Inferno

by T. K. Leigh

  My stomach growled from the smell of garlic making its way to my senses, even on the sidewalk, and I tore my eyes from my reflection. I opened the door and stepped inside, the aroma instantly growing stronger as I glanced around the darkened restaurant. To the left of the host stand was a large dining area with booths and tables. The décor was understated elegance. White tablecloths. Wrought-iron chandeliers. Antique light fixtures on the walls. The noise level was relatively low, even given the number of diners present, making it easy to hold a quiet conversation.

  “Welcome to Inferno,” a brunette greeted, bringing my attention back to the host stand.

  “How did you know I spoke English?”

  “Casualty of the job,” she answered with a slight accent. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I don’t. I was hoping to get something to eat at the bar, if that’s not a problem.”

  “Of course not.” She gestured toward the large lounge area that was reminiscent of some of the wine cellars I’d toured during my few trips to Napa Valley with Brock. The counter of the bar appeared to be poured cement. Stacks upon stacks of wooden slats, which held a rather impressive collection of wine, disappeared into the ceiling.

  I thanked her, then headed toward the bar. I found an empty chair toward the end and hoisted myself onto it. The lighting was even lower in here than in the dining room. It added to the mystery of the place. Once I hung my clutch onto the hook below the bar, a man in a dark button-down shirt approached, placing a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  “Buonasera, Signorina.”

  “Hi,” I responded.

  “English?” He cocked a brow. I wondered if everyone in this country had dark hair and even darker eyes. I’d yet to come across a single unattractive Italian man. I doubted there were such a thing.

  “Si,” I answered, my eyes apologetic.

  “It’s all right. I grew up speaking both Italian and English.”

  “I wish I could speak it better. The extent of my Italian is dov’è il bagno.” I shrugged.

  “Well, that is probably the most important one to know. But rest assured. While you’re in Roma, you’ll be fine.” He flashed a dazzling smile. “Now, what can I get you to drink?”

  “A really good glass of wine.”

  “I’ll get you the list.”

  “That’s not necessary. I trust your judgment. I’m an American in Italy for the first time. Pour me a glass of something you think would be a crime to leave without tasting.”

  “Red or white?”

  I smirked. “Is that even a question? Red.”

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart,” he jested, placing his hands over his chest. “I’ll pour you a red that may just change your life.” He winked, then retreated. Within moments, he reappeared, opening a bottle. “This is from the Barolo region.”

  “And where is that?”

  “North.” He put a pristine glass in front of me and poured a small amount of a deep red wine into it. “It’s a medium-bodied wine, probably closest to what you know as a pinot noir. A bit velvety with a spicy finish.”

  I held the glass by the stem and swirled it on the bar, looking at the legs that formed. I brought it to my nose and sniffed, then took a sip. He was right. It was similar to the pinots I’d been exposed to. But this was different. It was richer, creamier, spicier.

  “It’s perfect. Pour away.” I placed my glass back on the bar, sliding it toward him.

  “Si, Signorina.” He proceeded to fill my glass. “Will you be joining us for dinner, as well?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Certamente.” He produced a menu drawn on heavy stock paper and placed it in front of me. “Take your time and let me know if you have any questions at all.”

  “Grazie.” I smiled, then turned my attention to the menu. To my luck, it was written in both Italian and English.

  Feeling at ease for the first time in ages, I sat back in my chair, taking another sip of wine, in no rush for my first night of freedom to end. I glanced around the bar and restaurant, absorbing the atmosphere. Based on the number of couples here, I assumed this was probably one of the premier spots for a romantic dinner for two. The ambience certainly exuded romance. Dim lighting. High, arched ceilings. Tea candles in a small votive on the center of each table. A wine list that was probably longer than my college thesis. Traditional Italian cuisine prepared with a modern flair.

