Page 39 of Italy Can Bite Me

Sadie’s palm hits Matteo’s cheek with a smack that registers on the local seismic monitors. She storms out muttering, “Sexy Italian fuckboy.”

I absolutely lose it. The laughter bubbles up uncontrollably as Matteo stands clueless, surrounded by fashion carnage and sporting a bright red handprint on his cheek.

“Oh, this is funny to you, principessa?”

“Your face!” I wheeze, doubled over. “When I said ‘boyfriend’—while you were—with the mannequins—” I can’t even finish—I’m laughing so hard.

“Enjoy laughing now.” He moves closer. “But revenge is like good wine best served… unexpectedly.” He tries to sound menacing but stumbles over a silk scarf and lands back in the pile.

The boutique now resembles a murder crime scene—legs everywhere, decapitated torsos in a pile, and heads scattered on the floor like trophies. Somewhere, Guccio Gucci is rolling in his grave.

Best. Shopping. Trip. Ever.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MATTEO

Thatdressisn’tjustRED—it’s molten temptation, liquid sin poured over her body.

Ever since Katie stepped out in that dress, my dick has been in full-scale rebellion. Hours later, she’s still wearing it, and I can’t concentrate. I’m supposed to be guiding this walking tour, highlighting the wonders of Milan, but the way that fabric caresses her curves and swirls around her legs with every step—Cristo, all I want to do is feel that silk beneath my fingertips.

“Direct your attention to the stunning nineteenth-century glass arcade—the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II,” I say, pointing toward the ceiling. “They made this renowned passageway to connect the sacred walls of the Duomo cathedral with the cultural heart of the opera house…”

My mind won’t stop rewinding to the boutique when Katie’s eyes gleamed with playfulness. That moment when she claimed me as her boyfriend and laughed that warm, infectious laugh. It filled the room, and I was basking in it even as I was left squirming in my mannequin orgy.

Thank God for Howie and his credit card with no limits. The bill from my mannequin massacre would’ve bankrupted Monti Tours faster than Lorenzo can pick his nose.

“Notice the intricate mosaic tiles beneath your feet—” I say in my best guide spiel, only to break off mid-sentence when Katie stumbles. Her shiny new heels, clearly designed by someone who hates feet, turn against her.

“Young man!” Stan’s voice booms in the busy space. “Where are your manners? A gentleman always offers his arm to a lady in heels.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—” Katie starts.

“I’m sure she can manage—” I try.

But Stan’s not having it. Neither are the other seniors, who’ve stopped and are now staring, with very clear expectations. They hail from a different generation, with different standards for chivalry.

“Now, now,” Stan insists, his bushy eyebrows wiggling like caffeinated caterpillars. “That is no way to treat a beautiful woman.” The rest of the group nods in synchronized judgment.

Fanculo.There’s no escape.

I extend my arm, trying to ignore how my heart’s already racing. “Shall we, principessa?”

Katie slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, and every nerve ending in my body dances. Her skin, soft and sensual, brushes against mine, and suddenly I’m swimming in her intoxicating scent—sweet, tantalizing, forbidden strawberries.

Every step through the Galleria is a mix of pure bliss and absolute agony. The way she presses against me when tourists pass, how her fingers dig into my arm when her heels wobble, the soft catch in her breath when I help her dodge a rogue selfie stick.

Focus, idiota.

“Amici miei, meet Milan’s most celebrated stud—and his impressive family jewels.”

I gesture to the colorful design on the floor. Thousands of tiny black and cream tiles fit together like a satisfying puzzle, creating the unmistakable shape of a muscular bull. The bull stands proudly on a blue coat of arms that sparkles like a giant sapphire.

“You see that hole?” I point to the worn spot in the mosaic. “That’s where generations of people have spun three times for luck in love. Right on the bull’stesticoli.”

That gets me a laugh from the seniors.

“Katie, darling, give those bull balls a spin!” Deborah cheers.

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