Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child

“Just go,” she said softly. “Enjoy being together.” And to Dante’s amazement, she rose as high as she could in her sturdy black orthopedic shoes, grabbed his face, hauled it down to hers and planted a kiss on his cheek.

It was the kind of perfect fall day that made New Yorkers forget the hot, sticky summers and the bone-chilling winters when the snow turned into gray slush. Arms around each other, Dante and Gabriella strolled through Central Park.

She commented happily on everything. Babies. Runners. An elderly couple holding hands.

People walking, and being walked by, their dogs. There was no need to ask his Gaby if she liked dogs. By the time she’d stopped to pet at least a hundred of them—okay, a slight exaggeration but not by much—by then, even he could tell that she didn’t like dogs, she loved them.

When she got to her feet after a conversation with a miniature schnauzer, Dante asked the obvious question.

“Did you have a lot of dogs when you were a kid?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, I never had a dog.”

It was his turn to look surprised. “No dogs? On that big ranch?”

She gave a little shrug. “My father did not like dogs.”

“Why not?”

Another little shrug. And, perhaps, a tiny hesitation. And then, “He just did not like them.”

Something was up. Her English was taking on that just-learned-it nuance. Dante took her hand, decided to take the conversation in a new direction.

“I wanted a dog like crazy when I was growing up.”

She smiled at him. “But your mother said no, no dogs in an apartment.”

Had he never told her he’d grown up in a house? There was an awful lot they didn’t know about each other, he thought, lacing their fingers together.

“I grew up in a house. A pretty big one, in the Village.”

“But still, no dog?”

He shrugged. “Mama was convinced dogs would give us germs.”

“Mama,” Gabriella said, smiling.

“We’re Sicilian.” Dante grinned. “Calling her anything else might have won me a smack.”

“And your father is Papa?”

His smile disappeared. “I never call him Papa, or Dad, or anything but Father.”

“Hey. I’m sorry I—”

“No.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “You have a right to ask. The thing is, he’s…he’s—”

“Old-fashioned?”

“Old-country.” A deep breath. She would surely know some of this from having read it in the papers; she’d even tossed that famiglia insult at him, but talking about it—that was something he never did. “Remember that Marlon Brando movie? My old man’s kind of like that. The head of what he likes to refer to as a big company but in reality—”

“Dante.” Gabriella stepped in front of him, laid a hand on his chest. “I don’t care what he is,” she said softly. “I am simply grateful that he gave you life.”

Could you really feel your heart lift? The answer seemed to be yes, and right there, under the arch in the Ramble, he took Gabriella in his arms and kissed her.

Where else to take her for lunch on such a glorious day but The Boathouse?

It was early autumn but the temperature was in the low 70s, the sun was bright. Perfect for dining on the outdoor terrace beside the Central Park boat lake.

There were no tables available—but, yes, of course, there was a table for Mr. Orsini. Gabriella sat back, watching the turtles sunning themselves on a rocky outcropping. He ordered for both of them. Tuna Niηoise for her—he remembered she loved it—and a burger, well-done, for him.

“And a bottle of Pinot Grigio,” he added, remembering she loved that, too, but she shook her head, glanced at the waiter, blushed and told Dante, in a low voice, that she couldn’t drink because alcohol wouldn’t be good for the baby.

The waiter gave a discreet smile. “Sparkling water, perhaps,” he said, and Dante said yes, that would be fine.

The bottle of water arrived, along with glasses filled with ice and slices of lemon. Dante reached for Gabriella’s hand.

“I wish I’d been with you when you were pregnant,” he said softly. “And when you delivered. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

Gabriella shook her head. “I told you, I wasn’t alone. Yara was there.” She paused. “And my brother.”

Dante watched her face, the sudden play of emotion in her eyes. “You know,” he said carefully, “you never talk about him.”

“There isn’t much to say.” Her voice trailed off; her eyes met his. There was a sudden fierce glow in them. “He is dead, but I suppose you know that.”