by Leigh, T. K.
It wasn’t that I’d never been to church. I had several times, particularly on Inauguration Day in D.C. when it was expected all the families of the Congressmen attend a service. But I never really believed much of it, although my mother liked the public to think we were a deeply religious family. I had a feeling that was simply so my father could continue to garner support from his conservative base. I wondered how his conservative base would react to the idea he may be responsible for a child’s death.
“Is he religious?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Beatrice hesitated before answering. “Despite everything he’s been through, he’s found a way to keep his faith strong. Whether it’s faith in religion, God, or whatever, I can’t tell you. But he believes in something.”
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to go in there? I mean, I’m not religious. I’m not even Catholic. Isn’t there some rule or—”
She placed her hand on my arm. “Just go.”
I stared at her for a moment longer, trying to come up with a reason why it was inappropriate, but in my heart I knew I needed to do this. I needed to see Dante, to make sure he was okay, to bring him back from his darkness.
I retrieved my compact from my purse, checking my reflection in the mirror. Thankfully, the bruises Brock had left me with had faded and I only needed a little bit of concealer to cover them up now. I had a feeling they’d be gone by tomorrow and I would no longer have to stare at a daily reminder of him.
After returning my compact, I opened the door, stepping into the Italian sun. I gave Beatrice a small smile as I smoothed the lines of my dress, then took cautious steps toward the church, unsure why I was so unsettled. I’d never been this anxious in the courtroom. But walking into a church under the assumption that Dante was there made my palms sweat. Would he want to see me? Would he look at me with that cold, detached stare I saw on his face last night? What would I even say to him? I had no idea. But as much as I wanted to spin around and tell Beatrice it was a stupid idea, that I’d just wait for him at his house, some outside force pushed me forward. Was it fate? Destiny? God?
Coming to the foot of a short flight of steps, I craned my head back, staring at the steeple. The exterior was all stone, narrowing up to a simple cross on the very top. This church was tiny in comparison to the enormous cathedrals I’d seen in Rome, but I was still in awe of the artistry.
I headed up the steps and pulled the heavy wooden door open, a loud creak echoing as I did, the sound deafening in the serenity around me. I cringed, pausing for moment, then stepped inside. The instant I did, an unexpected calm washed over me. As I admired the stained glass and the high-domed ceilings of the peaceful sanctuary, I felt as though I could forget about my problems — about abandoning the only life I’d ever known, about what awaited me when I returned home, about whether I’d ever find a job at a law firm again. None of that mattered right now. Being here reminded me that my problems were insignificant in the grand scheme of things, that there were more important things in life. I understood why Dante sought clarity here.
My eyes scanned the church, soaking in the atmosphere. A few people sat in the pews, their heads bowed, some of the women holding a rosary. I grew despondent and a bit anxious when Dante didn’t appear to be among them. Then my eyes settled on a devotional area at the back of the sanctuary to my left. Dante kneeled on a stool before it, some of the votive candles lit, others not. A statue of the Virgin Mary watched over the area, her hands clasped over her heart, as if offering sympathy and compassion to all who kneeled before her.
Blowing out a breath, I walked toward Dante on light feet. His scent grew stronger as I approached, and my lips turned up slightly in the corners. I’d known this man for such a short amount of time, but even his aroma had the ability to bathe me in comfort.
I kneeled beside him, reaching for one of the long matches on the rack. Striking it, I lit one of the votive candles, then said a silent prayer for the man beside me, wishing with everything I had that he could finally find the closure he desperately needed, that he would no longer feel the pain that seemed to consume him, that he could be at peace again.
He shot his eyes to mine, his mouth agape. He shook his head, his brows furrowing. “Eleanor,” he whispered. “What… How?”
“Beatrice,” I answered in a low voice, shrugging.
“Of course.” Understanding fell on his expression and he faced forward once more, staring up at the Virgin Mary. I studied him, wishing I knew what was going through his mind. Then he bowed his head, performed the sign of the cross, and stood. Still uneasy about his changed behavior the previous night, I almost expected him to walk away. Then a pained smile crossed his face and he held his hand out for me.
Keeping my eyes trained on him, I raised myself back to my feet and grabbed his hand. His thumb gently brushed my knuckles, soothing the anxiety filling me. He led me from the church and back into the sunlight, both of us remaining silent. I stole a glance at him as we walked by Beatrice’s car. He gave her what appeared to be a nod of thanks before she drove off, leaving us.
“I lost control,” he stated after we’d walked in silence for several minutes.
“You mean last night?” I lifted a brow.
He came to a stop and faced me. I mirrored his movement. “Yes.” He rubbed his temples. He seemed to have aged years in the past several hours. His eyes lacked their normal vitality, the lines on his face creasing with worry. “I wasn’t myself.” He brought his hand up to my cheek, gingerly caressing my skin. I melted into the contact. “I was too rough. I just…”
I clutched his face in my hands, pulling his mouth toward mine. “I told you. I wanted that, Dante. The pain I saw…” An ache formed in my stomach as the image of the broken, tormented man I saw kneeling in his dead daughter’s room flashed in my mind once more. I felt partly responsible for it. “I’d do anything to help you never feel that again.”
