Page 28 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Scusami per la mia grande erezione, I say, making an exaggerated hip thrust gesture that I’m not proud of. Okay, maybe I’m a little proud of it.Hell, who am I kidding? I nailed it.

I catch a tiny quirk of Katie’s lips before she wrestles her features back into disapproval. It’s like gazing at a rainbow trying to peek through storm clouds.

Bring it on, bellissima. Before this trip is over, I will have you laughing so hard that your whole body will be shaking. You’ll throw your head back, your cheeks will be sore, and your mouth—ah, I better stop thinking like that.

Glancing out the window, I realize we’ve reached our destination. “All right, my wild crew, we’re here. Rose, come up here and join me—today is all about making your wish come true!”

Rose glides to the front of the bus as if she were walking on clouds. She’s petite—barely reaches my shoulder—but her presence fills the entire space. Her striking blue eyes hold a world of wisdom and experience. Her white hair, styled in a classic, short cut, frames her face gracefully, highlighting her timeless beauty.

She takes the mic from me with trembling fingers, but her voice is steady as a heartbeat when she speaks. “Stan and I came to Italy for our honeymoon.” I swear the entire bus is holding its breath. “We were young and broke, but so in love. Now here we are, sixty years later…”

I catch Katie shifting in her seat, her grumpy expression softening. Heck even Lorenzo stops picking his nose to listen.

“My Stan, he loves the water,” Rose continues. “Every weekend, rain or shine, he’s out on his little boat. But there’s one lake he’s always dreamed of seeing.” She shifts her gaze to the back row where Stan sits. “Lake Como.”

I glance over at Stan, this stocky guy with eyebrows bushier than a Tuscan pine tree, and he’s not even trying to hide the tears behind his Coke-bottle glasses.

“Well, Stan,” I say. “Your lovely wife has used her wish to make your dream come true. Everyone look out your windows. Behold the famous Lake Como and all its breathtaking beauty.”

The bus erupts in cheers and whistles, but Stan only has eyes for his Rose. He’s throwing kisses, his weathered face glowing with the kind of love that makes cynics believe in happily ever after. It’s raw, unfiltered love—pure as it gets. I soak it in.

This is why I do it. This feeling—this high—I fucking love my job.

***

“Whatdoyoumeanthe main tour is booked?”

“Complete-ah-mentefull, Matteo Monti,” Signora Ricci announces. Her penciled eyebrows arch. “All large boats, reserved. Weeks ago. By people who plan ahead.”

That last bit comes with enough judgment to fill Saint Peter’s Basilica.

Of course, this is on me. I had to wing it, confident my charm could pull off the impossible. And now? I’m standing here with my dick flapping in the breeze while thirty-two seniors—Katie included—are expecting a once-in-a-lifetime tour of Lake Como.

Parked alongside our bus is the giant red Italy Expressmotorcoach, looming like a middle finger in my peripheral vision. Its glossy paint reflects my shame. A swarm of tourists in matching red shirts pours out like ants from a hill.

My jaw tightens as I glance at the lake. Sure enough, the massive tour boat I’d been hoping to reserve is boarding now—its spacious decks ridiculously packed with those same red shirts.

I drag my gaze from the grand sightseeing ship to the small wooden vessels bobbing against the dock. They’re gorgeous, sure—classic Italian craftsmanship with vintage elegance—but they’re also… tiny.

“Okay, what about the small boats?”

She makes a show of consulting her ancient ledger. “Sì. Six people maximum per boat. Very romantic.” Her eyes narrow. “Very expensive.”

Of course they are. Because the universe loves to remind me that “making it up as I go” is not an actual business strategy.

Merda. At these prices, I might have to sell a kidney. But one look at Rose and Stan, holding hands by the water’s edge, and I refuse to let my poor planning ruin their sixty-year dream. This is exactly the type of financial decision-making that has Monti Tours circling the drain.

“Per favore, Signora Ricci.” I lean across the dock’s ticket counter, deploying my most charming smile. “Surely we can work something out? These are special customers.”

Signora Ricci peers at me over rhinestone-studded glasses, immune to my charms after decades of dealing with fast-talking tour guides.

“How many you need?” she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows I can’t afford it.

I do some quick math. Thirty-two people, plus me and Lorenzo, divided by six per boat… “Six boats.”

She names a price that causes my balls to retreat into my body.“Dio mio!”I choke out. I’m going to have to sell both kidneys. And maybe my left testicle.

“Pardon me, folks.”

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