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“Dante, why do you want me?” I asked him one night.
He had told me to ask all the questions I wanted and promised he’d answer them honestly. According to him, we’d not gotten to know one another, and that had led to communication gaps and misunderstandings.
“In the beginning, right after you left, it was because there was a hole in my heart. I missed you all the time.” Dante glanced at me, and even in the dim light, I could see the faint curve of his smile. “But then it changed when I realized that I missed you because I loved you. Then I started to understand why I loved you. It’s because you’re generous,bella mia. Fiercely loyal and protective. You work hard without constantly looking at what you get in return—you do it because you love the work.”
We walked along Via Marmorata, the main road through Testaccio. The air still carried the lingering scent of fresh bread from Panificio Passi, the little bakery that had been a staple for decades.
The sidewalk was quiet now; the rush of the day had faded, leaving only the occasional Vespa zipping past and the soft murmurs from a nearby café.
“How do you know that you love me?” I asked as we crossed Piazza Testaccio, where the streetlights shimmered off the Fontana delle Anfore, the grand travertine fountain at the square’s center. The amphorae carved into its base were a tribute to the neighborhood’s history, a reminder that Testaccio had once been the heart of Rome’s ancient trade, where jars of olive oil and wine arrived by the Tiber. A couple sat by the fountain, while an old man walked his dog past the bronze boar statue near the market.
“Nonno always said that emotions and feelings can sometimes not be trusted.” He entangled hisfingers with mine. I liked his firm hold. I liked that we held hands when we walked. I liked a lot of the things thisnewDante was doing. But I worried it was a phase, and eventually he’d revert to the man who treated me like I was a burden.
“So, you can’t trust how you feel about me?” I asked cautiously.
He left my hand and pulled me into a hug. “Nonno also said that the heart knows the truth long before the mind catches up.”
His arms tightened around me, warm and steady, as if holding me was the most natural thing in the world.
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe him. But hadn’t my own heart once told me that he’d never love me? That I would always be second to duty, convenience, or something—someone—else? That he had sex with me only because he didn’t believe in cheating on his marriage vows. These weremyinsecurities.
I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the embrace for just a moment before I pulled back, searching his face. “And has your mind finally caught up?”
Dante’s gaze held mine, dark and unwavering. “Si, bella.”
We fell silent as we turned onto Via Galvani, the street narrowing as it led toward the old Mattatoio, the sprawling 19th-century slaughterhouse that had longsince been transformed into an arts and culture hub. The red-brick arches loomed ahead, their history woven into the very fabric of the neighborhood. The contrast between old and new, history and reinvention, was everywhere in Testaccio—just like it was between Dante and me—our lives when we lived together and now as we reinvented our relationship.
“So, what do we do now?” I asked him.
“Well, I intend to keep showing you how much you mean to me, how much I love you— and that you can trust me. Trust me to keep you safe.”
He had been proving it in small but deliberate ways—insisting we spend time together, asking about my job, truly listening. But more than that, he had started sharing his own world with me—his work, his thoughts—things he had never done before.
“And what do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you to give us a chance.” He held my hand again as we strolled. “Arealchance where we become a couple, and I’m not just following you around.”
“Stalking me, you mean?” I teased.
“Stalking has such a negative connotation,” he responded in kind, and then his tone became somber. “I know that you’re afraid. I get it. But I also know that you love me.”
“I’ve never told you that,” I immediately objected.
“Mi leoncina, the only reason you put up with my shit for a year is because you loved me, and love doesn’t just disappear.” He squeezed my hand gently. “I wasfoolish and arrogant. A part of me didn’t want to believe you could love me—you’re so much younger, and I remember when I was your age, there was no way I could be serious about anyone.”
“But now you believe I can be?”
“We’re different people. You’re a more mature twenty-five-year-old than I ever was.” He raised our joint hands to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “But that doesn’t mean all of this isnotconfusing for you. I failed to appreciate that you’d moved countries to live here. You had to learn the language, the social norms, me.”
It felt good to have him acknowledge the challenges I’d faced.
“I wish I’d talked to you before we married, told you I wanted arealmarriage.” I leaned into him as we stopped in front of Bistro Marmorata. The terrace was dark, and the chairs were stacked for the night. I turned to face him. “How would you have reacted if I’d said that?”
“Poorly,” he admitted with a small smile. “I wasn’t ready to get married, Elysa. I didn’t want to because it meant that Nonno was worse off than I was willing to admit. I always assumed I’d meet someoneappropriate—someone I could have good sex with, maybe even love—and that we’d marry as part of a strong, practical partnership.”
“Maybe even love? Not for sure?”
He cupped my cheeks in both hands and droppeda kiss on my mouth. “I never expectedyou. Your generosity, your positive nature, your kindness…it isn’t what I’m used to. There was no subterfuge in you, and I couldn’t believe what my eyes and my heart told me about you.”