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Ripping open a bag of small marshmallows, I dumped them over the table. Several handfuls scattered on the floor. As I staged the creepy red dolls to look like they’d had a snowball fight, I kept an ear peeled for the creak of the old stairs.

The silence mocked me.

Rosetta wasn’t coming down.

I’d even gone so far as to hunt down some organic, clean-ingredient marshmallows after her comment about candy and snooping through the cupboards. She didn’t want her boys having dye and processed sugar? I could work with that.

I was possessed. I would do anything for her.

That had to be the reason I tiptoed up the back stairs once my mischief was managed. I knew which room Uliva used, since I’d helped her haul up a new vanity this past summer. That left three other rooms. One was a workroom, where the sewing supplies could easily be pushed to the side for one of the twins. But my guess was that Rosetta was in the big room across from the signora.

She wasn’t.

Two little lumps were nestled on the queen-sized mattress. One had his head on the foot of the bed, pillow dangling off the end. The other was stretched horizontally across the top. Shaking my head, I shut the door.

That left the small bedroom.

The metal nob squeaked as I twisted it. My heart thumped against my ribs as the door cracked open. She hadn’t locked it after all. Shadows spilled across the room, making the object of my thoughts difficult to make out.

But I heard her.

The rough breathing didn’t promise her slumber was restful. The air in here was either dry, or she was catching a cold. I held myself back, loath to disturb her. This space was sacred. She hadn’t given me an invitation. But I could stand, leaning against the doorframe, and watch.

Which was exactly what I did.

Rosetta tossed under the covers a moment later. Her breathing changed slightly, but the even rhythm promised she was still asleep.

I stared at her. This wasn’t the interaction I’d fantasized about, but it was enough. She was right there.

And I schemed how to make her see me again.

***

Signora Finnocchiara said the marshmallows were a hit. She left me a voicemail, gabbing about how the boys had already drunk all the hot chocolate by noon. There was also the bit about their mother being fit to be tied when they started doing somersaults off the couch.

I planned a better choice for tonight’s shenanigans. Popcorn wouldn’t make the tiny heathens bounce off the walls.

I pulled open the door to the Massimo’s Mercato and stepped inside. Sal cut me a look from the checkout line, brushed his hands over his apron, and summoned his son to take over ringing up his customers.

“Signore Ravello, buongiorno!” he greeted me.

I gave him a curt nod, grabbed a basket, and began to wander the aisles. The grocer dogged my steps, brushing his palms over his hands, back and forth, as he practically danced on his toes.

I didn’t shop. Our housekeeper kept the kitchen well stocked and even meal prepped for us. This was a rare occasion that I was here, and it seemed Sal was going to make the most of it.

“Is there anything I can help you find, boss?” Sal interrupted me as I reached for a bag of kernels.

My molars scraped against one another. “I’m fine.”

“Very good, very good.” He continued to ring his stubby paws. “May I have a word, then? If it’s not too much trouble?”

I threw the bag of corn back onto the shelf. “You don’t have organic popcorn.”

Sal’s face paled. “I can order some!” he stuttered.

This was never going to work. I spent several hours online after hacking into Rosetta’s computer. Her digital trail painted half the picture. I knew her likes and dislikes. I found the content she consumed, the items on her wish lists.

“I’m going to send you a list. Your store needs more variety,” I informed him.