Free The Rules in Rome by A.L. Sowards

miss Italy?”
    “For a while.” And Gracie had missed it but not for very long. Utah had quickly become her home, and she’d felt like she belonged there. Or at least she had until six months ago. Gracie shook her head to clear it. “Is the black market expensive?”
    “Depends on what you need.” Otavia stopped in front of a store window, her eyes glued to the dress on display. It was black, with an empire waist and a hemline that hit the mannequin just below the knees. Tiny scarlet flowers were embroidered along the neckline and waist. “Oh, I love that dress. Not that I could pull it off, but you’d look wonderful in it.”
    “Me?” Gracie stared at the dress. It was beautiful, but it would accentuate rather than disguise her curves. “It’s probably too fitted for me.”
    Otavia sighed again, walking away from the shop. “ Tesorina , a shape like yours is meant to be shown off. What I wouldn’t do to look like you . . . I finally have a few curves, but an extra one came along as part of the deal.” Otavia patted her stomach.
    No one had ever told Gracie she’d look good in a dress before. Her mother had sometimes told her she was smart, but that wasn’t a compliment, not coming from Marisa Begni, who didn’t think women needed brains. Otavia, on the other hand, with her radiant smile and pleasant form, lithe even when pregnant, would fit right in with Gracie’s flawlessly beautiful sisters. Gracie glanced at her reflection in a window, wondering if she’d somehow changed because Otavia seemed to see her in a different light. But she still looked like ungraceful Gracie. Why on earth would Otavia want to look like me?

Chapter Eight
    Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman sat in his normal chair at the café and sorted through the postcards he’d just purchased, wondering which he should send to his twelve-year-old son. The Trevi fountain? The Colosseum? St. Peter’s Basilica? He would send them all eventually but wasn’t sure which to mail first. As Untersturmführer Otto Ostheim sat down across from him, Zimmerman decided on St. Peter’s. He’d already sent a few views of the church’s exterior to his son, but this postcard showed some of the interior, and Klaus would like that. He was drawn to churches. Taking after his mother . . .
    “Any luck today?” Ostheim asked.
    “The usual. A few Jews, two suspected Gappisti members, one of the Carabinieri who helped arrest Mussolini last July.” Zimmerman grinned with satisfaction as he spoke. It had taken Hitler less than two months to rescue his friend. And those who had dared stand up against Hitler’s most valuable ally were made to pay a heavy price when captured.
    “That should make for a busy night at the Via Tasso, eh?”
    “Yes. For you.” Though he had a desk at the joint Gestapo headquarters and prison at 145 and 155 Via Tasso, Zimmerman’s responsibilities involved catching wanted people rather than questioning and torturing them.
    “Maybe I should get back,” Ostheim said. “Make sure my newest guests are being treated correctly.”
    Zimmerman put the postcards away, knowing Ostheim would stay and eat something before going back to his work of supervising interrogations until late into the night. “And for you? A good day?”
    “Yes, and it’s about to get better.”
    Zimmerman turned to follow Ostheim’s gaze. A tall woman, probably in her midtwenties, with black hair and a curvy figure, had just walked through the door. Zimmerman and Ostheim shared a weakness for Italian beauty, but while Zimmerman was more interested in its art, Ostheim was most drawn to its female inhabitants.
    Ostheim went over to talk to her, and a few minutes later, he brought her to the table. “Obersturmführer Zimmerman, may I present Fr ä ulein Concetta Gallo.”
    Concetta nodded a greeting, then sat when Ostheim pulled a chair out for her. She seemed a little hesitant and somehow different from the usual type of woman Ostheim picked up. Like most