The Italian

“Bye.”

The phone cuts off, and I grin as I arrive at the car. The lights flash twice when I unlock it.

This is awesome. We’re going to have so much fun.

* * *

An hour later I park the car, turn the air conditioning up high, and I lean my head down on the steering wheel. Holy shit. How didn’t I just die?

Thank God I’m here.

Lost, confused, and driving on the wrong side of the road do not make for easy driving. I’m hot and flustered. Hell, I need a stiff drink. I sit for a moment and try to calm myself down. Damn that Italian Stallion for giving me such a short wick this week. I feel like every little thing pushes me close to the edge of losing my cool when it’s him I’m really mad at. If only I could tell him so. I’m sure I would feel so much better.

I push the exact building address into Google maps on my phone. I’m parked a few blocks away. I think the dry cleaners must be in a mall or something because this is as close as the maps app would let me get. I make my way down the street and find that I’m in the central business district. It’s not trendy and hip like where my workplace is. Skyscrapers are dotted everywhere, and the streets are bustling with people in suits and business attire. It’s very city chic without the glamour of my office’s neighborhoo

d.

I stare at the address on my phone. It should be just down here. I peer down at a huge quadrangle paved area and see a black glass building. Its super modern, and I glance up, and then I stop dead in my tracks at the huge gold letters above the door.

FERRARA

A man bumps into me from behind and mumbles something in Italian.

“Sorry,” I call. I quickly take out my phone and Google again.

What is the Ferrara building?

I feel sick as I wait for the information.

The Ferrara Building is located in Milan

and is the head office for Ferrara Industries.

Address: 330 Amaro Ave

Centro Direzionale di Milano

My eyes widen as I peer up at the glass tower. Holy fucking shit.

That’s his work building……. are you freaking kidding me? I stare at the skyscraper, all trendy and perfect, cold and hard.

Suddenly, I’m furious. Furious that he’s such an asshole. The fact that he’s rolling rich is even more infuriating. Entitled bastard.

You’re just another Tinder whore.

How dare he?

I square my shoulders and pull down my shirt. Not today, motherfucker.

Before I can stop myself, I march into the Ferrara building like a madwoman.

My step falters as I walk through a metal detector and past three armed guards.

Jeez, okay. I regain my bravery and walk up to the reception.

The secretary smiles. “Ciao.”

“Ciao.” I frown. “Do you speak English?”