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Elysa
Idon’t know how Dante did it, but he convinced me to attend Don Giordano’s award ceremony.
He was insidious in his efforts. First, he asked me to meet him for a drink a week after the debacle that was the Carrera Charity gala.
Dante:I’d like to talk with you about our future. Would you be available for a drink this week?
The formality of his message made my skin crawl. This is why we were getting divorced. Married people didn’t send each other messages like this.
Me:Can we just talk on the phone?
Dante:Per favore, Elysa. This is important for you and for me.
I thought he wanted to meet to talk about the divorce, though a part of me knew he was just playing some game, and I was so sick and tired of him and everything to do with him. Okay, so there was ateeny-tiny part of me that was also excited to see him again. Love didn’t just disappear. It had to be murdered in cold blood, and my insides were still too hot with rage, betrayal, emotions, and…yes, that pesky awful thing calledlove.
Against my better judgment, I agreed, but I chose the location. If I was going to do this, I’d do it on my turf.
The Rec 23 bar in Testaccio seemed right for a meeting aboutneverseeing each other again, asit was close to the bistro and Maura’s flat, so if I did have an emotional breakdown, I could hotfoot it to either location to find a quiet corner to cry in.
I was still living with Maura, and we actually liked it. Whenever I suggested I look for a place, she whined that she didn’t want to be alone. She made puppy eyes at me as she said, “Aren’t you having fun here with me?”
Drama queen!
I couldn’t comment on the fun part, but it was healing for me to be with a friend who could support me during what was turning out to be a very trying time.
Dante still hadn’t said anything about the divorce, and even his cryptic messages didn’t tell me he was going to sign the damn papers or at least make a counteroffer so we could move forward. Whenever I texted him, I got a cannedandcondescending response:Thelawyers are still reviewing. These things take time. Be patient.
The team and I sometimes ended up at Rec 23 after we closed the bistro for a drink, so I knew the place well. It was casual, hip, and unpretentious. They made a good Negroni and offered live music on the weekends.
This wasn’t the kind of place Dante went to, so that was a bonus for me. He’d look entirely out of place in a three-piece tailored suit in a setting like this—where there wasn’t a single chandelier in sight, just the soft glow of Edison bulbs.
The wooden tables were worn, rustic, meant for good food and easy company, not for polished formality. The walls held no priceless original art, just charming black-and-white prints of old Rome, the kind that made the place feel lived-in, familiar, effortlessly inviting.
Outside, the small terrace offered a view of the piazza, with its bubbling fountain and clusters of locals lingering over late dinners, which was where I had parked my ass with a cup of coffee, waiting for Dante. I came ten minutes early, certain that he’d be on time. He was never lateorearly. Maybe he was a Roman soldier in a previous life.
When he saw me, he nodded.
Heads turned. Of course, they did. The man was a walking-talking GQ model. If he took his shirt off andgot anOnlyFanspage, he could make a killing as anItalian Thirst Trap.
My internal dialog was a snark fest, and I knew I’d have to tamp down the imp inside me, or we were going to end up where we always did—with him cutting my legs off and slashing my heart and with me trying my best not to cry. I was going to be polite and professional, I decided. We were going to talk about the divorce like grown-ups, and then we were going to walk out of here with a deadline to the mess called marriage I’d gotten myself into.
“Elysa.” He greeted me with a brush of his lips against mine.
The nerve of the man.
I pulled away and pursed my tingling lips, not missing his amused look as he took a seat across from me. He looked at his surroundings, and any minute now, I thought he’d use his forefinger to test if there was dust on the table.
“Dante,” I replied flatly, making an effort not to snarl at him.
A server appeared, and Dante ordered a beer, whatever they had on tap, and I ordered a Negroni. I’d thought to forego alcohol, but I needed liquid courage.
Once the server left, Dante leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. “Thank you for meeting me. I know you didn’t have to.”
I didn’t? It sounded like I had no freaking choice.
“You said you wanted to talk about somethingimportant,” I urged, sitting back, arms crossed like a petulant toddler getting ready to throw a tantrum.
Sheesh!