Page 9
Story: That's Amore
Patrizia was the stylist he hired, and she hated me. She kept saying how I wasn’t suitable to be Dante’s wife. She said it in Italian, but I understood the bitch just fine. She was all smiles in English, though.
“I can get ready on my own,” I muttered.
What? Was I just giving in and going to this stupid charity gala?
“No, you can’t, and you know it,” he continued smoothly.
There he went again, telling me that I didn’t know how to look like a Giordano, that I couldn’t do basic shit like put on an outfit and makeup because I was justsomiddle-class in New York.
“I don’t want to deal with Patrizia.”
“Why?” he asked. His confusion was genuine.
"Because last time, she said to her assistant how my tits were too big, that I looked like a milking cow, and my thighs were too fat, and that you must’ve been out of your mind to marry a fat cow like me—amucca grassa."
Even now, those words hurt. I was never skinny, but I didn’t care. I liked my body. I had curves. Not Kim Kardashian curves (but who did), but J-Lo’ishones. I had a big booty and nice tits. I was awoman,not some half-starved woman trying to have the body of a twelve-year-old.
“She saidwhat?” Dante roared.
“You heard me. I don’t want to see her. I’ll figure it out.” How, pray, would I do that? I left all those fancy clothes at his flat. Damn it, I’d have to go back and…what? These were people who thought “repeat” was a thing you didn’t do with clothes. Ialwaysrepeated—because I was aregularperson.
“Okay, I’ll get someone else who knows how to treat you properly,” he decreed like he was King of the World, which I guess he was.
“No, I?—”
“I can keep the proceedings going so you don’t get your precious divorce for years,” he cut me off.
“Why? Won’t that be a problem for your plans to fuck Lucia?”
“You said I didn’t have to wait for a divorce to do that.”
Apparently, the heart could breakafterit was already broken.
“I have to go, Dante,” I said quietly, feeling forlorn and so damn alone.
I’d thought that I’d have a family now with Dante and Don Giordano. I knew my father didn’t care much about me except to keep him in the good graces of Dante’s Nonno. My mother—bless her God-loving heart—thought I was a slut and a whore and didn’twant to have anything to do with me until she needed money, when she demanded I send her some, which Ialwaysdid. It was just money. I could always earn more.
Don Giordano was so loving that he filled all my empty places that craved family—but Dante emptied those spaces just as efficiently, so I felt aloneandlonely. Now, Don Giordano was gone, and the ache in my heart was massive.
I didn’t have many friends, even in New York. I was an introvert. I preferred my own company. I liked working at restaurants and managing wine programs, which had been a point of contention with my mother, who thought all alcohol was the work of the devil. I enjoyed talking to people for work but after, I wanted quiet…with my husband who didn’t want to be my husband. My life was a shitshow!
“Four in the evening on Saturday, Elysa. Don’t be late.” He hung up, and I dropped my phone on my lap.
“What’s going on?” Maura asked.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
Maura and I looked like opposites.
My hair was dark, my skin was olive, my eyes dark brown, I was just around five feet four inches, and my body was fit (because I ran) but not slender…at all.
Maura was blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, tall, and looked like a supermodel. She was a trained chef, and when she came to Rome to visit her aunt, she met and fell in love with Roberto, who turned out to be ajackass. She ended up staying in Rome to nurse her broken heart and ultimately decided not to leave. Her father had a lot of money, and he’d helped her open her bistro.
What had started as me being a server had evolved within months once Maura saw my skill with wine. I now managed her wine program at the bistro, the wine sellers, and the front-of-the-house.
I loved my job.
Maura treated me like a partner, not an employee, and paid me accordingly. I earned a percentage of the profits, and we’d done incredibly well since we started working together.
“I can get ready on my own,” I muttered.
What? Was I just giving in and going to this stupid charity gala?
“No, you can’t, and you know it,” he continued smoothly.
There he went again, telling me that I didn’t know how to look like a Giordano, that I couldn’t do basic shit like put on an outfit and makeup because I was justsomiddle-class in New York.
“I don’t want to deal with Patrizia.”
“Why?” he asked. His confusion was genuine.
"Because last time, she said to her assistant how my tits were too big, that I looked like a milking cow, and my thighs were too fat, and that you must’ve been out of your mind to marry a fat cow like me—amucca grassa."
Even now, those words hurt. I was never skinny, but I didn’t care. I liked my body. I had curves. Not Kim Kardashian curves (but who did), but J-Lo’ishones. I had a big booty and nice tits. I was awoman,not some half-starved woman trying to have the body of a twelve-year-old.
“She saidwhat?” Dante roared.
“You heard me. I don’t want to see her. I’ll figure it out.” How, pray, would I do that? I left all those fancy clothes at his flat. Damn it, I’d have to go back and…what? These were people who thought “repeat” was a thing you didn’t do with clothes. Ialwaysrepeated—because I was aregularperson.
“Okay, I’ll get someone else who knows how to treat you properly,” he decreed like he was King of the World, which I guess he was.
“No, I?—”
“I can keep the proceedings going so you don’t get your precious divorce for years,” he cut me off.
“Why? Won’t that be a problem for your plans to fuck Lucia?”
“You said I didn’t have to wait for a divorce to do that.”
Apparently, the heart could breakafterit was already broken.
“I have to go, Dante,” I said quietly, feeling forlorn and so damn alone.
I’d thought that I’d have a family now with Dante and Don Giordano. I knew my father didn’t care much about me except to keep him in the good graces of Dante’s Nonno. My mother—bless her God-loving heart—thought I was a slut and a whore and didn’twant to have anything to do with me until she needed money, when she demanded I send her some, which Ialwaysdid. It was just money. I could always earn more.
Don Giordano was so loving that he filled all my empty places that craved family—but Dante emptied those spaces just as efficiently, so I felt aloneandlonely. Now, Don Giordano was gone, and the ache in my heart was massive.
I didn’t have many friends, even in New York. I was an introvert. I preferred my own company. I liked working at restaurants and managing wine programs, which had been a point of contention with my mother, who thought all alcohol was the work of the devil. I enjoyed talking to people for work but after, I wanted quiet…with my husband who didn’t want to be my husband. My life was a shitshow!
“Four in the evening on Saturday, Elysa. Don’t be late.” He hung up, and I dropped my phone on my lap.
“What’s going on?” Maura asked.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
Maura and I looked like opposites.
My hair was dark, my skin was olive, my eyes dark brown, I was just around five feet four inches, and my body was fit (because I ran) but not slender…at all.
Maura was blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skinned, tall, and looked like a supermodel. She was a trained chef, and when she came to Rome to visit her aunt, she met and fell in love with Roberto, who turned out to be ajackass. She ended up staying in Rome to nurse her broken heart and ultimately decided not to leave. Her father had a lot of money, and he’d helped her open her bistro.
What had started as me being a server had evolved within months once Maura saw my skill with wine. I now managed her wine program at the bistro, the wine sellers, and the front-of-the-house.
I loved my job.
Maura treated me like a partner, not an employee, and paid me accordingly. I earned a percentage of the profits, and we’d done incredibly well since we started working together.
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