Page 93 of Dante

“No, Ciro. I’ve got it.” As I speak the words, I notice a slight disappointment on his face.

Ciro’s only trying to make himself useful, I remind myself.

But all day, I’ve looked forward to this small act of domesticity.

I need the scent of garlic and the heat of the stove to prove I can be more than just a contract bride for Dante.

I want to be a real wife.

“Thanks for understanding. I just want a quiet night with my husband.”

“You’re the boss!” Ciro raises his hands in mock surrender. Then he gives Biscotti a doggy biscuit and gathers his things to leave the apartment.

Once I’m alone, I pull out the heavy glass pans from the cupboard. Then I open a cardboard box of pasta, feeling the weight of the task.

I’m not a natural cook. But I’ve watched Alice’s mother enough times to know the rhythm of it.

After changing into a feminine skirt and freshening my make-up, I pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the stereo.

Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the kitchen, smooth and timeless, matching the hot housewife fantasy I’m building for Dante. Biscotti looks up as I sing along.

“If I can make it here,” I croon, picking up my puppy and giving him a whirl. We dance around this ten-million-dollar apartment in the clouds above the Big Apple.

By 9:15, the table glows with candles. Lasagna bubbles in the oven, filling the apartment with the scent of oregano. And the memory of that Sicilian summer when I first cast my eyes on Dante so long ago.

The oven timer is still ticking when I hear the heavy click of the front door. The penthouse door opens and Dante steps inside.

“Welcome home!” I say, gesturing to the martini I premade, waiting for him in its gleaming silver shaker.

Dante takes in the candles flickering in the dining room. And then the lace-trimmed apron I tied over my skirt as a last-minute touch of domestic theater.

“Surprised?” I ask, wondering if the famous Iceberg took the time to read the text I sent him.

“What are you up to, Gina?” he asks, his voice low and cautious.

“Just making dinner for my husband. Can’t you smell the lasagna cooking?”

His nostrils flare. “I smell lasagna burning.”

I whirl around just as a plume of gray smoke billows out from the oven vent.

Rushing to the kitchen, I find my masterpiece a blackened, bubbling wreck. What went wrong?

Then I feel Dante’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s a sweet gesture.” He tucks his fingers under my chin to pull my face toward his. Then he kisses me tenderly on the lips.

“Shall I order out?”

“No. I have another idea…”

CHAPTER 36

DANTE

Gina’s delicate shoulders slump as she looks at the burned lasagna.

“I’m so sorry, Dante. I guess I failed the I Love Lucy housewife test.”

I smile at the way she stands there in that ridiculous frilly apron, her blonde curls spilling across her forehead.