Page 50 of Broken Trust

The words are out before I can stop them. “We're still married.”

“Dante, don't.” She closes her eyes for a second. “I don't want any tension. I just want…”

“What, my blessing? To be with someone who makes you close your own restaurant so he can take you to dinner?” I keep my voice low, because Rosa is only a few yards away, but I can't keep it steady. “That restaurant is yours, Gia. Not his. Don't ever forget that.”

“You have some nerve!” she snaps, and then I see the tears welling in her eyes.

“I wouldn't want any man to do to you what I did to you.”

Her chin trembles. “And what's that?”

“Take you for granted,” I whisper.

Then I lean in and kiss her cheek. She doesn't move. She doesn't pull away, either. She just stands there with her eyes shut while the tears spill over and run down her face.

“Daddy! Zia! The duck bit me!”

We both turn. Rosa is stomping back toward us, clutching one finger and looking outraged rather than hurt, while the mallard waddles smugly off behind her.

Gia laughs, but she's still crying, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand and trying to fight back the tears before Rosa sees them. I watch her, and I know. I'm not letting her go. Not now, not ever, and maybe one day she'll realize that. I'm not the same man she married. I've learned my lesson the hardest way there is, and I want my wife back.

27

GIA

The restaurant is closed on Mondays, and today Matteo has decided to teach me how to make his grandmother's sfogliatelle.

I've been trying not to notice how much time we spend together. Nella doesn't say anything, but she doesn't like him. I can tell. It's written all over her face every time he walks into a room. I think the feeling is mutual, because Matteo never makes the effort to talk to her, not even a hello. It's a red flag. I know it is. But I'm ignoring every warning sign, just so the one person I swore I'd keep out doesn't find his way back into my life.

Matteo is the wall I've built to stop myself from running straight back into Dante's arms.

“No, no, no,” he snaps, taking the rolling pin out of my hands for the third time. “Thinner. You should be able to read a newspaper through the dough. Like a bride's veil.”

“It's already see-through.”

“Like a bedsheet, maybe. I need it thin as a prayer.”

I laugh and flick flour at him, hoping to break the tension, but he doesn't laugh back. He brushes it off his shirt, catches me by the waist, and kisses me against the steel table, firm and certain, the way he does everything now, as if the matter has already been settled.

We've been dating for weeks, and he decides where we eat and what I order. He rearranges my walk-in and rewrites my specials and calls it helping. He sulks when I spend an evening at Nella's, then forgives me so beautifully when I come home early that I find myself coming home early every time. He has never once raised his voice. I've made myself small enough that he never has to.

And every time he kisses me, some small, stubborn part of me is somewhere else entirely.

Behind us, the back door creaks open.

I pull away, a little breathless, and wipe my floury hands on my apron. “We're closed,” I call over my shoulder. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I won't stay long.”

My stomach drops right through the floor.

Dante is standing just inside the back door in a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, holding a thick manila envelope in both hands. He must have seen us the second he stepped in. I can tell by the set of his jaw and by how carefully he's keeping his face blank.

Matteo's hand slides off my waist. He stays silent, but I feel him still beside me.

I turn around properly, dusted in flour from my wrists to my elbows. “Dante. What are you doing here? Is Rosa okay?”

“She's fine. She's with Ma.” He glances at Matteo and gives him a small nod. Then he holds out the envelope. “I wanted to give you these in person.”