Page 119 of Italy Can Bite Me

I force myself to look away, to focus on the fountain’s endless cascade. If I can just get through this day.

Be professional.

Keep my distance.

Pretend my heart isn’t being carved out with a dull blade.

“She deserves better than him,” a deep, husky voice says beside me.

What the—

I turn to find Lorenzo settled against the fountain’s edge, methodically unwrapping his daily prosciutto sandwich as if he hasn’t just obliterated five years of mostly silent communication.

“You speak English?”

He takes a bite, a strip of meat dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Sì.”

“How long?”

Another bite. A shrug. “Long enough.”

My mind reels. “You speak two languages and all this time I’ve been talking to you like I’m playing charades. Do you know how many maps I’ve drawn in the dirt? The hand signals? The miming?”

“You talk with hands anyway. Why waste words?”

I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

Lorenzo’s eyes track to where Katie stands with Jared, his weathered face softening. “She loves you.”

“I know. But love isn’t enough.”

“Ha! Love is always enough. But you must be brave to choose it.”

My throat feels too tight. “What if I’m not?”

He shrugs, but his eyes hold mine with surprising intensity. “Then you end up like me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes another slow bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “Old. Alone. Eating sandwiches. Watching young idiotas make same mistakes.”

I huff out a humorless laugh. “Some mistakes aren’t optional. They’re inevitable.”

“And some regrets follow you forever.”

For all the years I’ve known him, he’s been a man of few words, always keeping his thoughts and life to himself. And now, here he is, holding up a mirror I don’t want to look into.

He stands, brushing crumbs from his shirt. Then he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, leaving a perfect greasy handprint.

“Love,” he says quietly, “is worth pain.”

Whistling softly, he walks away, leaving me with the uncomfortable truth buzzing in my ears and the distinct scent of prosciutto in my nose.

“Matteo! We need your expertise!” Katie shouts.

Her voice cuts through the crowd with the force of a whip, and every muscle in my body snaps to attention.

Here we go.

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