I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, pressed back in my comfy wingback chair, thinking that if only I had mastered the art of meditation then I might have stood a chance of blocking out the noise all around me: the footsteps, the chatter, the animated Italian conversations that sounded boisterous at the best of times.

Block it all out.

And I did just that until I heard the rather irritating sound of suitcase roller wheels on the marble floor nearing me. Seriously, couldn’t they sit somewhere else? Couldn’t they see this was the only comfort I had right now?

Gabriello called out, ‘It is your funeral, my friend.’ And I wasn’t sure to what he was referring or to whom he was speaking, but I smiled in answer anyway. A shadow fell over me and, combined with the halting of the roller wheels, I knew that someone was standing before me. I frowned; was it two o’clock already? Had I snoozed? I blinked my eyes open, expecting to see Luciano waiting to transport me to my new accommodation. When I looked up to see Marcello there, towering over me, his face pensive and serious, I straightened, a panic lodging in my chest at the unexpectedness of his presence.

‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted out.

He had my green cardigan: the very one I had left with my bags was now draped over his arm, which he unhooked and threw on top of me; it was then I realised, my eyes dipping down, that he was holding my suitcase at his side.

What the …?

‘Let’s go!’ he said, turning to exit the building as if the request was non-negotiable.

‘Whoa! Wait a minute!’ I yelled, struggling to get out of my chair. Hobbling after him, I hoped that my leg would wake up sometime soon.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You need a place to stay,’ he said, shrugging one lazy shoulder.

My jaw went slack. ‘I have a place to stay.’

‘Not anymore: I told Gabriello to cancel the booking.’

‘You did what?’ This time, despite my anger and state of distraction, I managed to dodge people in my path as we marched down the street.

‘Maria is going to contact me first, so it makes sense that you be there when the call comes.’

‘I have left a million messages in every possible place she is headed—I don’t need you at all.’

He turned to me with a devilish twinkle in his eyes. ‘Now, that just hurts my feelings.’

I rolled my eyes, moving to reach for the handle of my luggage, but he pulled it out of reach. ‘Look, I know Stockholm syndrome romances are really big right now, but I have no intention of being locked up in your tower.’

Marcello glanced up at his house as if he took exception to my words.

‘Seriously, I have booked into a hotel, I have everything sorted. I will be fine.’

Marcello studied my face, as if he didn’t quite buy what I was selling, probably because I didn’t believe it myself.

‘Lunch is ready: do you like cheese?’

I glowered. ‘Don’t you dare play the cheese card.’

A totally unfair advantage.

A smirk formed, like he was dealing me a hand and he knew he had an ace up his sleeve. ‘Once you’ve tasted Rosalia’s bruschetta, you are not going to want to leave.’

I curved my brow. ‘Oh? And who is Rosalia? Another secret sister? Or a secret wife?’

Marcello laughed. ‘Ah, beautiful Rosalia. She is more like an adopted nonna—she takes care of me.’

‘And now you want to take care of me?’ I mused, hoping that he might say yes, but knowing I would probably be mad if he did. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, I thought.

Marcello looked at me, weighing up how best to answer.

Smart man.

He said nothing, instead stepping closer to me and causing my heart to skip a beat. I was prepared for words, ready with a comeback on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t prepared for the feeling of support at my back and the warm sensation of Marcello’s body pressed up against mine as his dark brown eyes looked at me.

‘You must be hungry.’ His words were low, deep, and had my mind whirling; was he talking about food or something else? Either way, my mouth watered and I swallowed deeply, my eyes flicking down to his mouth.

‘I am a little.’

Marcello smiled, knowing he had me just where he wanted me, then opened the door and pushed it wide with his back.

‘La mia casa è la tua casa—my house is your house!’

His voice echoed as we walked into the entrance, Marcello pulling my suitcase along behind him on the marble floor. He dumped his keys and sunglasses on a table near the doorway, a totally ordinary thing to do, but this was anything but an ordinary house. We walked past large, ornate columns to a grand curved staircase, but despite the splendour of the surrounds, the first thing that hit me was the mouth-watering smells that filled the home. My belly rumbled its betrayal and, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, based on that smell alone there’d be no getting rid of me.

It seemed Marcello had heard the rumblings of my empty stomach, too, as he led me straight up the stairs. He may not have lived in an actual tower, but it was close: we ascended a tall, winding staircase, flooded with natural light, to the upper levels, where the aroma of food became more intense and the sound of a woman singing made me soften a little.

‘Rosalia, c’è qualcuno che vorrei che tu incontri,’ Marcello called out as we reached the top level.

‘Are you asking her to put a sedative in my food?’

Marcello laughed. ‘Of course not, I am asking her to get the shackles ready so I can chain you to your bed.’

I laughed too, something I instantly regretted as my cackle echoed so loudly in the space that I sounded like a mad woman.

Marcello smiled broadly as I slapped my hand over my mouth, mortified as he led me to a door and pushed it open.

I tentatively stepped inside. My feet skimmed along the aged parquetry flooring as I entered the light-flooded room that was ten times the space of my hotel dungeon. Large windows overlooked rooflines of tan-coloured buildings, broken up by potted green plants on neighbouring rooftops. The bed was enormous, tucked tightly with white, crisp sheets that I couldn’t stop myself from running my hand over, fantasising about taking a running leap and dive-bombing into the pillow tower.

Calm down, Sammi, no need to get carried away.

Marcello opened a beautifully carved, baroque-inspired wardrobe, the kind you might find in Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. He placed my suitcase inside and tilted his head in the opposite direction. ‘The room has its own bathroom.’

My heart swelled, and I tried to walk casually to where he motioned, barely containing the giddy squeal building inside me. The bathroom was more like a Roman bathhouse, bejewelled with mosaic tiles and featuring a large recessed bath and open shower with a seat. There’d be no worrying about whacking my elbows on the shower door, or shifting piles of dirty towels on the floor as I fought my way to the make-up-trashed vanity; I could almost feel a tear coming, the bathroom was so beautiful.

I caught the reflection of Marcello in the mirror, leaning in the doorway and watching me with a satisfied smile. ‘You know you are staying, right?’

I turned to him, leaning against the marble vanity. I regarded him for a long moment, wishing that I was stubborn enough to tell him where to go. Who was I kidding?

‘You had me at cheese.’