  When I’d boarded my flight, I didn’t know how I’d react to being in a city where you could physically feel the romance. I feared being surrounded by the art, the fountains, and the wine would make me second-guess my decision to leave Brock and the only life I’d ever known. Instead, as a warmth filtered through my body, I felt not a single ounce of regret at the notion that I’d just tossed away everything I was raised to believe was important. I felt something I didn’t even know I was looking for. I felt freedom.

  Mila knew exactly what she was doing when she helped concoct my final, humiliating farewell to Brock. She knew I needed this trip. That I needed to be somewhere far away so I could finally rid myself of the chains my parents had carefully shackled around me my entire life. That if I didn’t get on the plane, I may have lost my nerve and ended up marrying him anyway. That this was my chance to finally figure out who I was as a person. The embarrassment Brock was forced to endure as the result of my absence was simply the icing on the cake.

  “Another wine, Signorina?” the handsome bartender asked. I snapped my eyes to his before looking down, surprised to see an empty glass in front of me.

  “Si.” It felt oddly satisfying to be able to say yes to a second glass of wine. It was one of those things most people took for granted, but being the girlfriend, then fiancée of a man with great political aspirations, public perception was everything. Too bad it took nearly a decade for me to realize it was just another way he and the rest of my family controlled my behavior.

  With a smile, the bartender refilled my glass. Just then, a waiter appeared behind the bar and placed a small plate in front of me.

  “I haven’t ordered anything yet.”

  The bartender’s smile grew wider. “Compliments of the chef. Grilled octopus with olives and peppers. Buon appetito.”

  Cautiously studying him, I placed my napkin in my lap, turning my eyes to the small white plate in front of me. The octopus had been sliced into bite-sized pieces, then arranged in a beautiful presentation over what appeared to be a reduction with olives and peppers. I’d never had octopus before, never would have ordered something like this if Brock were here. He was a meat and potatoes kind of guy through and through. He didn’t like to try anything new or exciting. Somewhere along the way, I’d become content with the ordinary and commonplace, too.

  Taking my fork in my hand, I stabbed one of the pieces and brought it to my mouth. If I didn’t learn anything else about myself during this trip, at least I realized I liked octopus.

  As the evening wore on and the wine flowed a bit too freely, more and more dishes appeared in front of me, all of them compliments of the chef. If the alcohol hadn’t relaxed me as much as it did, I probably would have questioned it. How could anyone turn away a pear and blue cheese salad, or a short rib ravioli with a truffle cream sauce? The food was truly remarkable. The way the flavors melded together and danced on my tongue satisfied me in a way no food ever had. Or perhaps everything tasted better knowing there was no one looking over my shoulder telling me I should be watching my waistline.

  Just when I didn’t think I could eat another bite, the bartender appeared with a small bowl and placed it in front of me.

  “Let me guess… Compliments of the chef?” I raised a brow.

  “You are quite perceptive.” He winked. “Our house gelato.”

  I shook my head, patting my belly. “I’m not sure I can fit anything else in my stomach.”

  “Just one little taste,” a deep, accented voice said, startling me.

  I shot my eyes toward a darkened corner of the bar.
A tall physique pushed off the wall and out of the shadows. All the oxygen was ripped from my lungs as I watched the same mysterious stranger from the plane saunter toward me. The same man I couldn’t stop thinking about. The same man I’d fantasized about earlier.

  “How?” I stammered, my stomach fluttering. “I mean… What are you doing here?”

  “It is quite the coincidence our paths have crossed again. Some might say it’s a sign,” he said smoothly, then turned his attention to the bartender. They had a brief conversation in Italian before the bartender retreated with a nod.

  I gaped at Dante, trying to ward off the blush growing on my face as I stared at a living, breathing reminder of my lewd dream in which he had a starring role. Who was this man? Why did I keep running into him? Why did I feel as if I should know him?

  “Your gelato is getting warm,” he declared, his voice even. “You really should try some. It’s quite…” He leaned closer. “Decadent.” His breath danced on my skin.

  Subconsciously, I lifted my chin slightly, exposing my neck to him. My tongue darted out, moistening my lips, as I reached for the spoon.

