Marcello left me to freshen up for lunch: a glorious, long shower, a fresh set of clothes and the promised dive bomb onto my new bed. I was finally allowing myself to revel in my excitement over having a real room, quite the shift in behaviour from this morning’s depression, and hardly befitting of someone who had lost her passport. I lifted up onto my elbows, looking around at the space with its lofty, frescoed ceilings and marble mosaic detailing. Everything was light, bright and vast, perhaps all the more so when compared to the dingy accommodation I’d had until now. Had I started off my Italian adventure in such a way, would I have had a completely different outlook? Most definitely.

I opened the enormous panelled door leading me out to the hall, straining my neck to see the curved ceilings and wondering how they swept the cobwebs up there. As big as the apartment was, I wasn’t worried about getting lost; I simply had to follow the smells and the singing. Rosalia’s rendition of ‘Blame It on the Boogie’ made me smile as I walked along, exploring the home until I reached a set of large double doors. I wondered where they led to. Was this Marcello’s bedroom? A ballroom, maybe? I reached out and touched the carved detailing of the moulding.

‘You must be hungry.’ Marcello’s voice made me jump, and I pulled my hand back as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Despite my intrigue and awe, I had to remind myself that I was a guest, and snooping was probably not a great look.

‘What’s in there?’ I asked, hoping that it might prompt a house tour, but Marcello seemed uncomfortable with the question.

‘Nothing. Lunch is ready,’ he said, shutting down the inquiry.

Right. Keep your questions to yourself.

As he led me away from the doors and towards the kitchen, I couldn’t help but hope that he wasn’t entirely joking about the shackles. Could a pleasure room lie behind those double doors? I could be convinced to experiment …

‘Rosalia, this is Sammi, the one I have been telling you about.’

I looked around the kitchen, startled to find that Rosalia was standing right before me, so tiny that I had almost missed her altogether.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said.

Looking up at me was a weathered face, framed by silver hair tucked neatly in a bun and lit up with sparkling, kind eyes. Thanks to the lessons of various films and TV shows, I expected her to embrace me and then usher me to sit, and start piling up food in front of me while exclaiming how terribly thin I was. Instead she turned her attention to Marcello, unleashing a loud, free-flowing tirade of Italian that had me flinching and looking at Marcello.

Jesus, what had I done now? It didn’t sound good. If Marcello turned to me and told me to get my things and get out of his house, I wouldn’t be surprised. Instead, I watched his profile as he listened to her intently, giving her his undivided attention. I stood frozen in place, not sure if the twisting sensation at the base of my stomach was hunger pains or fear as I watched the little old lady wave her arms around as she spoke without taking a breath.

‘Is everything okay?’ I murmured out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to draw attention to myself.

Marcello broke into a broad smile, nodding his head. ‘Ah, yes, she said that you are very beautiful.’

I cocked my brow. ‘Is that all that she said?’

‘Mostly,’ he said, leading me to the table, leaving Rosalia to mumble at the stove and cross her heart, as if praying for the strength to get through lunch.

We came to a table, where I expected to see, at most, some crusty bread and minestrone soup dished up for us. Wrong! This wasn’t lunch, this was a feast. You couldn’t see the surface of the table for food.

‘Are you expecting company?’ I asked, my ravenous eyes roaming over the dishes.

Marcello laughed. ‘No, just us, but you’re hungry, right?’ he said, pulling a chair out for me.

‘Umm, would you judge me if I said I was relieved I don’t have to share?’

‘Not at all.’

A bowl slammed down onto the table, followed by another verbal onslaught that continued all the way through the kitchen, out of the room and down the hall. I sat, unmoving, remembering to breathe when it seemed the coast was clear.

‘So Rosalia is not joining us for lunch, then?’

Marcello shook his head. ‘She’ll have a nap now, rest up for the next course. She’s only small,’ he laughed.

‘But incredibly feisty.’

‘Oh, si, molto.’

I loved it when he broke into his language, even if only a word or two; the way he rolled his tongue around the words caused a shiver to run through me; I knew how incredibly clever his tongue could be.

‘Sammi?’ I blinked back into the here and now, looking blankly at the plate Marcello held out to me.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Oh, nowhere,’ I lied. ‘Wow, will you look at all this food, Rosalia does take care of you.’

