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“Stuff it,” she snapped, her voice slicing through the air. “You’re just like my father. You and every other man who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world. You act like you’re so noble, so strong, but all you do is tear people down so you can feel bigger. You’re arrogant and cruel.”
“Bella mia—,” I tried again, unsteadily.
But she wasn’t listening. She shook her head, her lips pressed into a tight line.
“I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”
She got up from the couch, making her way to the bedroom.
The hell she isn’t.
I followed her, and when she stepped into the bedroom, trying to shut the door, I easily pushed it open.
“We’re going to make this marriage work,” I ground out. Okay, so maybe my approach was precisely what she’d accused me of—arrogant.
“There’s nowe, you prick. I was the one trying to make it work. All you’ve done is force me into situations I don’t want to be in, like coming here or going to that charity thing where you and your Lucia canoodled all freaking evening,” she shouted.
It was something else to see Elysa like this, and I knew I was to blame. She was a gentle soul, and I’d made her angry and bitter.
I stood there for a moment, staring at her as her words replayed in my head like a broken record. I thought we’d been friendly. I thought, even now, even with everything happening between us, that we’d been on decent terms. But I’d been blind. I’d been haughty. I thought I was the one who’d been wronged by being forced into marriage, but I hadn’t seen what I’d done to her—how I’d chipped away at her until she couldn’t take it anymore.
I rubbed a hand over my face, swallowing the lump in my throat. Apologizing wasn’t going to fix this. Nothing I said would erase the damage I’d done. Regardless, I wasn’t going to let her go.
“A husband and wife sleep together.”
“We’re not even living together,” she jibed.
“Elysa, we’re sleeping in the same bed.”
“Whatever,” she flung at me and went into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door shut.
That night, she slept on the left side, so far left that I thought she’d fall off the king-size bed.
I waited for her to fall asleep, and when she did, I pulled her close to me, letting her head rest against my chest and wrapping an arm around her.
Was it wrong to do this while she was in deep sleep?Probably. Did I give a shit?No.
I stroked her back, hearing her gentle breathing. I was relieved that she was sleeping, even if it was due to exhaustion.
I couldn’t calm myself to fall into blessed slumber.
A decent man would let her go after what I’d put her through. But, hell, I wasn’t a decent man. Elysa was my wife, and she was going to remain that way. Just because I had my head up my ass before didn’t mean I had to live like that.
I didn’t care how badly I’d screwed up—the past was unchangeable. All I could do was move forward.And no matter what it took, I was going to win her back.
Because the truth was, I wasn’t whole without Elysa. She’d been the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I’d been too foolish to see it. But I saw it now, and I wasn’t going to give up on her. She could go ahead and live elsewhere, keep pushing for a divorce, demand I not seduce her—that wasn’t going to change a damn thing. I was Dante Giordano, and I always won.
TWENTY
Elysa
Dante left me alone after we returned from Piedmont for exactlythreedays. On day four, I found him at Bistro Marmorata, at table seven, which was set up for two people.
Initially, I hadn’t noticed.
The dinner rush was in full swing, and the bistro was alive with the kind of energy I loved—plates clinking, laughter echoing off the walls, and the hum of lively chatter blending with the soft jazz playlist I had carefully curated.
I was at the bar, finishing up a review of our wine inventory, when one of my servers, Sofia, approached me, looking flustered but starry-eyed.