“How are you and Giovanni doing?” I asked.

“We are great.” Rocco snatched the can of tomatoes from in front of me and emptied it into a pan over the stove. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” I said.

“I heard that you have an apartment in Testaccio. So you live here now?”

I shrugged. “I guess. I’m still not sure if I officially have the apartment. I didn’t sign any papers. The landlord is a friend of Francesco’s or something. I just paid him some money for rent and, like, some kind of deposit, and I got the keys. Is that normal?”

“In Italy, yes.” Rocco picked up the olive oil jar and drizzled some onto the pan, but a few drops slid down the jar onto his white shirt. “Cazzo!” he screamed.

I got him a paper towel. “I’m sure Giovanni’s cleaning lady can clean it,” I said with a smirk. I couldn’t resist.

Rocco shook his head. “It is not my shirt.”

“Giovanni seems to have plenty of shirts, doesn’t he? He’ll be fine.” I was confused. I thought Giovanni and Rocco were loaded. What did it matter if one shirt got ruined?

Rocco was about to say something, but he shut his mouth. “Yes, Giovanni has many shirts.” He leaned against the counter and started dabbing the stain with the paper towel. Then he looked at me. “It is very random that you are here.”

I really wasn’t in the mood for his shit tonight. “I can leave if you’d like me to.”

“I did not mean it like that,” he said, as if what I proposed was ridiculous. “I meant in Rome. I would like to know a little bit more about you, where you came from. You are a stranger. I suppose that is how Jahan operates—he likes to bring in the strays—but I am just saying, it is random.”

This, coming from an adult who makes art out of macaroni. Before I could say something I might regret, Neil squeezed into the kitchen. “Guys, this salad is going to be so good. Pear and arugula, with walnuts and shaved parmesan.” He grabbed the salt and pepper shakers and a wooden spoon from the counter. “Oh, I overheard you guys talking from the other room, and I just gotta say, Rocco, not everyone was born in Rome like you. Some of us came from other places.”

Rocco snatched the wooden spoon out of Neil’s hand and stirred the tomato sauce. “Yes, but there is a difference between coming here from Milan because you could not make it as a model, and just showing up out of the blue like Amir.”

“I did not go to Milan to model,” Neil said, spitting out the word. “I went to Milan for a boy, then stumbled into modeling, and when both of those things busted, I came to Rome.”

“Because that is what Rome needs,” Rocco said. “More Americans.”

“Do you have a problem with Americans?” I asked.