A Moment on the Lips

chapter THIRTEEN

ON THURSDAY evening Dante arrived at his mother’s house with flowers and chocolates.

‘Dante, amore.’ Gianna hugged him warmly when she opened the door to him. ‘And you didn’t need to bring me anything.’

‘I know, Mamma, but I wanted to.’ He hugged her back.

‘So did you have a good time in Paris?’ Gianna asked.

‘Wonderful.’ Though it had left him yearning. Wishing for something he couldn’t have. Wishing things were different. Not that he’d tell her that. She didn’t need the extra guilt.

‘Happy belated birthday, little brother,’ his sister said, pinching his cheek.

‘Less of the “little”, Rachele. I’ve been bigger than you since I was twelve,’ he said with a grin.

‘I know, but you’re still the baby.’

And, talking of babies … ‘Is Fiorella still up?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Oh, yes. No going to bed until she’s seen Zio Dante,’ Rachele told him, smiling. ‘Especially as there’s cake involved.’

But as soon as he walked into the living room he could see that his niece was already being entertained. She was having a story read to her—one of her favourites, he recognised, and the little girl was joining in with the refrain. Though the person reading the story was the last person he’d expected to see: Carenza.

‘Hi,’ she said, giving him a shy smile.

Fiorella looked up. ‘Zio Dante!’ She wriggled off Carenza’s lap and ran to him; he caught her up and swung her round.

‘Hello, bellezza,’ he said with a smile. ‘Missed me?’

‘Yes,’ she lisped. ‘Renza read story.’

‘I’d better let her finish, then, while I help Mamma and Nonna.’

To his surprise, Fiorella ran over to Carenza again and climbed back onto her lap. Carenza was a stranger, and Fiorella was usually wary of strangers; and yet the little girl seemed to have accepted Carenza immediately. So did this mean Carenza had spent time with his sister and his niece? Or was it that Fiorella responded to Carenza’s natural warmth?

He’d never seen Carenza with children before. From what she’d said, Lucia was the first of her friends to have a baby on the way; and Carenza was an only child. As far as he knew, she’d had practically nothing to do with kids. Yet she was patiently telling the story, getting Fiorella to join in with the refrains, and using different voices for each character.

How could he not be charmed?

Then he remembered the other night. In Paris. When they’d had unprotected sex. Despite her protests that everything was fine and her insistence that she couldn’t be pregnant, he knew that it was still a possibility. Again, he had that weird kind of flash-forward. He could imagine her holding their baby. Or holding their toddler and reading a story, just as she was doing right now with Fiorella.

He shook himself. Now he was being absolutely ridiculous, and it annoyed him that he reacted to Carenza in this way. He’d never felt like this before about anyone. And it really, really bothered him.

‘Mamma, let me help,’ he said, fleeing to the safety of the kitchen.

She shooed him out. ‘No. Go and sit with Carenza.’

Was she matchmaking? Dante thought suspiciously. And since when had Carenza been invited to his birthday dinner anyway? His mother hadn’t mentioned it. And neither had Carenza.

There was no way he could ask without making a fuss. So he gave in and went back into the living room.

‘Zio Dante!’ Fiorella pointed to the space on the sofa next to them, and smiled. ‘Read story, too.’

What could he do? And then he found himself drawn into the story, reading it with Carenza and taking over the voices of some of the characters. Fiorella’s eyes were shining with joy, and Dante’s chest felt tight.

This was how it could be. Himself, Carenza and their own child. If he were a different person.

If only.

His mother had made her usual fabulous dinner. Carenza joined in with everyone else in helping to clear the dishes between courses. Gianna must really like her, he thought, to allow the younger woman in her kitchen. And Carenza fitted right in. As if she were already part of the family. Which scared him even more.

Then his mother came in with a birthday cake, the candles lit. Everyone sang ‘Buon Compleanno’ to him, even little Fiorella. He smiled, and blew out the candles.

‘You have to make a wish,’ Carenza said.

Yeah. And he knew what he would wish for.

But he saw their faces round the table, all full of hope—and he remembered all the times his mother had a black eye or a tooth knocked out or a broken arm. All given to her by the man who was supposed to love her. The man who’d made those vows in front of their joined families. Nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia. In joy and in sorrow, in health and in sickness. Except his father had been the one to cause the sorrow and the sickness.

