Page 44 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“I’ve met your grandmother. You mentioned your brother. Any other family? What about your parents?”

The heat in his eyes dimmed, and she instantly regretted bringing up what she should know from her own experience could be a touchy topic. She half expected him to push his plate away, abruptly ending both the meal and their conversation, but he surprised her by lifting another spoonful of the decadent dessert to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a long minute, then calmly answered her question.

“I never met my father. My mother was young. She wasn’t prepared to take care of a baby, much less two. My grandmother raised us.”

And Zoe thought she had it rough. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“My brother and I are lucky. We had someone who could step in and do what our parents couldn’t. Not every child has that.”

She didn’t expect that response. “That’s big of you.”

Dante set his spoon down, leaving his dessert half eaten. “Trust me, I didn’t always feel that way. I spent years resenting my parents, my mother especially. But she did what she felt was best for us. And she was right. My grandmother was an amazing parent. She was working as a modeling agent by then, and she took us all over the world with her until we were old enough to start school. Then she walked away from it all so we could put down roots somewhere, make friends, live a more normal life.”

Zoe fought to keep the corners of her mouth from curving into a sarcastic smile. “I’m not sure I’d call owning homes all over Italy ‘normal.’”

“Just one at first, in Naples. Nonna didn’t buy the villa in Positano until we were ten. I got the penthouse in Rome after Luca and I opened our first restaurant.”

“I stand corrected. Your childhood wasn’t just normal, it was downright disadvantaged.”

He laughed and reattacked hispanna cotta. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“To tell me about your family.”

“Father. Stepmother. Seventeen-year-old half sister who thinks the world revolves around her.”

“And your mother?”

Zoe looked down at her empty dish. “She died when I was eight. Cancer.”

“So, in a way, we were both abandoned.”

The raw pain, honesty, and compassion in his voice forced her head up. When she met his gaze, those emotions were reflected in his eyes, almost stealing her breath so that when she spoke, her words were barely above a whisper. “I guess you could say that.”

A knock at the door shattered their connection and startled Zoe. Dante didn’t seem all that surprised, calmly rising and striding to the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” Zoe asked. A bellhop had already come to collect their wet clothes, so it couldn’t be that. “Your manager friend?”

“I am, but it’s not her.”

“Then who?”

“Give me a chance to answer the door, and you’ll see.”

“I hate surprises, remember?” Zoe grumbled.

“You liked the last one. And I think you’ll appreciate this one, too.”

Dante opened the door and greeted their guest in Italian. Zoe craned her neck, trying to see who he—or she—was around Dante’s imposing frame. It wasn’t until he stepped aside and waved their visitor in that she recognized him as the desk clerk.

“Wait right here,” Dante said, still talking as he headed for the bathroom. “I have something for you.”

“Si, signore,” the young man said, looking as if he thought Dante might return with a .45-caliber Beretta.

Zoe stood and crossed to him, needing to do something to put the poor boy at ease. “I’m Zoe.”

She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “Matteo.”