‘She does,’ he agreed, spooning a serving of thick spaghetti smothered in a rich tomato sauce and stringy cheese. Marcello couldn’t have passed it over quickly enough. ‘We may not be blood, but Rosalia is my family.’

There was something rather beautiful in Marcello’s words, the way he had said them, meant them. Looking at him from across the table, I had no doubt that in this big, old house, being yelled at, fussed over, cared for by a feisty old lady was something Marcello would love. I saw it in the endearing way he had looked at her, despite her tirade. It was a true insight into his character. I didn’t know when or how Rosalia came into his life, but there was one thing for certain: they really were family; it even had me missing my own, which was most unexpected. Despite the lovely aromas and colourful display of mouth-watering dishes, my mood dimmed as I began to run my fork through my pasta.

‘Listen, I don’t want you to worry about your passport. Maria has her faults but she won’t let that kind of thing pass. She is going to feel terrible when she finds out the truth.’

I swallowed a big mouthful of salty, delicious carbs.

Oh, sure, Maria’s a real stand-up gal.

It’s amazing how clean sheets, hot showers and amazing food can make depressing experiences seem like a lifetime away. So enamoured was I with my current situation that I kind of hoped Maria wouldn’t call back. The spaghetti was so bloody amazing that I wouldn’t mind if my passport was never found.

‘I know she didn’t mean to leave me behind—it’s not her fault.’

‘Well, she should have checked with you directly,’ he said, breaking a piece of crusty bread.

‘Yes, but what is done is done. As long as I get my passport back in one piece, it’ll all be okay. But I never want to think about Bellissimo Tours ever again.’ I half laughed, trying to spear some pasta with my fork without success. Marcello’s silence made me glance up at him; a crease etched across his brow as he examined his glass of water in deep contemplation.

Then I realised the error of my words. ‘Oh, hey, look, I didn’t mean to bag the tour, I just think that tours in general probably aren’t for me. I mean, I’m not exactly worldly, so I think I just need to be eased into things—I’m a bit of a sook like that,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.

‘No, you are right. Maria has a lot to learn when it comes to business,’ he said darkly, and I knew I had hit a nerve.

We both grew quiet, and after a while I actually wished for Rosalia to come back to yell some more. I didn’t know how to restart the conversation; should I comment on the food, the weather? It was going to be a long meal.

‘Just to be clear, I actually found your business card at the hotel.’

Marcello’s eyes flicked up from his meal.

‘You know, just in case you were worried that I might have stalked you. I didn’t.’

‘Well, that’s disappointing,’ he said, tucking back into his food.

‘I know, it’s not nearly as interesting, but what is rather interesting is that you’re an artist … I never knew that. I felt as subtle as a brick, trying to work in a neat segue to the topic I was most curious about.

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mention it.’

Ugh, this was not going to be easy—it was like trying to communicate with a surly teenager. Perhaps it was this closed-off part of him, the one that appeared so cold and professional, that made his career choice so surprising? I glanced at his hands: they were big and strong, and felt amazing against my skin, tipped with perfectly squared, immaculate nails. These were the hands of an artist? There were no telling signs.

‘So, what kind of art do you do?’ I pressed.

He shifted in his seat, clearly wishing we could be talking about something else.

Interesting.

The usually composed, almost perpetually cocky Marcello had a weakness, and it was linked to his passion.

‘Buildings, streetscapes, landscapes.’ He sounded bored, trying to play it down; it made me even more curious. But then I thought, What if he wasn’t any good? What if the reason Maria was so reluctant to involve her business with his was because he was talentless? Had she told him that? Was that why he was so reluctant to share?

He sighed. ‘Do you want to see?’

I blinked. ‘See what?’

‘The paintings?’

Did I? If they were really hideous, I didn’t know if I’d be able to fake it. I met an ugly baby once—the mother and I were no longer friends. Some things you just couldn’t fake.

‘Ah, sure, love to!’

Marcello seemed to melt in relief, his shoulders dipping as if he had been tensing them for the whole conversation.

‘Okay,’ he said, nodding.

‘Great!’ I lied, digging back into my pasta, the same thought rolling over and over in my mind.

Oh, please, be good, please, be good.