Page 98 of That's Amore

My father looked surprised. “Ah…yes.”

Was he kidding me?

“That’s not an apology, and in any case, it’s not accepted.” I leveled him with a steady gaze. “You resorted to physical violence, Papa. A half-assed, bullshit ‘I regret it’ isn’t going to cut it.”

I glanced at Dante, who met my eyes with a quiet, unwavering smile—a silent promise that he had my back, no matter what I decided.

Turning back to my father, I exhaled slowly. “I think you should leave. Take some time to reflect—on how you barged in here, insulted my husband and our marriage, and still can’t even muster a proper apology for something so egregious and unacceptable.”

“I know what I did was wrong. But I am your father, Elysa.”

My voice hardened. “You’re lucky I even call you Papa.”

My father looked at me with pain in his eyes. I didn’t want to hurt him, but enough was enough, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be the father I wanted, and I couldn’t be the daughter he wanted—it was best that we kept it cordial and nothing more.

“Dante, will you walk him out?” I requested.

“Elysa—” My father began but was cut off when Dante growled at him.

“Vittorio, you’re upsetting my wife, and I won’t tolerate that.”

My father had no choice but to leave.

When Dante came back, I stood looking at the city of Rome from the windows of the flat. He wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. “You okay,bella mia?”

“I think maybe for the first time in my life, I’m more than okay,” I told him honestly. “I’m free of waiting for that man to love me.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Dante

Rome was magic at night.

The streetlights blurred the city’s edges and even as they highlighted the ancient ruins and winding alleys. The night was warm but comfortable, with a light breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and the occasional hint of freshly baked pizza from nearby trattorias.

It was our second wedding anniversary. I didn’t deserve to celebrate it, not after everything I’d done to jeopardize our marriage, and I knew I was one lucky bastard to have a wife as generous as Elysa.

We walked hand-in-hand in the Eternal City. I found myself glancing down at her every few seconds just to remind myself she was real.

I’d pulled out all the stops for this celebration. After all, this was Elysa, my wife, my everything. Shedeserved more than dinner and flowers. She deserved Rome itself, laid bare and beautiful at her feet.

We started with an early dinner at Aroma, the rooftop restaurant with a view of the Colosseum. I’d arranged for a private table, surrounded by candles and white roses, and the chef had prepared a special menu just for us—delicate zucchini blossoms stuffed with ricotta, handmade ravioli in a sage butter sauce, and the most tender veal saltimbocca she’d ever tasted.

I’d chosen the wine myself, a 2006 Barolo from Piedmont—her favorite—but when I poured her glass, she hesitated. She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight, and raised the glass to her lips. She took a small sip and told me it was excellent.

“You haven’t drunk much wine,” I complained when I saw she’d barely touched her glass of wine.

“I overdid it last night,” she murmured vaguely, “So I’m pacing myself today.”

After dinner, we walked to Piazza Navona, its fountains lit up against the dark sky. The sound of water mingled with the notes of a street musician playing the violin.

Elysa head rested on my shoulder. “This is perfect.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

From there, we wandered to the Trevi Fountain, the crowds thinner at this hour but still there, drawn to its grandeur like moths to a flame. Elysalaughed as I handed her a coin, and she turned her back to the fountain, tossing it over her shoulder with a flourish.

“What did you wish for?” I asked, watching the playful smile curve her lips.

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