Chapter 5 - The Port of GenoaThree months later, the view from the fourteenth floor looked entirely different.
Tessa sat at a sleek oak desk littered with maritime trade agreements, customs declarations, and a cup of black coffee that stayed hot because she could finally afford an insulated mug. Her boots—actual, genuine leather boots with rubber soles that didn't squeak or leak—sat neatly beneath her chair.
The transition hadn't been smooth. The first week, the other executives in the office had looked at her like she was an exotic bird that had somehow flown into the boardroom. But Matteo had made it very clear, very quickly, that anyone who treated his chief compliance researcher with disrespect would find their desk relocated to the loading dock in Port Richmond.
“Teresa,” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
She didn't look up from her monitor. “If this is about the customs tariff on the olive oil shipment from Livorno, Mr. Moretti, I already told you: Section 4-B exempts cold-pressed artisan imports from the luxury tax as long as the co-op is certified organic.”
Matteo walked in, holding a slim manila folder. He didn't wear a suit today; it was a Saturday, and he wore a dark gray cashmere sweater pushed up at the forearms, his sleeves revealing the pale scar on his wrist.
“It’s not about the olive oil,” he said, tossing the folder onto her desk.
Tessa picked it up. Inside was a single airline ticket and a hotel reservation for Genoa, Italy, dated for the following Tuesday.
“Genoa?” she looked up, her eyebrows lifting. “Why am I going to Genoa?”
“Because our primary shipping partner in the Ligurian ports is trying to slip a predatory demurrage clause into our winter contract,” Matteo said, leaning his hip against the edge of her desk. “They think because we’re an American firm, we won't read the fine print in the appendix. I need someone who can sit across the table from their senior partner—a man who thinks women only belong in the kitchen or the bedroom—and explain to him, in flawless, blistering Italian legal prose, exactly why his clause is unconstitutional under EU maritime code.”
Tessa stared at the ticket. Her heart gave a strange, complicated flutter—not of fear, but of anticipation.
“You want me to negotiate?”
“I want you to destroy him,” Matteo corrected softly, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking across his face. “And then I want you to walk down to the old harbor, buy a gelato, and remember why your mother wanted you to study that language in the first place.”
Tessa looked down at the ticket, then up at the man who had terrified her three months ago in a crowded restaurant.
“You know,” she said, her lips curving into a slow smile, “your preposition usage has improved significantly since I started working here.”
“Is that so?” Matteo raised an eyebrow.
“Sì. You haven't made a single egregious syntactical error in at least forty-eight hours. Your mother would be moderately proud.”
May you like
Matteo laughed—a rich, genuine sound that echoed off the glass walls of the fourteenth floor, banishing the last remaining shadows of the past.
“Get your passport, Teresa,” he said, turning toward the door. “We have a flight to catch.”
