The Playboy of Rome

The more time she spent with Massimo, the less she noticed his slurred speech and the more he could read her mind. “Yes, I want Dante to like it, too.”

A knowing gleam glinted in the older man’s eyes. “Something is wrong between you two.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. She glanced away and gave the sauce a stir. She didn’t want Massimo to read too much in her eyes. Some things were meant to stay between her and Dante.

“We’ll be fine.”

Massimo got to his feet and, with the aid of his walker, moved next to her. “Look at me.”

She hesitated before doing as he’d asked. She didn’t know what he was going to say, but her gut told her that it would be important.

“My grandson has witnessed a lot of loss in his life. He’s also been at the wrong end of his father’s grief over losing my daughter. I know all about grief. When I lost my dear, sweet Isabelle, it nearly killed me. It can make a good man say things he shouldn’t. It can cause a person to grow a tough skin to keep from getting hurt again.”

The impact of his words answered so many questions and affirmed her suspicions. “But why are you telling me all of this? It’s none of my business.”

“I see how my grandson looks at you. It’s the same way I looked at his grandmother. But he’s afraid—afraid of being hurt like his father and brother. If you care about my grandson like I think you do, you’ll fight for him.”

“But I can’t. Even if there was something between Dante and me, my life—it’s in New York.”

“Love will always find a way—”

“Mmm... What smells so good?”

Stefano strode into the kitchen, followed closely by Dante and his father. Their hungry gazes roamed over the counter and stove. She shooed them all away to get washed up while she set the dining room table.

Soon all four men were cleaned up in dress shirts and slacks. Thankfully, she’d had a couple of minutes to run to her room and put on a dress. Still, next to these smartly dressed men, she felt underdressed.

“I hope you all like tonight’s dinner. Thanks to Massimo, I was able to cook some old family recipes.”

“I’m sure it will be fantastic,” Dante’s father said as he took a seat at the head of the table.

She wished she was as confident as he sounded. It felt like a swarm of butterflies had now inhabited her stomach as she removed the ceramic lids from the serving dishes. This just had to work. She had to impress them—impress Dante.

She sat back, eagerly watching as the men filled their plates. It seemed to take forever. She didn’t bother filling hers yet. She already knew what everything tasted like as she’d sampled everything numerous times in the kitchen. In fact, she wasn’t even hungry at this point.

But as they started to eat, a silence came over the table. The men started exchanging puzzled looks among themselves. Lizzie’s stomach tightened. What was wrong?

She glanced Dante’s way but his attention was on the food. She turned to Massimo for some sort of sign that all would be well, but before he could say a word, Dante’s father’s chair scraped across the tiles. In the silent room, the sound was like a crescendo.

The man threw down his linen napkin and strode out of the room. Lizzie watched in horror. She pressed a hand to her mouth, holding back a horrified gasp.

Dante called out, “Papa.”

The man didn’t turn back or even acknowledge him.

“Let him go.” Stefano sent Dante a pointed look.

As more forks clattered to their plates, the weight of disappointment weighed heavy on Lizzie. Her chest tightened, holding back a sob. This was absolutely horrific. Instead of the dinner bringing everyone together and mending fences, it’d only upset them.

Unable to sit there and keep her emotions under wraps, Lizzie pushed back her chair. She jumped to her feet, and as f

ast as her feet would carry her, she headed for the kitchen.

Her eyes stung and she blinked repeatedly. She’d done something wrong. How could she have messed up the recipe? She’d double-checked everything. But her Italian was a bit rusty. Was that it? Had she misread something?

Not finding any solace in the room where she’d created the dinner—the disaster—she kept going out the back door. She had no destination in mind. Her feet just kept moving.

The what-ifs and maybes clanged about in her head. But the one thought that rose above the others was how this dinner was supposed to be her peace offering to Dante. This was what she’d hoped would be a chance for them to smooth over their differences. But that obviously wasn’t going to happen when no one even wanted to eat her food.