E di amarti e onorarti tutti i giorni della mia vita. And to love you and honour you, all the days of my life. His father had broken that vow, too.

And the wish turned to ashes in Dante’s head.

He’d inherited his father’s genes. So it followed that, even if he started with all the good intentions in the world, he could end up hurting Carenza, the same way his father had hurt his mother. And he really couldn’t take that risk. For both their sakes.

‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ Gianna said.

‘I’m fine,’ he fibbed.

‘You work too hard.’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘And, knowing you, you’re trying to catch up with the work you didn’t do when you were in Paris. Even though Carenza says Mariella moved all your meetings so you’re not actually behind at all.’

‘I’m fine, Mamma,’ he repeated, and forced himself to smile. ‘It’s Fiorella’s bedtime. Let me do the washing up, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘No, it’s your birthday and you’re not washing up today.’

‘Will you let me wash up?’ Carenza asked.

‘No, tesoro,’ Gianna said with a smile. ‘Thank you, but it’s fine.’ She gave Dante a pointed look, and he knew that if he didn’t offer to give Carenza a lift, his mother would nag him about it for weeks.

‘Can I give you a lift home, Carenza?’ Dante asked politely.

‘On the bike?’ she asked.

He couldn’t help smiling, then. ‘My mother banned me from riding the bike here.’

‘Because it’s dangerous,’ Gianna interjected.

Dante rolled his eyes. ‘It’s as safe as a car.’

‘Not the way you drive, it isn’t.’

He shrugged. ‘I hate waiting in queues. It’s more efficient than a car. But tonight, to keep my mother happy, I’m using a taxi. And your flat’s on my way home, Carenza, so if you’d like a lift?’

‘Thank you.’

He rang the taxi firm he normally used, and Carenza read Fiorella another story until the taxi arrived. His mother insisted on giving them both neatly wrapped parcels of cake; after hugging everyone goodbye, Dante and Carenza climbed into the back of the taxi.

She reached out to take his hand. ‘You’re really tense. What’s wrong?’

Everything. ‘Nothing,’ he said through gritted teeth.

To his relief, she didn’t push it.

When the taxi pulled up outside her flat, she smiled at him. ‘It’s not that late. Would you like to come up for coffee?’

‘That’s not a good idea, Princess.’

‘Are you angry with me for gatecrashing your birthday dinner?’

‘No.’ He was angry with himself. ‘Anyway, you didn’t gatecrash. My mother invited you.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Just leave it, Caz. Please. I’ll see you later.’

‘OK. Ciao.’

He made the taxi wait until she was safely inside, then headed for home. His head was pounding and that tightness was back in his chest. Well, tough. Nobody said that life was fair or that you could get what you wanted. And what he wanted had to stay off limits. For Carenza’s sake as well as his own.

On Friday morning, as promised, the painting arrived from the Parisian gallery.

Dante decided to give it to Carenza the next evening, when they met for their usual mentoring session. But the parcel disturbed him all day, looming in the corner of his office. Tempting. Giving him an excuse to see her.

In the middle of the afternoon, he gave in and called her. ‘Are you busy, this evening?’

‘I’m playing with ice cream recipes—but I could do with a taste-tester, if you want to come over.’

‘I’d like that. What time?’

‘Eight?’ she suggested.

‘I’ll bring pizza with me—Mario’s marinara is the best in Naples.’

‘That’d be good. I’ll see you tonight, then.’

Carenza wondered just why Dante wanted to see her tonight. She couldn’t help the flutter of excitement down her spine; they’d grown much closer in Paris, so did he want to see her for herself and not the business?

Then again, given how he’d reacted that morning to the possibility of her being pregnant, and the way he’d reacted last night at his family birthday meal, probably not. She still didn’t quite understand why he was backing away from her, why he was so insistent that a relationship between them wouldn’t work. Over the last few weeks, since she’d got to know him, she’d revised her own opinion on that score. Yes, they came from different worlds; but she thought that they balanced each other nicely. He’d taught her a lot about business, and he’d given her the confidence to run Tonielli’s because she was beginning to understand what she was doing. She’d discovered that she had a serious side, and people were at last taking her seriously, thanks to him. And she was teaching him to relax and that you didn’t have to work every second of the day, putting some balance back into his life, too. She liked his family, and she was pretty sure that he liked hers, otherwise he wouldn’t be mentoring her.

