Page 15 of That's Amore

Elysa had left her wedding band and diamond engagement ring in a small plastic Ziploc bag in the same envelope as the divorce papers. They were Giordano family jewels, passed on from older son to older son—and she’d given them back as was decreed in the prenuptial agreement.

“You don’t need to have everything planned out, Dante,” Lucia soothed. “I’m here. I’ll take care of the company,andI’ll take care of you.”

The sentiment was kind, and I appreciated it in theory, but I didn’t know how to let myself be taken care of like that. The company relied on me. I had made it my mission to be unshakable, and now, when everything felt like it was shifting beneath my feet, I didn’t know how to admit that I didn’t know what the future held—the one without Elysa.

Drowning in legalese was an excellent way to not indulge in sadness.

Lucia’s presence felt like a balm. She focused on the work and helped me do the same. This was why Lucia and I could have a future. She didn’t demandparts of me I wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t stir up the kind of tempestuous emotions Elysa did. She was steady, like a lighthouse guiding me back to shore. And yet, when she looked up at me with that tentative smile that silently butloudlysaid, “See? We make a good team,” I didn’t feel a damn thing.

Elysa leaving was fucking with my head. I had to get back to the original plan. Nonno was dead, and I had to move on. We’d get through this gala. And then, I’d give Elysa what she wanted, let her go live her life the way she needed to, so I could do the same.

But as I watched Lucia scribble another note in the margins of the contract, a faint crease forming between her brows, her face gaunt with tension, I couldn’t help but think of Elysa’s laughing eyes.

Her positivity and cheerfulness always caught me off guard because it felt like a torrent of sunlight breaking through clouds. Her chaotic, beautiful energy filled my senses in a way that had never happened before. Her passion was in bed, where she gave as much as she took—never making me feel like it was my job to give her pleasure as so many of the other women I’d been with believed. I had a reputation for bedding women and the women wanted me to show them what was so fucking special about fucking me. Not, Elysa. She asked me what I liked, how I wanted my cock sucked, how I wanted my eggs cooked…cazzo!

I pushed the mental image of her flushed nakedbody aside with practiced efficiency. She didn’t understand my world. She didn’t fit in.

While Lucia was all about work, Elysa would say things like, “There’s more to life than work, Dante,” when I didn’t turn off my laptop during movie night.

Elysa had insisted that Monday night, her day off, would be movie night, and so, after dinner, she’d pick a movie or, worse, make me pick it. She’d be so sweet about it that I’d just sit on the couch with my laptop instead of going into my office.

She encouraged me not to work so hard—but that was because she didn’t understand the load I carried. As a server at a bistro run by a friend doing a job that she didn’t really need to do because money wasn’t an issue for her, she had the luxury of believing that there was more to life than work.

I could now see things clearly since I wasn’t caught in the haze of dinners, walks, and sex with Elysa. She wanted out, and I wasn’t going to stop her. This was the right path.

Right?

FIVE

Elysa

Ilove my job!

I loved working at Bistro Marmorata.

The bistro was in a quiet corner of Testaccio, a historic Roman neighborhood known for its bustling markets and trattorias where locals linger over long meals. Away from the tourist crowds, it felt like the true heart of the city—alive with warmth, history, and a rhythm all its own. It reminded me a little of Brooklyn.

The bistro was in a modest building with ivy covering the terracotta walls and featured a cute little patio in the front where we could seat about eight people on four tables. The sign above the door displayed the tagline of the bistro in cursive:Cucina Lucana Autentica.

We had a strong local presence as we specialized in the food of Basilicata, a region in southern Italy that tourists often overlooked. Our menu didn’t include theusual carbonara or pizza Margherita. Instead, we served soulful dishes that spoke to the region’s humble roots, such as cavatelli with breadcrumbs and anchovies,cruschipeppers scattered over ricotta, and slow-braised lamb with wild herbs that had people sighing with every bite. Even our desserts were rustic: a honey-drenched fig tart, chestnut flour cookies, and a ricotta cheesecake that Maura had perfected over the years. It wasn’t flashy, but itwasunforgettable.

The wine list was my pride and joy. I’d spent time meeting with distributors who carried wine from small, obscure vineyards where winemakers were reviving ancient methods and grapes that most people had never heard of—Tintilia from Molise, Perricone from Sicily, and my favorite, Aglianico, which came from the same volcanic soil that inspired much of our menu. I’d sourced some of the boldest natural wines made in amphoras, their flavors earthy, alongside softer, more familiar varietals like Nebbiolo and Vermentino. There was something for everyone.

I knew our wine program drew tourists—after all, we’d made several of Rome’s top wine restaurant lists.

“Elysa!” Paolo, one of my servers, called from across the room as I scanned the bistro during the dinner rush. The tables were full, the air was buzzing with soft chatter, and good humor, and energy flowed through the bistro. “The couple at table six would like to talk to you about the wine pairing.”

I nodded and moved through the room, weavingbetween the tables, smiling, and checking in with guests along the way. It was instinctive for me now to know who needed a new basket of bread, who was ready for their check, and who was lingering, just soaking in the atmosphere.

I had worked in restaurants in New York; one was an Alain Ducasse Michelin-star restaurant where I learned a lot about what good service meant. We weren’t an eatery at that level, but I applied my knowledge to create a hospitality culture focused on service without the snobbery.

Dante would never eat at a place like this. He’d think it was too plebian. Well, fuck him! Well, Lucia probably already was, I thought bitterly.

I hated that he was still on my mind so much—but as Maura said, I wouldn’tjuststop loving him because I left him, and she had the receipts on heartbreak. “That shit takes time. Took me two years to get over Roberto. The asshole.”

I grinned at the couple at table six. They were Americans in their early fifties who wanted to have an authentic travel experience and sought out places off the beaten path—in short, my kind of people.

“So, we’re thinking of having the lamb…the one with the potatoes.” The man glanced at his wife for confirmation.

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