The Italian

“I know. If you clean my bathroom I will be ruined for other women.”

I laugh out loud. I wasn’t going to say that at all. “Precisely.”

3

Olivia

I stare at the exotic building in front of us. It has cream-colored rendering with a beautiful terracotta tiled roof.

“You live here?” I frown.

“Uh-huh,” Rico says as he pays the driver. They begin to speak to each other in Italian.

We had to catch an Uber here to bring my suitcase. We’ll pick up his motorbike later.

He takes my hand and helps me out of the car.

“Grazie,” he calls.

The building is swanky with a big garden and a circular driveway. I look around in shock. This is not where I would have expected him to live at all.

He leads me through the fancy metal gates and up toward the huge double doors. “Who do you live here with?” I ask.

“By myself.”

“So, this is an apartment?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

We arrive at a set of huge, black double doors. The round, brass door knocker is about the size of my head.

“In Italy, we call it a penthouse.” He pushes the door open and a large, sweeping staircase comes into view. There’s an elevator to the side of the foyer. “I live on the second floor.”

I stare at him, confused. “So, other people live here, too?”

“No, the other two apartments are empty.” He leads me into the elevator by the hand. “My grandfather owns this building. The other penthouses are for when he and my father are in town.”

I look around at the marble floors and smoke-mirrored walls. Jeez, he must come from money. “They don’t live here in Rome?” I ask.

“They live on country estates.”

“Together?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.

“No, they have separate properties that they live in with their wives, my mother, and my grandmother.”

“That’s nice.” I smile as we continue up the steps. “Your family are all still together?”

He turns, surprised by my statement. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your parents and grandparents are all still married?”

“Of course,” he scoffs. “Ferrara’s marry for life. Family is everything to us.”

I shake my head, embarrassed that I just sounded so blasé about divorce. My parents divorced when I was a small child, and both have since divorced again. That’s my normality. We get to the first floor and he takes his keys out. “My parents are divorced,” I announce.

He frowns as he stares at me. “And you think this is a good thing?”