Together, they could be such a great team.

How could she persuade him to give them that chance?

That evening, she almost dressed up and put on full make-up. Then again, that was just surface and Dante saw deeper than that. He would tease her for being princessy if she wore a dress. And she didn’t want him to think she was just a clothes horse. She wanted him to take her seriously—as herself, not just in business. So she contented herself with changing into a clean pair of jeans and one of the little strappy tops she knew he liked, left her hair down and brushed it until it shone, and added a slick of lipstick and a touch of mascara.

When he arrived, he was carrying two parcels. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Pizza.’

She rolled her eyes at him. ‘I know that—you said you were bringing it. I meant the other box. The one that isn’t pizza-sized.’

‘All in good time, Princess.’

The teasing smile in his eyes warmed her.

‘We’d better eat. The pizza’s getting cold.’

It was as good as he’d promised. And there was an expression on his face she hadn’t seen before when he looked at her. She couldn’t even begin to guess what it meant; but she tried really hard not to hope for too much. To hope that two nights of sleeping away from her had made him realise that he missed her. That his bed, like hers, felt just too big for one.

‘New flavours of ice cream, hmm?’

‘This one’s meant to be hot.’ She brought out the first tub from the freezer.

‘Hot ice cream?’ He gave her a half-smile, and took a spoonful.

‘What do you think?’

‘Honest opinion?’ At her nod, he grimaced. ‘Either you overdid the chilli, or it works much better in chocolate bars than it does in ice cream.’

She tried a spoonful. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right.’

The blackberry sorbet was much better, and this time she actually got a compliment from him. Then he smiled at her. ‘I was going to buy you flowers to say thank you for spoiling me in Paris.’

‘You really don’t have to.’ And clearly he hadn’t, because that box wasn’t the right size to contain flowers.

‘But I thought you might like this a bit more.’ He handed her the parcel. ‘It’s an unbirthday present. Just to tell you that I …’ He stopped.

Her heart skipped a beat. And another. Was he going to say it? The words she was so sure she’d heard that night in Paris?

‘ … I appreciate you,’ he finished, looking wary.

Was that Dante-speak for I love you?

Or was she hoping for way too much?

She undid the wrappings. It felt like a frame of some kind. And it had been very well wrapped. Wrappings she recognised as the kind she’d used at Amy’s gallery.

And then she unwrapped the final bit and saw what he’d bought her.

The painting she’d fallen in love with in Paris.

‘Oh, my God. Dante. It’s …’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘That was the one you liked?’ he asked, sounding suddenly unsure.

‘Yes, but it was hideously expensive.’

He shrugged. ‘Money’s not important.’

‘It’s beautiful. And you hate it. Yet you bought it for me.’

‘Because it made your face light up,’ he said simply.

She felt her bottom lip wobble. ‘I think I’m going to cry.’

‘No, you’re not.’

He looked panicky; obviously he found tears unsettling, and yet he’d let her cry all over him in the past. Especially that time when her English grandparents had sent her the film from her childhood. ‘These are happy tears,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t believe you bought this for me and got it sent from Paris.’

‘That was the phone call you nearly caught me making,’ he said.

She bit her lip. ‘And I nagged you because I thought you were working. I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. Now you know what I was doing.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked at it again, then laid it carefully on the table and walked round to his chair so she could kiss him. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Prego.’

And now she’d made him uncomfortable again, making a fuss. She’d noticed that in his family’s home, too—if his mother or his sister made a fuss of him, he wriggled away. But Fiorella … he was putty in his tiny niece’s hands. And she’d just bet that he would read stories to Fiorella, sing songs to her, and sit on the floor and play as many games with the little girl as she wanted.

Which gave her hope that maybe she, too, could reach him. There was definitely a chink in his armour; she just had to find the right way to reach it. ‘Dante. Stay tonight,’ she said softly.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both.’

‘Why?’

He stroked her face. ‘It’s not you: it’s me.’

She went cold. Suddenly, everything had changed. Was the painting his idea of a Dear Jane letter, rather than his way of saying ‘I love you’? And she’d heard that phrase before, from several Mr Wrongs. It’s not you: it’s me. Just before they’d dumped her.

