Page 4

He sneered at me. “The prenup says that the marriage has to last for five years for you to get anything. Do you remember that?”
“And, since I’m asking for a divorce in a year, I get nothing. I know. I don’t want anything from you.” I bit my lower lip, wondering if I should say something about the vineyard, and then decided this was my last chance to get it all out. “Don Giordano was always giving the vineyard to Papa. He never talked to me about it or said that he expected me to sell myself into marriage for it. If he had, I’d have lost respect for him and….”
Dante stared at me, bewildered. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d have enjoyed that confused look on his face. “How long were you standing there listening to something not meant for you?”
I rolled my eyes, frustration burning through me. “For God’s sake, Dante. You said it yourself—now that Don Giordano is dead, there’s no reason for us to stay married. And here I am, handing it to you on a silver fucking platter, and somehow,I’mthe one in thewrong? Worse, you’re acting like I’m some errant child throwing a tantrum."
I threw up my hands. “You want a divorce. You think our marriage is shit. You think our sex life is shit. So, what the hell is your problem? Wouldyourather be the one to ask for it? Is this some ego thing?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Because that’s fine. If it makes you feel better, I can wait for you to do it. But I’ll be doing that while I’mnotliving here.”
He took a step back and looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. I didn’t raise my voice, as that wasn’t who I was. I didn’t shout. I didn’t swear. But enough was enough. I’d been a good wife. I’d been a good daughter and granddaughter. I’d been good, and now I was done. Now, I was going to be selfish. Now, I was going to put myself first because the one thing I’d learned in my year of being with Dante was that no one else gave two shits about me to do that for me.
I picked up my backpack that was resting against the couch. I’d already moved my clothes and things to my friend and employer, Maura’s flat in Testaccio on Via Aldo Manuzio, close to the bistro that she owned and where I worked. Both Maura’s home and bistro, which she creatively (not) named Bistro Marmorata because it was on Via Marmorata, were a far cry from Dante’s fancy luxury flat in Centro Storico and reminded me of Brooklyn, where I used to live. As I healed from what this year had done to me, it would benice to be with a friend in a part of Rome that felt a little like home.
“So, you’re just leaving,” Dante said as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Yes, Dante, I’mjustleaving. Look, I know you’re into Lucia, so…I mean, we’re not married, not really, so…feel free to date her or…whateverbefore the divorce comes through,” I offered lamely. How did a woman tell her husband to go ahead and fuck another woman while waiting for a divorce to be processed? Well, she did it poorly like I just had.
“Is it because you have someone and?—”
I raised my hand to silence him, and miraculously, he shut up. I must’ve surprised him more than I thought because, normally, Dante didn’t step away, didn’t listen, didn’t give in, he relentlessly pushed forward.
“Don’t try and find a reason for me leaving beyond the fact that our marriage isn’t working. I’m not happy. I’ve tried to makeyouhappy, but I have finally realized that I can’t do that. Hearing you talk to your friend was a wake-up call, one that I desperately needed. Unlike you, I don’t have a future marriage partner candidate lurking around. There is no one else…no other man since I saw you.”
And now, I have to stop loving you and find my dignity and spine, which I let go of, hoping to make it work with you.
TWO
Dante
Cazzo!
Of all the things for Elysa to overhear, it had to be the one that would devastate her. I felt like Dean with the roles reversed. Years ago, he’d said some shit about Elika, and she’d caught every word—and clearly, I hadn’t learned a damn thing. Now I’d gone and hurt a good woman.
My wifewasa good woman.
We’d been together a year, and I had expected it to be a nightmare. Instead, it was…nice.
There was an ease with her I hadn’t anticipated. We spent time together, and it never felt forced. She worked at a bistro—not, as I had assumed, as a way to escape our marriage or me, but because she genuinely loved it. I had been wrong about that.
She kept hours that let her be home in the evenings, and more often than not, she cooked—despitemy repeated insistence that she could just order from the Palazzo Giordano, our nearby flagship hotel.
But Elysa never took the easy way out, I had learned during our time together. Not with her work, not with our marriage. Not withanything
Then there was the sex.
I’d lied like an asshole when I told Dean we didn’t set the sheets on fire—because we hadn’t just done that. We’d set fucking Rome on fire.
But a relationship needed more than sex, didn’t it? And I had convinced myself that was all Elysa and I had.
Yet now, standing in our bedroom, looking around at the space we had shared—at the absence of her—I wondered if I’d been wrong.
We had more than sex.
We went for walks in the evenings, no matter the weather—because she insisted. I always complained, acted like I was being dragged along. But then something shifted. I started to look forward to the walks—and to her.
“I love seeing Rome like this,” she told me when I asked about her penchant for a stroll.