"Bella." He said gently. "You're lost in a city you don't know, looking for a business that moved, with five days until your opening. Let me help.Per favore."
There was something in the way he said it. Not pushy or insistent. Not trying to prove anything. Just genuine.
"Okay," I said softly. "Thank you."
He spoke to his aunt in rapid Italian—something about the vendor, the mannequin business, did she know anyone? She made a phone call. Then another. Then she wrote something ona napkin and handed it to Matteo with a firm nod and what sounded like detailed directions.
"She knows someone who knows someone," he translated, pocketing the napkin. "New address. Twenty minutes from here."
"Your aunt is a miracle worker."
"She knows everyone in Florence. It's her superpower." He grinned. "That, and her lasagna."
We took a taxi across the city. The new address led to a warehouse district that looked remarkably similar to the first one—gray buildings, loading docks, the smell of paint and sawdust. But this time, the lights were on.
Inside, a harried-looking man in a dusty apron looked up from a workbench covered in mannequin parts.
"Posso aiutarvi?"
Matteo stepped forward and began explaining in Italian. I caught fragments—boutique, Milan, urgent, five days.The man's expression shifted from skepticism to interest to sympathy as Matteo continued, his voice persuasive without being aggressive.
They went back and forth for several minutes. The man kept shaking his head. Matteo kept talking, gesturing, his hands moving in that animated way I remembered. At one point, he pulled out his phone and showed the man something—photos, maybe, of my boutique? Of my designs?
Finally, the man sighed and nodded.
Matteo turned to me, smiling. "He can do it. Rush order. Day after tomorrow."
"Day after tomorrow? That's one day before the opening." That's cutting it incredibly close.
"It's the best he can do. But he'll deliver directly to Milan. And—" he held up a hand, forestalling my protest "—he's giving you a discount. For the inconvenience of the original company."
I stared at him. "How did you manage that?"
"I told him who you are. Showed him your last collection online." He shrugged, but looked pleased with himself. "He has a daughter who wants to be a designer. He was impressed."
"Matteo..."
"Don't thank me yet. You still have to pay him." He nodded toward the counter where the man was pulling out paperwork. "Half now, half on delivery. He only takes cash or bank transfer."
An hour later, we emerged into the late afternoon sun. The paperwork was signed, the deposit transferred, the delivery confirmed. The mannequins would arrive in Milan with one day to spare.
I stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face him.
"I don't know how to thank you. Seriously. You saved my entire opening."
"You would have figured it out," he said with easy confidence.
"Maybe. But not this fast. And not without losing my mind completely." I hesitated, then made a decision. "I want to do something. To show my gratitude. Would you come to the opening? You and your sister, if she's interested. As my guests."
His face lit up. "Sofia would love that. She's been talking about your work since I told her I met you."
"Is she in Milan?"
"No, she's in Rome. Finishing her master’s in art history." He pulled out his phone. "But I can fly her out. She'd never forgive me if I didn't."
"Then, it's settled. I'll have Meg send you the details."
We stood there for a moment, suspended in that strange pocket of time before goodbye. The Florentine sun was warm on my face, gilding everything gold.
