It has been two weeks since I first arrived at Dante’s place, and I have fallen into a very domesticated lifestyle. I play with Leo all day, and then I talk to Dante each night, with cooking lessons with Maria and sleep filling the spaces in between. Dante and I talk for hours, me wrapped up in his bed and him in his armchair under the cover of darkness. Our voices soft as I tell him stories of my life and he reciprocates with some of his own.

He tells me more about Italy, a place that I can tell he loves deeply because his face lights up every time he talks about it. It is a place that is vibrant in my mind, and I visualize what he tells me, letting my imagination go wild. Since I’m extremely unlikely to go in my lifetime, it now takes up part of my dreams that help me to sleep sounder.

Along with the dark man himself.

Having never had a boyfriend or a man spend time with me, talk with me, or look after me, I feel oddly at ease in his presence. I almost feel wanted, but I know that is a ridiculous schoolgirl fantasy. I like the way he watches me. The desire I have for him grows with every day that passes, so much so, I often find myself daydreaming about him.

Dante is not a boy; he is a fully fledged man, and a dangerous one at that, who probably has any woman he pleases, whenever he pleases. The sooner I let go of these feelings that are creeping up, the better. Although perhaps heartbreak is something else I should experience before my heart stops.

After sleeping in today, I make quick work of a shower and then decide to venture out to find the others.

“Bella!” Maria chimes upon seeing me walk into the kitchen. She is a lovely woman, very maternal with Leo, and she gives me a warm hug in greeting.

“Buongiorno!” I say happily, and I smile at seeing her eyes light up at me using Italian.

“Perfect, Bella. You’re starting to remember the language. Come va?” Maria asks, and since we have been greeting in Italian for the past couple of days, I recognize the words.

“I am doing well, Maria,” I reply, while looking over her shoulder.

“Come, come, I am cooking. I will show you the recipe for tonight’s dinner.” She drapes her arm over my back, escorting me farther into the kitchen while I spot Leo over at the breakfast bar.

“Here, I am making sugo for the parmigiana. Pass me that basil.” She begins to stir the large pot that is simmering on the stove. My eyes flick to Leo whose smile is a mile wide as he tucks into a bowl of Cheerios that Maria prepared for him, and he watches me as I take a cooking lesson.