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“Thanks for coming to pick us up at all. We really appreciate it.”

She waves a hand at us and then motions toward the exit. “Come, we have a car waiting for you. Don’t fret about your luggage. Faro will grab them. FARO!”

Both Jayla and I flinch at her loud and sudden screech.

Out of the crowd of people milling about appears a middle-aged man with heavily lidded eyes and a potbelly. He lumbers toward us pushing a trolley for our luggage.

“Come,” Francesca repeats, beckoning us. “He will grab it. Don’t worry.”

Jayla and I trail behind her as she leads us out of the glass sliding doors and into the summer warmth. As Francesca promised, there’s a little sedan parked by the curb, the engine rumbling in wait.

We pack ourselves and our luggage inside and then drive off once Faro takes his place behind the wheel.

“You are going to love where you stay,” Francesca says from the front passenger seat. “To be honest, I’m a little jealous myself.”

We laugh along with her.

“If it looks anything like the pictures, I’m already sold on it,” Jayla says.

“Even better. No picture can do it justice. There is a breathtaking view of the beach and the water. And, of course, the loft holds up to Mr. Calderone’s luxury standards. It has two bedrooms and bathrooms with a nice, spacious living area and fully stocked kitchen. Many amenities to enjoy.”

“Err, Mr. Calderone?” I ask.

“Yes, it is his property you will be staying. My travel company often uses his homes for our guests. He believes in nothing but the best. You will love it.”

I’m so busy trying to rack my brain about where I’ve heard the name before that I miss out on some of the scenery we’re driving by.

Calderone definitely sounds familiar.

Is it some kind of Italian brand? Some sparkling water or fashion house or pasta sauce? Maybe a football star?

It’s not until Jayla nudges me and points out the window that I stop thinking about it. I glance at the picturesque villages we’re driving by that reside on one side of the road and then the sparkling sea that’s on the other.

Francesca wasn’t exaggerating—it’s all so overwhelming and breathtaking that I find myselfliterallygasping.

“This is… unreal,” Jayla mutters under her breath.

I couldn’t agree more.

We drive from Catania to Santa Flavia, where tiny bright houses are stacked along the hillsides and the bay opens up to crystal clear waters. It takes me a whole extra second to digest my shock when we pull up to the stone building where our loft is located.

It’s like gazing up at history, the building centuries-old but with an undeniable rustic Italian charm. The door’s ten feet tall and made of heavy wood. It takes me two hands just to pry it open.

Francesca leads the way up to the top floor where we’ll be.

“And this,” she says, brandishing an arm, “will be your home for the next week.”

Jayla rushes ahead of me to explore the loft, darting from room to room to check out every detail. “We’ve got a bidet! Sissy, sissy… we’ve got a fucking bidet in this bitch!”

I shoot Francesca an apologetic smile but she simply laughs.

“I told you you would love the amenities,” she says. “Come look at the view from the balcony.”

I follow her through the double doors leading onto the balcony and realize I’m going to have to get used to being speechless here.

The view is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before—we’re literally right on the bay. Right by the water and the cloudless sky. I can only imagine sunrise and sunset here…

“Beautiful, yes?” Francesca smiles at me.