  “Good girl,” he responded slyly, helping himself to the vacant chair beside me.

  I couldn’t quite explain it, but those two words forced a strange reaction inside me. My stomach soared. My skin heated. My muscles clenched.

  Keeping my eyes trained on him, I dug the spoon into the creamy treat and raised it to my lips. I took a bite, then leisurely slid the spoon out of my mouth, moaning as the heavenly taste of chocolate hit my tongue. He was right. It was quite decadent. Sinful. Divine. This wasn’t the first time I’d tasted gelato. But that stuff they peddled back in the States with the label of gelato was nothing compared to this blissful treat.

  “Told you it was good,” he murmured, the warmth of his body so close to mine forcing my heart to beat just a little bit faster, my lungs to breathe a little bit heavier, those butterflies in my stomach to flap their wings a little bit quicker. I’d never met someone so bold, so mysterious, so provocative. At first, I’d been turned off by his confident and self-assured demeanor. Now, I found myself captivated by it.

  Perhaps Mila’s admonition that I needed to find a hot Italian guy made me view Dante in a different light. Perhaps it was because he was everything Brock wasn’t. Perhaps his confidence wasn’t a bad thing. Perhaps he was a little like me… He saw what he wanted and went after it. At least that was how I carried myself in my professional life. I wished I had the courage to do the same in my personal life.

  “I’m not so sure I’d simply call this good,” I responded, pretending to be unaffected by him. “Good seems far too inadequate a word to describe this.” My voice was low, sensual…flirtatious.

  “Is that right?” He cocked a brow, leaning toward me, his eyes narrowing. “And how would the lovely Eleanor describe the gelato?”

  My eyes became intense, bold, cunning. I wanted to give off the appearance that I, too, had confidence in spades.

  “Something much more accurate than simply ‘good’. My flight was good. The bath I took this evening was good. The cab ride to this restaurant was good. This gelato is wicked. It’s sinful. It’s…libidinous.”

  The corner of his mouth turned into a slight smile. “Libidinous?” He licked his lips.

  “Yes. Libidinous,” I repeated in a throaty voice.

  I had no idea what had come over me. It was probably the bottle of wine I’d consumed. The old Ellie would have never spoken to anyone in such a provocative manner. She never would have flirted in the first place. The new Ellie wanted to flirt. She wanted to feel desired, sexy, wanted. I knew absolutely nothing about Dante, yet he made me feel more alluring in the span of five minutes than Brock had in the past decade.

  “It means—”

  “I know what it means,” Dante interrupted. “If I’m not mistaken, it means ‘full of lust’.”

  “Your English is quite good.” I leaned back, breaking the growing tension between us as I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  “I spend a fair bit of time in the States,” he explained.

  “Mi dispiace, Signor Luciano,” the bartender interrupted, somewhat out of breath. He hurried toward us from behind the bar, offering a smile. “This bottle was difficult to find.”

  “Va bene,” he responded dismissively, holding his hand toward the bartender. To my surprise, he gave Dante the bottle. I eyed him with curiosity as he pulled a corkscrew out of the inside pocket of his dark suit jacket and went about opening the bottle. That wouldn’t have been allowed back home. Perhaps the rules were different here.

  Dante made quick work of the cork and poured the red wine into two glasses the bartender had left on the counter. Considering my head already felt a little fuzzy, I probably shouldn’t have any more alcohol, but I reached for the glass anyway.

  “It’s a Sangiovese,” he said when I raised it to my lips. It was a bold red with hints of chocolate. “From my vineyard.”

  I gave him a sideways glance, placing my glass back on the bar. “Your vineyard? You made this?”

  He chuckled slightly. “Not exactly. Compared to seasoned winemakers, my knowledge of viticulture is somewhat limited. Thankfully, I have some of the best winemakers in the industry working for me.”

  “Why have a vineyard if you’re not interested in making wine?”

