"Okay. Fine. But quick."
"Quick," he agreed. "This way."
The restaurant was tucked into a side street I never would have found on my own. Small, maybe ten tables, with red checkered cloths and the intoxicating smell of garlic and tomatoes thick in the air. An older woman behind the counter greeted Matteo like a long-lost son, kissing both his cheeks and exclaiming in rapid Italian.
"My aunt," he explained as she led us to a corner table. "She owns this place. Best pasta in Florence. Don't tell anyone."
"Your aunt lives in Florence?"
"My mother's sister. She moved here thirty years ago for a man. The man left, but she stayed for the food." He smiled. "Smart woman."
The aunt—Aurora, he called her—brought bread and olive oil without being asked. Then a carafe of red wine. Then a plate of something fried and golden that smelled incredible.
"Eat," Matteo said, pushing the plate toward me. "Talk later."
I ate. The fried things were some kind of cheese, crispy on the outside and molten and rich within. The bread was warm. The olive oil was grassy and bright, nothing like the stuff I bought in London supermarkets.
Aurora reappeared with two bowls of pasta—thick ribbons coated in a sauce that was somehow both simple and complex. Tomatoes, basil, a hint of cream.
I took a bite and closed my eyes, unable to suppress a small sound of pleasure.
"Good?" Matteo asked, amusement coloring his voice.
"Don't talk to me. I'm having a moment."
He laughed softly and let me eat in peace.
By the time I'd cleared half the bowl, the tension in my shoulders had started to ease. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been wound up until I began to unravel.
"So," Matteo said, refilling my wine glass. "Tell me. What happened?"
So I told him. The missing paperwork. The vendor who couldn't deliver. The hours of phone calls that led nowhere. The train to Florence and the wrong address and the locked warehouse that nearly broke me.
And then, before I could stop myself, I was telling him about the phone call with Femi. How I'd wanted comfort and gotten a strategy session instead. How I'd hung up feeling worse than before. How he still hadn't called back.
I checked my phone again. Nothing.
"He hasn't even tried to reach out," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "To ask how it's going. If I found a solution. Anything."
Matteo was quiet for a moment. "That must be frustrating."
"It is." I set down my fork. "I don't need someone to solve my problems. I can solve my own problems. I just needed someone to listen, to say 'that sounds hard, I'm sorry.' Is that too much to ask?"
"No," he said simply. "It's not."
I looked at him. He was watching me with that quiet attention I remembered from New York. No judgment. No agenda. Just presence. "Thank you," I said. "For listening. And for the food. This is exactly what I needed."
"Of course." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Now. What do you want to do? How do you plan to find this vendor?"
I sighed. "I was trying to find them when I ran into you. The address Meg gave me was outdated. I have no idea where they actually are now."
Matteo stood, extracting his wallet to leave cash on the table. "Then let's go find them."
"What? No. You've already done enough. Don't you have things to do? You came to Florence for a reason."
"I'm here for a meeting with a distribution company. They want to carry my wines in Northern Italy." He checked his watch. "But that's not until tomorrow. Today, I'm free."
"Matteo—"