Page 53 of That's Amore

The Giordano family vineyard was breathtaking. Rows upon rows of grapevines stretched across the rolling hills, their green leaves shimmering. The family villa, a sprawling stone estate with terracotta roof tiles and ivy creeping up its walls, stood dignified and timeless. The reception was set just beyond the main house, with long linen-draped tables arranged in the courtyard, wine glasses already sparkling in the golden light of early evening.

We’d come straight to the Giordano family home after the award ceremony at the Palazzo del Tramonto. I had thought Dante wanted me around to stop wagging tongues, but he insisted that I go on stage with him and accept the award posthumously honoring his grandfather like I was his wife, which I technically was,butI also wasn’t.

The speeches, the applause, the cameras—it had allblurred together in my mind, but I couldn’t forget the way Dante’s hand had lingered on my back as we stood before the crowd. His touch wasn’t casual or cold; it was steady, deliberate, almost…protective.

Now, as I walked through the courtyard at the vineyard, surrounded by Dante’s family, colleagues, and friends, I felt like I’d stumbled into some kind of alternate universe.

“Elysa,cara mia!” Cristina Carrera pulled me into a hug as I passed her table. “What a wonderful honor for your family. And you look stunning, my dear.”

“Thank you.” I managed a polite smile.

I was nervous about how I looked as this was the first time I’d dressed myself for a social event—how bizarre was that—since I’d married Dante. I had gone shopping with Maura, but my budget didn’t stretch to in-season designer wear. We’d prowled through vintage stores, and I’d found a dress that felt like a miracle.

It was an ethereal creation from Alberta Ferretti, all soft organza and chiffon in a delicate shade of champagne. The bodice hugged my torso with just enough structure to feel elegant, while the flowing skirt moved like water with every step. Thin straps framed my shoulders, and the neckline dipped low enough to feel feminine but not too revealing. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—every seam, every delicate pleat spoke of Italian artistry. It was the kind of dress I’d never dreamed I could afford, and if it hadn’t been tucked away in the back corner of the store, a forgotten relicfrom some long past season, it would’ve been far beyond my reach. But there was pride that I’d not only chosen it but also paid for it.

I’d paired it with simple gold earrings that Don Giordano had given me as a wedding present. They had belonged to his wife. My hair was swept into a low, loose chignon that I’d somehow managed to wrangle on my own. It wasn’t showy, but it felt like me—and not a version of me that Patrizia had made me into.

My makeup was light. Some concealer to hide the dark circles and blemishes, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick…and we’re done!

Dante had complimented me and not said one rude thing about my appearance. That in itself was strange—not that he was usually rude, but he usually gave me left-handed compliments. There was none of the “you look nice even though….”

He’d simply said I lookedstunning.

I wished I could believe him, but he had broken my trust, and now I didn’t know what to think.

My nerves were on edge. Dante’s attention wasn’t helping. He hadn’t left my side during the ceremony, and now, at the reception, I could feel his eyes on me no matter where I moved. It was a stark contrast to how things normally were—him distracted, distant, or worse, completely ignoring me while he played “we’re discussing work” with Lucia.

But tonight, he was attentive.Present.

And I didn’t know how to feel about it.

I spotted my father near one of the tables, speaking with a small group of men I recognized from Piedmont’s wine consortium. He glanced up as I approached, his expression unreadable.

“Papa,” I greeted him politely.

“Elysa.” He gave me the perfunctory air kisses. “You were excellent on stage. You carried yourself well. That’s what’s expected in situations like these.”

Was this why I was attracted to Dante? My father’s compliments were just as uninspiring as my husband’s, though he had been different today.

“Grazie,” I replied, though the word tasted bitter on my tongue.

“Your Italian has improved. Good.”

I was about to respond when I felt a hand slide around my waist.

I smelled his cologne before I heard him. “Vittorio,” Dante greeted him smoothly.

“Dante,” my father replied, doing a one-eighty when it came to demeanor. He’d gone from critical to appeasing faster than one of those Italian cars Dante loved to drive. “Wonderful, wonderful ceremony.”

“Grazie, Vittorio. I hope it’s okay for me to steal Elysa.” Dante sounded pleasant enough, but I had a feeling he didn’t like my father.

Vittorio raised an eyebrow, glancing at me briefly before nodding. “Of course. She’s your wife, after all.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and say, “But not for long.”

The courtyard glowed under strands of twinkling lights that crisscrossed between the villa’s tall stone walls. The reception was in full swing now, with guests clustered around the tables or strolling through the vineyard paths, wine glasses in hand. Near the dance floor, a string quartet had transitioned from their more formal repertoire into something lighter—O Sole Mio, played with soft, lilting notes that carried the romance of Italy into the warm night air.

Dante led me onto the dance floor, where couples were already swaying to the music.

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