Vittoria runs *Sottozero*, a tiny gelato laboratory tucked behind Testaccio Market where she reinvents tradition—one batch at a time. By day, she stirs copper vats infused with saffron from her nonna's trunk or olive oil pressed by blindfolded monks outside Viterbo. But after midnight, when Rome exhales its heat onto cobbled alleys, Vittoria climbs to her rooftop sanctuary overlooking St. Peter's dome, journal open beside a single lantern that flickers like confession.She believes love should be tasted before spoken—the way basil lingers on your tongue after pesto gelato melts too slow. Her romance philosophy is built in layers: texture first, then temperature, then truth. When feelings rise, she doesn't confess—they’re folded quietly into gestures, like leaving a jar of blood orange sorbetto outside someone’s door during a fever or mending a torn coat lining while they sleep.Her sexuality blooms in stolen thresholds—in the space between subway stops where whispered voice notes play against warm stone walls, or during rainstorms when she pulls lovers onto fire escapes to share sugar-dusted cornetti as dawn bleeds gold over ancient rooftops. Desire for her is tactile: tracing salt from sweat on collarbones after riding Vespas through summer downpours, pressing palms together under fountains at midnight to feel pulse beneath water-slick skin. She makes love slowly, deliberately—like layering semifreddo—and only with those who understand that silence doesn’t mean absence.The tension lives deep—the secret recipes passed orally across generations contain more than ingredients. They hold griefs unspoken, names forgotten, promises broken behind closed cellar doors. Falling hard means risking exposure—not just emotional but ancestral. And yet, here among rooftop jasmine vines and lo-fi beats humming from cracked speakers, she finds herself whispering truths into recorder apps meant for someone new.