Page 104 of Italy Can Bite Me

My spine stiffens. The bank, finally. “Sì, buongiorno.”

“I’ll be direct. We’ve exhausted all options for refinancing. No one is willing to take on the risk. Your books simply don’t show enough profit margin to justify a new loan.”

The world tilts sideways. My throat closes up.

“Your existing loan payment is due in full by the end of the month. If you cannot make the payment, we’ll have no choice but to begin bankruptcy proceedings.”

“I understand,” I manage, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

“Mi dispiace, Signor Monti. I truly am sorry.”

The call ends. I stare at my phone—at Katie’s last message still glowing on the screen. I feel my world crumble.

***

Theemptybusreeksof defeat. Or perhaps that’s just me, sitting here alone while my seniors enjoy their picnic under the Tuscan sun. I sent Lorenzo away with some excuse about business calls. He knew I was lying—his left eyebrow said as much—but he went anyway. Loyalty I don’t deserve.

The cloth seat beneath me is torn, worn bare by thousands of tourists who trusted me to show them the real Italy. Now the seat is mocking me. Every imperfection, every tear, every patch job—they’re all proof of what I couldn’t maintain.

I’ve been praying, bargaining, hoping this loan would come through. This company isn’t just a business to me—it’s my parents’ legacy reimagined. Every Wish Card granted, every moment of joy created, it’s all been for them.

But apparently passion doesn’t pay the bills. My spontaneous detours and determination to give everyone their perfect moment have finally caught up with me. The numbers don’t lie, even if I’ve been ignoring them for months.

I’ve run countless scenarios, searching for alternatives to this backup plan. But there’s nowhere left to turn. Time to be a man and admit I’m exactly what I’ve always feared—a failure.

No more chances.

No more Monti Tours.

My fingers shake slightly. I dial the number I swore I’d never call again.

“Ciao, welcome to Italy Express. Your call is very important to us. If you know the person you wish to speak with, please say it now.”

The recorded voice is as soulless as their tours.

“Antonio Toscano.” My voice sounds as if it’s been dragged through gravel.

“Buongiorno!”

“Buongiorno, Antonio—”

“Matteo Monti! I know that voice.” His voice booms with fake cheer. “Your words still make the ladies swoon, no?”

I press my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my skin. Outside, wildflowers dance in the breeze, oblivious to my world imploding. “Nice to be remembered.”

“Ha! You were my star! Best-rated guide ever. The tourists, they worshiped you!”

I close my eyes, remembering why I left. “That’s good, because I’m calling with a proposition.”

“Ah, let me guess—your little dream cards, they finally failed? I wondered how long before reality caught up with you. Though you lasted longer than expected.”

“Wish Cards,” I say. “And yes, they’re popular but—”

“But expensive! This is what I always say—streamline! Tourists just want pictures for Instagram. In, out, cash in pocket.”

The worst part is, he’s right. I’ve been a fool, thinking I could build something special in this plastic world.

“So.” His voice drips with satisfaction. “You want to come back?”

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