holder.

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