Salvatore opened the door to his parents' apartment with a bulky silver key and showed me in. 'Vieni, vieni,' he said as he dumped the keys on a 17th-century chaise longue at the entrance to the living room. 'Mammmmmmma! E pronto?' (Is dinner ready? Wasn't he going to say that the American girl was here?)

I was led into the kitchen, where Raffaella was getting off the phone as she took a homemade pizza out of the oven and closed the refrigerator with her heel. It was all movement, all action, all graceful. She wasn't fat and stationary and stirring pasta sauce. She was gorgeous. When she moved, whiffs of Chanel perfume cut through the aroma of baked dough and basil.

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Source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/