“What is there to tell? Italy is a fairy tale.”

“I like fairy tales.” I could feel him smile against my shoulder.

“All right then. Well, once upon a time there was a man named Dante.”

“The author of that book you and Rossetti love. The Inferno, right?”

“That’s correct, tesoro mio. Up until the fourteenth century our peninsula didn’t speak the same language. Every municipality had its own variation. You see, here, Portuguese is predominantly spoken due to Portugal’s influence. The various dialects branched off from that one root, and though the way you speak may be different from someone in the north, you can still understand each other. However, in Italy, our one language was Latin. Over the centuries since Rome’s fall, we’ve all gone our separate ways to the point where people from some regions can’t even understand someone from outside of their homeland.”

“That would be an awful pain. How can people trade or do business?”

“Exactly. Dante wrote the Inferno in the Tuscan dialect and it was so popular everyone wanted to read it, but they had to read it in Tuscan Italian.”

I thought about it for a moment. “So because everyone wanted to read a book, they all learned one language?”

“Yes, and now most people consider Dante to be the father of Italian. For the first time since the Roman Empire we were unified in the way that we speak. Some men believed if we could all agree on one language, we could agree to be a country of our own.”

“That’s a fairly big jump to make.”

“When the regions bicker among themselves like a bunch of spoiled children, you take whatever compromise you can receive.” José sat up on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. “But as you say, it’s not enough. The people still fight among themselves.” His hungry eyes looked me over.

“But there are still people who believe in unification?”

“Sì, tesoro mio. Another man came along to water the seeds that had been planted by Dante. His name was Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Ah, the little French man! I’ve heard of him.”

“One’s stature does not dictate the size of their dreams.” José tapped my nose with his finger. “Napoleon ruled the peninsula as one country”—he traced his finger from my collarbone to my breast—“then drove his army from Paris all the way down to Siena.” His finger circled my nipple, making goose bumps appear all over my body. “The army conquered Siena”—his hand slipped to my navel—“then Rome.” His hand started to slide farther south, but I caught it.

“Finish your story.”