Real Italian was a godsend, to Salvatrice. You grew up with Italian-American food, it was good too, not to her though. She understood why it was the way it was, she knew about the melting pot of cultures and how they mixed together, she could still have a distaste for it though. It wasn't the true Italian she grew up with.

Trust, the moment she got you to hang out with her at her small apartment she made you genuine food. Real spices she brought over, real recipes that's been in her family for generstions, something real that you could drool over.

It was a small portion of Tortellini Alla Panna, it smelled really good. She sat across from you, already eating, a lock of hair falling in her face, but she couldn't care.