Page 47 of Broken Trust

And then, out of nowhere, I'm nineteen, in a trattoria in Bologna with paper on the tables, and Dante is stealing a forkful of my carbonara and making me laugh so hard I snort wine up my nose. He's grinning at me, a smear of sauce on his chin, saying, Get what you actually want, amore. Life's too short for sensible fish.

Dante lied to me. He broke my heart into pieces so small I'm still finding them in the corners, and he betrayed me in the worst way a man can.

But not once did he tell me what to eat, or what to wear, or how often I was allowed to see my own sister. When I talked, he listened. If I wanted something, he wanted it for me. Whatever else he did, he never tried to make me smaller.

Dante would never do that.

“Gia?” Matteo is watching me. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere.” I force a smile. “Sorry. It's been a long few days.”

He drives me home along the lake road with the windows down and his hand resting heavy on my knee. When we pull up outside the restaurant, he leans across and kisses me. I return it and wait for something to happen inside me, the way it did in Dante's apartment that night, like a match catching.

Nothing does.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven," he murmurs against my mouth. "I'll cook. You'll love it."

It isn't a request.

"I promised Nella I'd help her tomorrow. Remember? I told you." I pull back a little. "And Saturday's our busiest night. We can't close."

"We can, and we will. I've already told the staff." He brushes my hair back from my face and tucks it behind my ear. "Go to Nella's on Sunday instead. Seven. Wear your hair down, okay? I like it down."

I wait for him to laugh, to tell me he's joking. He doesn't. The old saying about never mixing business with pleasure springs to mind, and I wonder why I ever agreed to date him. He presses his lips to my forehead and waits, engine running, while I climb out and cross to my door. I can feel him watching me the whole way.

Upstairs, I don't turn on the lights.

I kick off my shoes, pad to the bathroom, and stop before the mirror, and the streetlight through the little window catches my face. My lipstick is smudged from his kiss. My hair is pinned up, the way I wore it tonight, the way he apparently doesn't like. This dress is soft and pretty and just what a sensible woman wears to a sensible dinner, and I don't recognize myself in it at all.

The black one is still hanging in the wardrobe with the tags on.

My hands folded in my lap. My phone flipped over out of reach. The fish I didn't want. How quickly, how easily, I said yes to every bit of it. How the old habits came back so smoothly, like they'd only been sleeping. Smile. Agree. Don't make a fuss. Keep the peace.

I spent my whole childhood being a good girl for Mamma, and a decade after that trying to be the perfect wife for a husband who wasn't paying attention. I left my whole life behind and built a new one out of flour and stubbornness and nerve, so that I would never have to shrink for anybody again.

And here I am, one week into something new, already folding myself up to fit.

“Am I doing it again?” I whisper to myself. “Am I repeating every mistake I swore I'd never make?”

The woman in the mirror doesn't answer. For a second, in the orange light from the street, she looks like Mia, and I have to grip the edge of the sink.

A text chimes on the counter.

It was a beautiful night. See you at seven. Hair down. M x

I stare at it for ages, my thumb hovering. I could type No, or I'm going to Nella's, or Don't tell me how to wear my hair.

Instead, I write Okay and turn the phone over.

It was only a first date, I remind myself as I climb into bed. Everyone has flaws. He's under pressure at work, and he's protective, and some women would call that romantic. He's sweet to me in the kitchen. He held me when I cried. Give it a few weeks, and give him a chance. Don't be the woman who runs at the first sign of trouble and ends up alone with six cats.

But when I finally drift toward sleep, it isn't Matteo's face I see.

It's Dante's, in a rearview mirror, telling me to get the pasta.

26

DANTE