Page 53 of Ricardo

“Once was plenty.”

“You decided that quickly?”

“I decided on sight.”

“And yet I stayed with him two years,” I say quietly. “It took until he…”

A lump forms in my throat, and I can’t continue.

But I don’t need to. Dante understands.

His jaw tightens.

“You should never have let him get away with that, Jules,” he says, voice low now. “You still shouldn’t.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

For one terrible second, shame rises before anger can get there.

“I know,” I say.

Dante’s face changes.

“No.” His voice gentles immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not blaming you.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I mean he should pay for it.” His hand curls around his water glass. “It’s not too late.”

I look at him sharply.

“Dante.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. That’s why I said your name like that.”

His mouth tightens, but he does not look away.

For a moment, I see the Conti in him so clearly that it steals my breath a little. The charm is gone. The easy smile. The boy who got us lost in Naples and bought me pastries afterward as if sugar could make up for it.

In his place is a man raised by dangerous people in a dangerous world, with dangerous instincts of his own.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Julia—”

“No.” I keep my voice quiet. “I didn’t call you then because I wanted revenge. I called because he’s powerful, and I needed to leave quickly.”

“And you did.”

“Yes. I did.” I fold my napkin once, then unfold it again. “I don’t want my life to keep orbiting what he did. I don’t want him punished if punishing him means I have to keep standing in the middle of it.”

Around us, the restaurant continues as if nothing has happened. Plates clatter. Someone near the front laughs loudly. The owner argues with a delivery driver in Italian at the register.

Dante says something under his breath that I am fairly sure his grandmother would not approve of.

“I ordered a lemon print for my kitchen,” I say suddenly.