Page 197 of Modern Romance January 2025 5-8
‘I don’t know.’
Susie gave a small laugh and got on with tasting her sauce.
Dante knew she didn’t get it that if Gio had not been so wise then Rosa’s family might have had a claim. It was the sort of thing that had kept him in the library for hours, long before her death, reading all the details in the books that lined the walls.
While he’d never anticipated losing his family, Dante had always been sure the De Santises had been trying to get hold of Gio’s rich, fertile land and become a part of the successful winery business.
He took a sip of his wine—blackcurrant with a hint of pepper...
If the De Santises had had their way they’d be drinking vinegar by now.
Yes, Gio had been wise.
And, yes, perhaps he should have spoken to him—at least about the legal side...
Not about the sex or the pregnancy that never was.
That would be too much for Gio.
Too much for anyone.
‘Nearly there,’ Susie said, walking past the bench as she went to get a large copper saucepan.
He trapped her with his legs as she passed. ‘It looks great.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’
‘Can I help?’ he asked, knowing it was almost done.
‘You can lay the table.’
‘Or...’ He pulled her in, looked at the flour on her cheeks and on her black dress, and found he was more than happy not to think about the De Santis family any more. ‘We could eat in bed...’
‘I want it to be nice.’ She looked at him. ‘I haven’t cooked in for ever.’
‘I shall lay the table, then.’
He did indeed lay the table—the grand table in his dining room—and he even lit candles.
‘Susie!’ he called as she passed by with plates. ‘In here.’
She stepped in and her jaw dropped—not so much at the stunning polished table and the jade walls, but at the silver candelabra.
‘I meant the coffee table... And candles?’ she commented as she put down their plates. ‘That’s very romantic of you, Signor Casadio.’
‘I think the food calls for it,’ he said, turning out the main lights.
‘We’ll see...’
‘Take a seat,’ Dante said, and held out her chair.
‘Thank you.’
Susie felt nervous as he sat down and looked at what she’d made. She always did when she tried something new, but somehow tonight it mattered more than ever.
‘Ricotta ravioli with a walnut sauce...’
Dante looked at the food before him. He had eaten in many, many fine restaurants and this wouldn’t be out of place in any of them—and all made from the scant selection in his cupboards.