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“I’m going to fight for you, Elysa. For us.”
“You’re out of your mind,” she whispered, aghast. “You…you said you wanted a divorce.”
“I never said those words toyou.” Semantics, because I had said those stupid words to Dean. But right now, that’s all I had, and I was going to take advantage of it.
“I heard you loud and clear,” she hissed.
“You overheard a very drunk and grieving man talking to his friend.” I knew this wasn’t fair to her, but hell, holding our marriage hostage because I spewed some garbage when Dean told me that Elysa seemed perfect for me wasn’t fair either.
“You’re unbelievable.” Her voice trembled with rage.
Unbelievably in love with you, my little lioness!
“I’m also stubborn and always get my way.” I was throwing gasoline into the fire, but she needed to know where I stood. If she thought she was going to leave me, she had another thing coming.
She didn’t answer, probably because she was vibrating with emotion. She turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the shadows.
EIGHTEEN
Elysa
“You want a divorce?” my father asked, his tone sharp as glass, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual.
We always spoke in English—my Italian had faded after we moved to New York, especially since my mother insisted we use only English. Even now, with my Italian much improved, we kept the habit. That was fine with me. I struggled to find the right words in any language, let alone one I hadn’t fully mastered.
I had always wanted my father’s approval. And now, I was doing the one thing that would ensure I never got it. But I needed to be honest with him. And a small part of me—the part that still believed in fairy tales—hoped he would finally respect my choices. Respect me.
I gripped the cool metal edge of the railing behind me for support. “Papa, I’m not happy with him.”
The balcony was quiet except for the distant sounds of chatter and music from the hotel bar’s patio. The vineyards stretched out into the night, dark and endless, their neat rows bathed in moonlight. The air smelled faintly of lavender and summer heat—usually soothing, but not in my father’s presence.
“Happy? What stupid American notion is that? Marriage is about duty. Your mother didn’t understand that, and it looks like neither do you.”
My parents never got along. I didn’t remember much as a child, except for screaming matches and that long flight from Rome to New York, where my mother cursed my father and called him Satan. I’d been four years old. My earliest memories were not of hugs and kisses and affection but of my parents at war over their disparate values.
“Papa, Dante also wants a divorce,” I told him.
It was true. I mean, he was changing his tune now, but how reliable was that? Should I believe the man who had treated me with indifference, the man who told his friend that I was a kid, or this man who suddenly wanted to give our marriage another chance?
“Of course he does,” Papa snapped. “Look at you dancing with Luca Carrera while your husband is alone. You’re a stupid girl.”
When Papa had said he’d like a nightcap, and I invited him to our suite while Dante did whatever he had to do, I’d thought it would be pleasant. We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, it was polite.
But, apparently, not this time, not when I was doing something he didn’t like.
I shrugged. “This is a done deal, Papa.”
He got into my face, and I pressed against the rail, my arms crossed in a protective gesture, not liking how physically close he was when angry.
“You think this decision affects only you?” he snarled. “You think it doesn’t reflect on me? Do you have any idea how foolish this makes you look? How foolish it makesmelook?”
“Papa, this is not about making anyone look…like anything. I’m just trying to be happy.”
“You’re a selfish bitch like your mother.”
My heart pounded in my chest. There was no excuse for a father to speak to his child in this manner, none at all.
“You need to step back, Papa.” I swallowed the fear and spoke clearly.