The Italian

“The day I put you onto the plane to Sorrento, my father and grandfather were killed in a car accident.”

I stop dancing and stare up at him. “On that very day?”

He clenches his jaw. “I got the call as I was leaving the airport.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden your trip. I was someone you had just met.”

I watch him struggle with this conversation. This subject is obviously hard.

“Every time you called me that week, I was with a lawyer or my grieving mother. The timing was all wrong, and then everything got too hard.”

My heart hurts. “I could have helped you,” I whisper up at him.

He pulls me close, and we dance for a moment. Regret swirls between us.

“I saw you with that man and I…” His voice trails off.

“I’m not on Tinder. That was my first date, Rico. You know me. I’m not like that.”

He pulls me closer. We don’t speak, we just sway to the music. After just one excuse and five minutes of dancing, I feel myself melting against his body.

Mafiosi.

He isn’t good for me.

Nothing about Enrico Ferrara is good for me.

His questionable lifestyle, his money….and the hold he has over my wimpy heart is one big recipe for disaster.

“Can we go for a drink after this? I would like to talk to you,” he says quietly.

I stare up at his handsome face. “No, Rici,” I whisper sadly. I wish things were different. “It’s too late.”

He stops dancing. “You said that our story was just beginning.” His eyes search mine.

“That was before you burned the book.”

Our eyes are locked, the music finishes, and everyone claps while I step back from him.

“Olivia.”

“Goodbye,” I whisper.

His gaze drops to the floor, and before I cave, I turn and quickly walk back to my table.

Giorgio smiles as I arrive, and we both turn to see Enrico leave the ballroom in a rush.

My stomach drops.

Giorgio watches him leave and then turns to me. “Why do you think you’re in Italy, Olivia?”

I turn to him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Your application was successful in New York.”

I frown. “What?”