Chapter 6 - The Return to FlorenceThe autumn air in Florence smelled of roasted chestnuts, wet stone, and wood smoke drifting down from the hills of Fiesole.
Tessa stood on the terrace of a small café just off the Piazza della Signoria, leaning her elbows against the weathered marble railing. Below her, tourists and locals milled around the copy of Michelangelo’s David, their voices blending into a comforting, musical hum of Italian vowels and laughter.
A warm wool scarf was wrapped twice around her neck, and a heavy, elegant trench coat hung loosely over her shoulders—both gifts she had stubbornly insisted on paying for herself, though Matteo had quietly covered the shipping costs.
Footsteps clicked against the stone behind her.
A moment later, Matteo stepped up to the railing, holding two paper cups of espresso from the corner bar. He handed one to her.
“The dock commissioner in Genoa signed the revised contract,” Matteo said quietly, looking out over the terracotta rooftops toward the distant hills. “No demurrage fees. He even apologized in writing for attempting to pad the manifest.”
“Of course he did,” Tessa murmured, sipping the dark, bitter coffee. “I quoted three separate articles of the 1982 Montego Bay Convention and reminded him that my grandfather used to drink espresso with the mayor of La Spezia. Nothing scares an Italian bureaucrat like the ghost of someone’s grandfather.”
Matteo chuckled, resting his forearms on the stone. He turned his head to look at her, the afternoon sun catching the hazel flecks in his eyes.
“Your mother would have loved this,” he said softly. “Seeing you here. Doing what you were meant to do.”
Tessa went quiet. She looked down at the coffee cup in her hands, her thoughts drifting back to the cold kitchen floor at Bellaforte, the electrical tape on her sneaker, and the night a terrified waitress had decided she wasn't going to lower her eyes anymore.
“She would have loved it,” Tessa agreed. She turned her head, meeting his gaze directly. “And she probably would have made you conjugate irregular verbs for an hour just to celebrate.”
Matteo’s smile softened into something deep, steady, and entirely unguarded. He reached out, his warm fingers brushing against the back of her hand where it rested on the cold marble railing.
“I’m ready for the verbs, Teresa,” he murmured, his voice low and rich against the Florentine wind. “Try me.”
May you like
Tessa smiled back, the last cold corner of her heart finally thawing out completely.
“Let’s start with the future tense, Mr. Moretti,” she said, her voice bright and clear against the autumn air. “Because for the first time in a very long time, I think we actually have one.”
