Old Flame Dante’s Story (Morelli Family 8)

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Dante

There’s a lot of shit that goes through your head the night before your soulmate is supposed to marry someone else.

First, there’s all the good times you had together. Flashes of holding her in your arms in Greece, not a foot away from the rough sea, feeling every slight movement of her body as she sighs and marvels at what an incredible view it is. It is an incredible view, but she’s all you really want to look at. Fuck the great architecture all around us, fuck the choppy waves of a moody sea. Her blue eyes are the only sea I want to get lost in, her lips and her curves the only architecture I want to explore.

A calm moment, almost insignificant in the great scheme of things, but the kind of moment that plants itself deep inside you because it’s the moment you know: this woman is my home. This is the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with, and there’s no point looking at anyone else anymore.

Then you think about the bad times. There weren’t even that many, it’s just that when things get bad in my family, they can’t just be normal bad—they’re fucking traumatizing. Lives are ruined, people die, the course going forward is forever changed, even if it isn’t my fucking doing.

Even if someone else’s sins are the main reason I lost her, I know I could have handled it better. Could have been a little softer, a little more fucking understanding. She was upset and I could have been there for her, could have reassured her, but I was more focused on cleaning up a goddamn mess. My pride was scratched besides that, so instead of doing the thing she needed me to do, instead of controlling the fucking situation and fixing it so she eventually got over it, I let it get out of hand. I let her imagination run away with her. I let her run away.

I didn’t know just how much I would fucking miss her.

A pit of emptiness inside me seems to hollow out even more. I’m used to it being there, but damn, if I can’t feel it more acutely tonight. There’s something about knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only woman for you is perfectly content to walk down the aisle with some other bastard—that knowledge can’t go down smoothly, no matter how much Scotch you imbibe to try and ease the passage.

Usually I sip on and savor my favorite Scotch, but on the eve before Colette’s fucking wedding, I’m making an exception. There’s not much left in my glass now. I throw the rest back, then wave down the waitress so I can get a refill. I’m at the strip club I own with my brothers, but I don’t give a fuck about the gyrations of the half-naked woman on the pole a few feet in front of me. I don’t give a fuck about anything tonight.

The waitress comes over, glancing at my empty glass, then briefly looking me over. My pain is laced with rage tonight and I feel like it must be plain to see, but I know it’s not. I’m a consummate fucking professional. I might be torn up inside, but my exterior won’t show any signs of it.

“I need another drink,” I inform her, my words thick as they tumble out of my mouth.

Her gaze shoots back to my face. As a cocktail waitress, she has seen enough men in my state to know she should cut me off, but given who I am, she offers an obedient smile instead. “Of course, Mr. Morelli. Can I get you anything else?”

Before I can answer her, I catch sight of my younger brother heading my way, his dark brow furrowed in disapproval.

“Ah, Christ,” I mutter, sitting up a little straighter.

Alec stops beside the waitress and stares at me. “What are you still doing here? I cut you off and told you to go home an hour ago.”

I sit forward, grabbing the glass and holding it out for the waitress. “You did, but turns out you’re not my fucking boss,” I tell him. Turning my dark gaze back on the waitress, I tell her, “I don’t have all night, honey.”

She grabs the glass and turns, heading to the bar to get me a refill.

Alec turns to stare at her in mild disbelief, then he looks back at me. “This is it, Dante. This is your last drink. You’re fucking hammered and enough is enough.”

“No, I’m not,” I mutter.

Alec is the second youngest in our family, and the absolute youngest of the children produced by both of my parents. By the time our mom and dad created Alec, I guess me and my older brother had already soaked up all the dysfunction their gene pairing had to offer. To be fair, Mateo and I definitely took more than our allotted shares.