And when Dante distanced himself slightly over the next few days, missing two mentor sessions because he was up to his eyes in work—that was when she knew he was planning to end it between them.

The week got worse, because then her period started: she felt the familiar dragging sensation, low in her belly, and knew exactly what it meant. She should’ve been relieved that she’d been right and that night of sleepy, unprotected sex in Paris hadn’t left her pregnant.

Except she wasn’t relieved.

Because she realised then exactly what was missing from her life. What she wanted. Why she’d really come back home to Italy.

She wanted a family.

Specifically, she wanted to make a family with Dante. To have his children. To have everything that had been taken from her as a child.

But would Dante take a chance on her? Given the way he seemed to be avoiding her, she doubted it.

She brooded about it all day, her mood growing darker and darker. And then she pulled herself together. She was a Tonielli. She didn’t wait to see what life dealt her; she went after what she wanted. And she wanted Dante. She sent him a text. Can I see you tonight? Need a quick chat. She deliberately didn’t tell him the subject, knowing that he’d assume it would be about the business. Which was possibly a little devious, but if she told him why she really wanted to talk to him, she knew he’d run a mile.

It was two hours before she got a reply. I’m working late. Tomorrow?

It looked as if she’d have to learn to be patient. Tomorrow’s fine. Half-past seven, here?

OK.

The next day dragged. And then finally it was half-past seven, and Dante rapped on the door of her office.

‘Hi. Coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine. So what’s up? Problem with the figures?’

‘No.’ She indicated the chair opposite hers, and he sat down. ‘I thought you’d like to know, my period started yesterday.’

His expression was absolutely unreadable, and his voice gave nothing away when he said, ‘That’s probably for the best.’

No, it wasn’t. Not in her book. Though she couldn’t tell him that just yet. She had to work up to it.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘This thing between you and me, it isn’t what it started out being.’

He frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s not just about hot sex and mentoring. Not any more.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re a workaholic, you’re difficult and half the time I don’t have a clue what’s going on in your head. But since I’ve got to know you, I’ve realised …’ Once she’d said it, there was no going back from here. But she knew Dante wouldn’t say it first. She had to be brave.

Take the risk that he’d reject her. And hope to hell that he wouldn’t. ‘I love you.’

Emotion flickered across his face, too fast for her to read it: and then he was back to being inscrutable again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel the same way.’

But there was a tiny flicker in his eyes as he said it. She knew that he was lying—what she didn’t understand was why. ‘That’s not true,’ she said softly. ‘I knew in Paris. It was different between us, that night. And I heard what you said.’

He looked panicky. ‘I got carried away.’

‘More like you thought I was too sleepy to remember.’

He dragged in a breath. ‘OK. I said it. But this can’t work—I can’t take the risk.’

‘What risk?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I guess I owe you the rest of what I started telling you.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘This is hard for me. I don’t spill my guts. Ever.’

She took his hand. ‘It’s not weak to talk.’

‘Isn’t it?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Dante. I just want to understand what’s going on in your head, and I can’t read your mind. Talk to me. Please.’

‘Just promise me—no pity. Ever.’

Why would she pity him? ‘I promise. Just talk.’

His words were hesitant at first; then it was as if something had cracked and everything came pouring out.

‘I don’t remember it being bad when I was tiny, but when I was six or seven my father lost his job and started drinking. When he came home, he’d hit anyone who got in his way or answered him back. He broke my sister’s arm, he broke my mother’s ribs, he gave my mother black eyes.’

‘And he hurt you?’ she asked softly.

Dante nodded and swallowed hard. ‘The more he drank, the worse he got; and the less reliable he was when he did get a job. And then he’d lose his job and start drinking and it was a vicious circle.’

Now she understood why he never drank. And no wonder there was no picture of his father on his mantelpiece. She reached over the desk and took his hand.

He pulled away. ‘No pity.’

‘It isn’t pity. It’s sympathy. Which is completely different.’

A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘What I hated most was that all the neighbours knew. They knew. They talked about it, but they did nothing. They didn’t call the police; they didn’t tell any kind of authority; they didn’t take him to one side and tell him to stop.’

‘Maybe they thought he’d take it out on your mum even more if they interfered,’ she suggested quietly.

