Dante drives us to the market and we walk to a little food stand where he speaks in rapid-fire Italian to a middle-aged woman with braided hair and a blue apron. She wraps up a golden-brown loaf of bread and hands it to him.

We go to another stall where a wizened little man with a cheeky smile sells him a bottle of green extra-virgin olive oil and a plastic cup three-quarter filled with balsamic vinegar that his wife made.

We find a bench and tuck into our simple meal. The bread is crusty on the outside and open-textured on the inside, and absolutely delicious with the condiments. We don’t talk much, both of us just content to enjoy the open air and each other’s company. I pop the last piece into my mouth and wipe my hands on a paper napkin. “Thank you. That was really superb.”

Dante squeezes my knee. “The pleasure was all mine, bella.”

A little of me melts at that look in his eyes.

“Wait here while I throw this away,” Dante says gathering all our leftovers in the paper bag the woman gave us.

I watch him stride away towards a bin. He is taller and broader than everyone else around him. I hear myself sigh. If only this man could be mine. Truly mine.

“Ciao, bella,” a voice says from my side. I turn my head and a muscular, deeply tanned man in a tight white T-shirt is standing next to me. He lowers his sunglasses and smiles, showing very white teeth. His eyes are sly, though. I know what he wants from the tourist. From the corners of my eyes I can see Dante throw our rubbish away.

I smile at the guy. What I tell him makes his smile lose its luster. He turns and walks away just as Dante returns.

“Hey,” I say, beaming at Dante. Just seeing the empty lust in the other man’s face made me realize how sincere and full of care Dante’s eyes are.

“What did that asshole want?” he asks, his jaw tight.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” I say.

He sits next to me, his back rigid.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

I stare at his closed profile incredulously. “Are you jealous?”

He turns to look at me and his eyes are blazing. “Of course I am. I’m a man. I know what goes through men’s heads. You should never flirt with opportunists.”

“I was not flirting with him.”

“Encouraging him, then,” he says, his eyebrows meeting.

“Encouraging him?” I gasp, suddenly furious too. “Where did you see that?”

“You were smiling at him.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay, I am willing to admit that from a distance it could look like I was smiling, but actually it was the curve of my mouth as I told him, ‘Vatte a fa’ ‘u giro, a fessa ‘e mammata.’”

His eyes widen. Then he scratches his head. “Do you … er … know the meaning of what you just said?”

“Yes. I told him in perfect idiomatic Italian to piss off back up the orifice of his mother’s vagina.”

“That’s my girl. You tell every one of those shit bags who have the nerve to come up to you exactly that, in exactly that same tone.”

I smile up at him. “Okay.”

He nods and ruffles my hair the way a proud father would.

“So what now? Home?”

“No, unless you are tired, of course.”

“Nope. Not tired at all.”

“Then I have another creepy place to show you.”

“What is it?”

“You will see soon enough.”

“Today you are full of surprises, Dante, and so far, all of them were good so lead on.” I strap on the simple open-faced helmet and climb onto the back of the bright yellow Vespa.

I hate to admit it, but I don’t think I will ever get tired of zipping around Rome on the back of Dante’s scooter.

* * *

Dante whirls his hand like a ringmaster at a circus and points at a building with double stairs. “You wanted morbid, I give you morbid. Behold the Capuchin Crypt of the Church of Santa Maria Della Concezione,” he declares dramatically.

I look at the unremarkable brown chapel in front of us and am not impressed.

“You judge too quickly, bella. Churches and men,” Dante says softly. “Wait until you discover what’s inside before you make up your mind.”

“Okay, but I wasn’t making a judgment, just noting a totally warranted observation about the exterior,” I say.

“Exteriors can be very deceiving,” he says as we enter the chapel. I know he is not referring to the building, but my opinion of him.

I scan the interior of the church and my eyes light up as I spot the tall stunning painting of the archangel Michael. “Okay, now we are talking. That is quite simply marvelous,” I exclaim, squeezing Dante’s hand.

“That it is, but I didn’t bring you here to show you Guido Reni’s painting,” Dante says. “Come, follow me into the crypt.”

“Ooooouuuu, that sounds spooky,” I say smiling as I follow him down into the bowels of the church. It is kind of eerie walking into the dark and very ancient chamber.

“Close your eyes,” Dante tells me when we reach the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll tell you when you can open them,” he adds taking my hand again.

“Don’t you dare let me fall. There’s a baby on board.”

“I will never let you fall,” he whispers in my ear, and his voice startles me with its intensity. I open my eyes and stare into his. For a second it feels as if the air is too ancient and thick and it is impossible to breathe it in, then Dante says, “Close your eyes, little Rosa.”

I obey, and feel him take my hand and lead me farther into the crypt. We must have been somewhere near the center of the room when he says. “Okay, you can look now.”

I open my eyes and see … bones; hundreds, maybe even thousands of bones. Bones nailed into every inch of wall and ceiling, hanging from the ceiling as light fixtures, just piled into heaps, or used as baroque decorative details. There are skeletons dressed as monks. The display is at once, intricate and fantastic.

“Are … Are they all real?”

“Every single bone and skull you see belonged to one of the three thousand seven hundred dead Capuchin monks who were used to decorate these crypts,” Dante explains.

“Were they captured prisoners?”

“No, all of them were monks themselves.”

“Whoa, they used their own dead brethren. That is even more fascinating.”

He looks at me curiously. “So you like it?”

“I probably should be horrified by all these dead men’s bones, but I’m not. It’s actually pretty amazing how they turned something that most people consider gruesome into décor. I mean, look at that archway made of human skulls!” I exclaim as my eyes explore the room further. “And those. They’re spinal bones, aren’t they? Wow! Check out those leg bones making a pirate cross over the doors,” I say, turning in a circle. “I have never, never seen anything like this in my life, Dante.”

One by one we explore the other crypts. Each crypt is made with a body part. There is a crypt of shin and thigh bones, a crypt of pelvises, and a crypt of skulls.

“Do you know that cappuccino is named after the color of the Capuchin monks robes?” Dante murmurs.

“Really?” I say, filing away the information to use in an article.

The last chamber is adorned with the full skeletons of two Barberini princelings. Near them is a placard that drives home the point of the entire display. The message is printed in several languages.