He leaned his forehead on mine, our breath intermingling. “It doesn’t make it right, Eleanor.” He pulled back, searching my eyes. “Did I…” He drew in a breath, seemingly not wanting to ask the question on his mind. “Did I hurt you?”
“Dante—” I began, but he held his hand up, stopping me.
“Please. I just need to know if I caused you pain.”
I lowered my head. “We’ve had rough sex before. If you recall, our first time together, you spanked me.” I let out a small laugh, hoping to lighten the tension.
He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Last night wasn’t a power exchange and you know it.”
My expression fell and I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “I know.”
“Eleanor, did…I…hurt…you?” he asked again, emphasizing each word.
As much as I wanted to lie to him so he wouldn’t be burdened with any more guilt, I couldn’t disrespect him like that, not about this. “Yes,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping forward as his hands shook.
“But it’s okay,” I assured him, placing my hand on his arm. “If that’s what you need so you can stop hurting in here…” I moved my hand to his chest, relishing in the feel of his heart beating, “I’d gladly take that pain.”
He sighed, pulling me against him, his arms enveloping me, swallowing me whole. “Nothing about what happened last night is okay. Don’t ever think that. Please.”
“I want to help take the pain away,” I murmured against his chest, listening to his racing heart as I delicately ran my hands up and down his back.
“You already have, mia cara.” He kissed the top of my head. “More than I think you realize.” He paused. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?” I pulled away to peer into his eyes.
“Don’t let me take it that far again. You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who’s going to treat you like the treasure you are.” He ran his hand down my cheek. “Who will worship the ground you walk on. Who will cher
ish you.”
“You know…” I placed my hand over his, a sly smile crossing my face. “You can cherish me and still spank me. Because I really like it when you do.”
He studied me for a minute before breaking out into a throaty laugh, the sound like music to my ears, especially after the past twelve hours. “Duly noted, my beautiful Eleanor.” He placed a kiss on my forehead, then stepped back. “Come. Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand, pulling me in the opposite direction of the church.
“Where are we going?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. “I thought—”
“It’s Market Day. I figured you’d enjoy it. And maybe I want to be able to show you off around town,” he added with a wink.
I rolled my eyes, relieved that he seemed to be returning to his normal, flirtatious self. “If you really wanted to show someone off, maybe you should be with Julia Roberts or someone like that.”
“You’re far more beautiful than she is.”
“Riiiight,” I retorted sarcastically.
“Why don’t you think you’re beautiful?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for a compliment. I’m pretty secure in my own skin. But—”
“But you don’t think you’re beautiful.”
I averted my gaze, shrugging.
Dante stopped, making me come to a halt, as well. He grabbed my chin, tilting it, forcing my eyes to his. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Eleanor. It makes me furious to think your ex didn’t tell you that enough.”
“Or at all,” I mumbled.
“He never told you how beautiful you were? Not even when he asked you to marry him?”
I shook my head, then continued down the road, uncomfortable about the direction of this conversation. “His proposal sounded more like a campaign speech, telling me how much we could accomplish together.”
“You’re kidding. And you still agreed to marry him?”
“I didn’t think there was anything better, anything more. I didn’t think I had a choice, not when he proposed to me in front of both our families.” My forlorn expression turned light as I tried to cut through the tension between us. “And what should he have included in his proposal, since you talk as if you’re the expert on the subject. Some sort of declaration of undying love that included every cliché known to man?”
“I’m no expert, but when you’re asking someone to spend the rest of their life with you, it should be from the heart, not sound as if a speech writer penned it for you…and certainly not be full of clichés.”
I turned to smile at him, then stopped, noticing he was no longer beside me. I glanced over my shoulder, confused when I saw him standing a few feet away. I faced him. “What are—”
“I never knew my heart was capable of feeling this emotion I can’t even describe,” he interrupted, his voice benevolent, tender, affectionate. There was a vulnerability about him as he stared at me. “I felt it the first time you looked at me, and that’s how I knew you’d be the only woman I’d see for the rest of my life.”
I remained frozen in place, my throat growing thick, my mouth dry. My lips parted, a tingle spreading from my fingertips to my toes and everywhere in between as I grew breathless from the heat in Dante’s dark eyes.
“And every second I’ve spent with you since that fateful day, that feeling has grown stronger, louder, more intense.” His body grew taut, his voice becoming alive with passion. “So much so, I can’t bear to go another second without asking you to be by my side. I know it doesn’t make any sense, that we come from two different worlds, that we barely know each other, but when two people are meant to be together, like I know in my heart we are, they’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.”
He stepped toward me, his expression softening as he ran his fingers down my arm, settling on my hip, dragging me against his body. Words escaped me, my heart pounding against my chest, begging to be set free.
