Page 13 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Ciao, Matteo, you charming scoundrel!”

Carlo’s voice crashes over me like a church bell. He’s standing in his bakery doorway, arms crossed, wearing that who’d-you-sleep-with-last-night grin.

“Don’t start.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Just tell me you’ve got those little lemon cookies left. The ones that make American women write five-star reviews.”

“Forgot the welcome bags again?”

“It’s called winging it.”

“It’s called being a fuckup. One day all this ‘playing it by ear’ is going to bite you in theculo.”

Carlo should know. Once upon a time, he was my wingman, until stunning Federica, with her sweet treats, stole his heart.

The smell of fresh cornetti hits me like foreplay. “That’s what makes life interesting.” I snag the paper bag he holds out, inhaling butter and sugar. “Those corporate tours? They’re all printed itineraries and plastic souvenirs. My people get the real Italy.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” He smirks.

My phone jolts me with a buzz. Lorenzo. Probably wondering why his boss isn’t at the garage yet, dealing with our dying bus. The AC’s been making sounds like a cat in heat, and the transmission… best not to think about it.

“Take these.” Carlo shoves another bag at me. “Extra cookies. For when that charm finally runs out.”

I flip him off but drop extra euros on the counter. “Not possible.Grazie, amico.”

Next stop: Teresa’s flower stand. While the big tour companies hand out cheap, mass-produced junk, I offer my guests something special—real Italian magic. Fresh flowers, warm cookies, and personal attention. That’s how Monti Tours gets such killer reviews.

Well, except for that one woman from Ohio. But she was just pissed I wouldn’t fuck her.

“Late again,tesoro?”Teresa calls out, already shaking her head as I walk up.

“You know you love me.”

“I know one of these days your luck will run out.” But her hands are already gathering blooms like she’s conducting a flower symphony.

“Life’s too damn short to be tied down by schedules and what-ifs. My parents taught me that much…”

Fuck. Even after twenty years, that wound’s still raw.

Teresa’s face does that thing, that soft, maternal look that makes my chest tight. She adds extra flowers without a word.

My phone erupts in another buzz.Merda!I still need water bottles and probably an actual miracle from the Vatican to fix my bus.

Running my own tour company means my reputation is everything. This is why I don’t hook up with my own tourists. One pissed-off woman leaving reviews about the guide who screwed and screwed her over could tank my entire business. Plus three weeks is a long fucking time to avoid morning-after awkwardness when you’re trapped on the same bus.

Thank fuck this is one of my seniors-only tours. Two weeks of blue-haired ladies pinching my ass and asking if I’m single. I’ll take it. They’re usually tucked in bed by nine, which leaves plenty of time for Matteo’s After-Dark Tour—finding eager Americans who want their own Italian Stallion experience. And believe me, there’s never a shortage of those.

I dodge a pack of Segways only to slam straight into a wall of red shirts and sensible shoes. A tour group—at least forty deep—shuffles past like a herd being led to slaughter, each one sporting headphones that make them look more ready for takeoff than a casual Milan morning walking tour.

At the front, some stiff in pressed khakis and a red polo waves a flag bearing the Italy Express logo. His voice crackles through their headsets with all the warmth of a prerecorded message: “Ladies and gentlemen, you will have exactly fifteen minutes to view Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece,The Last Supper. Following that, we proceed to the gift shop for a mandatory two-hour shopping experience.”

Cazzo. Two hours?That’s not a tour stop, it’s retail imprisonment. There’s literally nothing to do but shop: fridge magnets of Milan, Italian flag key chains, plastic gondolas, and other crap made in China.

Italy Express—the complete opposite of Monti Tours. They’re the Goliath to my David(minus the impressive package), cranking out tours like factory-made pasta.

I should know. I used to work for them.

Same stops, same scripts, same soulless “fun facts” delivered with the passion of a dead fish. Their idea of experiencing Italy is checking boxes between bathroom breaks.

I watch the group shuffle past, bobbing along like pigeons chasing breadcrumbs. Not one of them even looks up at the actual city around them—they’re too busy adjusting their headphones and checking their watches.

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