  He studied me in an unnerving manner, looking at me as if I’d just asked a ridiculous question, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Let’s just say I like to diversify my investments,” he said finally.

  “And a vineyard is an investment?”

  “It certainly can be.” He brought his glass to his lips. “We Italians tend to enjoy our wine.”

  I imitated his gesture, the wine warming my stomach.

  “Almost as much as we enjoy our women.”

  I coughed, his words catching me by surprise. Dante quickly summoned the bartender to pour me a glass of water. One appeared in front of me almost instantly.

  “Sorry,” I apologized after I took a large gulp. “It went down the wrong pipe.”

  “It’s completely understandable.”

  I drank more water, then inhaled a long breath, unnerved by the wanton and shameless way his stare raked over every inch of my body. He made no attempt to hide the ravenous hunger in his gaze.

  “Tell me, Dante.” I cleared my throat, fidgeting with the bottom of my tunic. “What is it you do for a living?”

  “You’re adorable after you’ve had a few drinks,” he remarked. “Has anyone ever told you that?” He took another sip of his wine. I’d never been so jealous of a wine glass in my life.

  “I…” I looked at him, my jaw slack. “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “Not avoiding at all, Eleanor. My mother taught me to always let a woman know she’s beautiful, and you certainly are beautiful.” He reached out and brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen in front of my eyes. “I like this new look for you.” His fingers lingered on my hair for a beat, then he glanced at my hand. When he noticed the fourth finger now sat bare, he smiled. “It’s more natural. More fitting. More relaxed.”

  “I feel more relaxed,” I responded, unable to shake the feeling we weren’t talking about my hair, but the lack of a ring. “Like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. Like I can finally…” I drew in a deep breath.

  “Yes?” He shortened the gap between us, his fingers still toying with my subtle waves.

  Lost in the proximity of his body to mine, I tuned out everything else. The background noises. The other diners surrounding us. The fact that I’d never see this man again after tonight.

  “Like I can finally…” I licked my lips.

  “Yes?” he repeated, cupping my cheek.

  “Live,” I exhaled, leaning toward him, my motions no longer of my own volition. I’d given complete control over to an unknown force. Closing my eyes, my body edged closer and closer to Dante’s, my lips ghosting
against his. A shiver trickled down my spine, the hairs on my nape standing on end. I couldn’t explain what had come over me, but I wanted to know how Dante’s lips tasted. I imagined he kissed with certainty, with passion, with an eagerness I’d never experienced in all my twenty-eight years.

  When our lips were a whisper away, the sound of a few dishes clattering together startled me and I abruptly pulled away. My face burned with embarrassment as I straightened my spine, turning from Dante. He glared at the source, the busboy offering apologies left and right.

  “I should probably get the check.” Smoothing my hands over my jeans, I adjusted my composure and pushed my wine glass away. I didn’t think drinking any more was a good idea. I’d almost kissed a man I’d just met. In public. Where dozens of people could see. “It’s almost eleven and I still want to stop by the Trevi Fountain.”

  “Well, then, let’s go.” He stood and held his hand out toward me.

  “With you?” I gave him a skeptical look.

  “Who else?”

  “I’m sure you want to get on with your evening, as well,” I insisted. “And I still have to pay.”

  “Did you not hear?” He gave me a sly grin. “It was all compliments of the chef.”

  Opening my mouth, I paused, allowing his words to sink in. “Compliments of the chef?” Realization washed over me. “That was you?”

  “Technically, I’m not the chef here. I just own this restaurant, although every single one of the dishes you had were some of my specialties.”

  Smirking, I shook my head. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? Dante’s Inferno. How original,” I mocked playfully.

  “I think it has a nice ring to it.” With a piercing gaze, he gradually erased the distance between us. A voice in my head shouted that I should back away, that I should leave the restaurant and forget I’d ever met him. Instead, my body remained firmly locked in place, eagerly anticipating the next sensual thing this man would do or say. “I do like to bring the heat.” He lingered for a moment before pulling back, a chill washing over me from his absence.