‘But they did nothing. They didn’t offer her a safe place or try to help her. They just talked about her.’

He’d told her a little, that night they’d gone dancing, but she’d had no idea just how bad it had been. And the one thing that shocked her was how he really believed the worst of himself—that he was like his father. But she’d seen no evidence. ‘You’re not your father, Dante.’

‘No, but I have his blood. I have a violent streak.’

‘No way.’ Dante was incredibly controlled. ‘The only time I’ve ever seen you lose control …’ She felt her face heat. He’d been babbling her name. Completely vulnerable. ‘No. You’re not violent.’

‘I keep myself in check. Most of the time,’ he added wryly. ‘When I was thirteen, I saw my father hitting Rachele. By then, I was almost as big as him. Big enough to do something to stop him. I broke his arm.’

And he thought that made him a thug? ‘Dante, you didn’t do it because you were enjoying hurting him. You were trying to protect someone who was vulnerable and stop him hurting her. You did the only thing possible. Words wouldn’t have stopped him, would they?’

‘That’s not the point. I reacted on gut instinct—I did things the same way he did things. Violence. I can’t forgive myself for that.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘And there’s worse. He fell under a tram, the following year, one night when he was drunk. And when I heard the news, I wasn’t upset that he’d died. I was glad. Really glad.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Worse still, I wished I’d been there to push him under the tram.’

‘I think anyone would, in your shoes.’

He shook his head. ‘Only someone with my father’s bad blood. And that wasn’t the only time I hurt someone. Rachele … she made the same mistake as my mother. She thought Niccolo—Fiorella’s father—loved her. That her love would change him, make him into someone decent.’

Carenza gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Are you saying that he hit her?’

He nodded. ‘When she was pregnant.’

‘Oh, Dante.’

‘And when I found out, I went round to see him. I pinned him against the wall. I could see the fear in his eyes, smell the sweat pouring off him. My hand was against his throat. I could’ve crushed his windpipe.’

‘But you didn’t.’ She didn’t need to ask. She was absolutely sure that Dante wouldn’t do that.

‘I managed to keep control. Just. But it was so thin, like gossamer—one wrong word from him, and I would’ve snapped. I would’ve killed him.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, because that’s not who you are. And he’d hurt Rachele. You’re her brother. Of course you weren’t going to ignore what he did and let him get away with it.’

‘But violence isn’t the way to fix a problem. I was wrong, Caz. I told him if he laid another finger on her, I’d break every bone in his body—twice. And I meant every single word.’ A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘I twisted his wrist hard enough to almost break it. To make sure he knew I meant it.’

‘You were protecting your sister, Dante.’

‘With the wrong sort of protection. I should’ve called the police, supported Rachele while she made a statement, made sure that he …’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno. Got psychiatric help, to sort him out and make sure he didn’t do that to anyone ever again. But I didn’t. I did things my father’s way, with fear and threats and I actually hurt him.’ He blew out a breath. ‘And that’s why I … why this has to end. I can’t trust myself. And I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You’re hurting me by ending this,’ she pointed out.

‘That’s nothing compared to what I might do to you. Supposing the restaurant chain fails? Supposing I end up like my father, taking out my frustrations on you—or, if we have babies, on our children? I can’t take that risk. I just can’t. Don’t ask me to try.’

‘The restaurant won’t fail. You’d never let it. And even if the worst happened, something you couldn’t fix—I know you’d never take out your frustrations on me and hurt me. And don’t start on about that bruise, either. That was completely accidental and it could’ve happened to anyone.’

His eyes were filled with pain. ‘That’s what my mother thought when she married my father. That’s what Rachele thought when she started seeing Niccolo. That the men they loved would never hurt them. And they were both wrong.’

‘But you’re not your father, Dante. You’re not.’

‘I’m his son. I have his blood. Bad blood, maybe. So I just can’t take that risk,’ he said again. ‘We have to end this thing between us. Keep things strictly business from now on. I’m sorry.’

And he walked out of Carenza’s flat while she stood there, unable to move or think or act.

Dante was so wrong about this, it was untrue. But she didn’t have the faintest idea how to convince him of the truth. All she could do was let him walk away. And hope that she’d be able to work out a compromise that would suit them both.