“Sometimes our lives don’t go as we expected or predicted,” he continued in a quiet voice, smiling slightly. “Sometimes shit happens to shake us to our core and we don’t think we’ll ever be whole again. But when the dust settles, we can see clearly and find exactly where we’re supposed to be, who we’re meant to be. And sometimes all you need is one person to show you what that is, show you unconditional love.”
A chill washed over me, my skin prickling with goosebumps. I swallowed hard, lost in his eyes, his words, his everything.
“I never expected to find you. I never thought I deserved to find someone like you. But I will spend every day for the rest of my life thanking God that He thought I did, regardless of whether or not you choose to spend the rest of your life with me. But I hope you do.”
“Dante, I…”
He shifted his eyes away from mine, releasing his hold on me as I remained dumbfounded, fighting back the tears wanting to break free.
“Brock should have said something like that,” he finished, running his hands through his hair, increasing the distance between us. “I hope the next man who asks you to marry him gives you the proposal you deserve.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of excited voices calling out Dante’s name. I spun around, surprised when a group of teenage boys swarmed him, everyone chatting feverishly in Italian. I took several steps back, giving them space, watching with a sense of pride as he signed notebooks, soccer balls, and anything else that was shoved in front of him. He kept a smile on his face the entire time, giving off the appearance that he was genuinely happy to pose for photos with whomever asked.
After doing his best to sign everything he could, he politely excused himself, heading straight to me. “I apologize for that.”
“I don’t mind.” I smiled, linking my hand with his as he led me toward a downtown area that was abuzz with activity. “I love listening to you speak Italian. It does things to me,” I joked, cutting through the edginess I still felt from his heartfelt speech, unable to erase the look in his eyes — the fire, the intensity, the want.
“Oh really?” He gave me a lascivious grin.
“Really.” I winked as we entered the outdoor market. Tables lined the street, showcasing fresh produce, meats, breads, paintings, jewelry, and handmade crafts. It went on for what seemed like miles. This was heaven for someone like me who appreciated handmade items as opposed to mass-produced goods.
Dante approached the very first table, grabbing a plump tomato and bringing it up to his nose. All the vendors appeared eager for him to try their food, probably hoping Dante Luciano would give them their fifteen minutes of fame. If I were in their shoes, I probably would have done the same thing.
“Did you ever see your life taking the direction it has?” I blurted out.
A contemplative look crossed his face as he considered my question. “I don’t think anyone can really plan for much in life,” he responded finally. “Everyone dreams of success, of having a life where they’re comfortable and happy. Did I ever see myself having complete strangers ask for my autograph and to have their photo taken with me? Certainly not.”
He returned the tomato to the table, continuing down the line of vendors before coming to a stop at a stand that sold marinated olives. Grabbing a jar, he handed the woman a five euro note. Once we were on our way again, he opened the lid and popped an olive into his mouth. Only in Italy would they eat olives like peanuts. When he held the jar toward me, I grabbed one, savoring the vinegary taste. From this moment forward, every time I ate an olive, I had a feeling I’d be reminded of walking through the town market with Dante Luciano at my side. I wondered if he’d think the same of me.
“When you were a little boy, what did you want to be when you grew up?” I asked. I only had a few days left with him and was desperate to know everything, from his childhood hero to where he saw himself in ten years.
“A football player,” he answered with a laugh. “What little boy doesn’t? I played a little in university.”
“I thought you we
nt to culinary school.” I lifted a brow.
“I did, after finishing university. My mother insisted on it. It was over twenty years ago, and it didn’t cost anywhere close to what college costs in the States, so it was manageable.”
“What did you study?” I asked, intrigued.
“Journalism.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“Your TV show. It’s more like a documentary than a cooking show.”
“Which is exactly what I wanted. I didn’t want to just be paraded around like a monkey on another show where bored housewives would watch me prepare chicken parmigiana.” He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t help but sense his disdain for that kind of programming. “I wanted to do something that hadn’t been done, to show people the rest of the world through the lens of food.” He paused, studying me. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Italy?”
“You,” I answered without hesitation.
“Okay.” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “How about before you met me?”
I shrugged. “Pasta.”
“You just proved my point. Food is such a huge part of culture. Why not showcase that?”
“Why didn’t you pursue a career in journalism? Why did you completely change gears?”
“Because it wasn’t my passion. Food was. Some of my favorite memories of my childhood involve food, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my mother or at family gatherings.”
“Me, too.” A warmth washed over me as I recalled some of my happier times as a child.
“Really?” His voice rose in pitch. I was certain my admission surprised him, particularly based on the little information I’d shared about my family.
“I remember sitting in the kitchen after school with Gloria. I don’t remember much else about my childhood, but I remember that.”
“Who’s Gloria?”
“Our housekeeper and my nanny,” I explained. “She would tell me all these amazing stories about growing up in Louisiana during the Civil Rights era. The food she made…” A nostalgic smile crossed my mouth as I drew in a deep breath, almost able to smell the Old Bay and Cajun seasonings.
