Page 16 of Perfect Match
Me:Only an hour, and it’ll go quicker if we chat.
Tori:Don’t you have work to do?
Me:Yes, but chatting with you is much more interesting. You found your friends okay?
Tori:Tina and Amy met me at the Airbnb. It’s close to the town centre.
Me:What are you doing now?
The tension I’d been holding in my shoulders slips away as I settle further into the comfortable chair.
Tori:We just got back from Pizza (not as good as Emilio’s) and wandering past the shops. They love their lemons here.
Her comment brings back happy memories of my brothers and me running through the narrow historic streets of Sorrento, playing hide and seek while our parents, aunts, and uncles trailed behind us. My parents were happy back then, but maybe they just seemed that way in the eyes of a child. When did it all go wrong for them? And why?
Me:Did you drink some Limoncello?
Tori:I had a Limoncello Spritz. And I might like it more than Aperol.
A stab of disappointment hits me. I wish I hadn’t had to cut our date short, and then I could have taken her to dinner in Sorrento or sat drinking Limoncello Spritz with her while watching the sunset from one of the rooftop terraces. Making new memories with Tori seems like it would be an enjoyable pastime.
Tori:Are you still there?
Messaging her could be the next best thing. It’s certainly taking my mind off all the issues waiting for me in Florence.
Me:Still here. I was wondering what you were going to put in your journal about today.
Tori:I couldn’t possibly tell you. A journal is very private, full of secrets.
Me:Interesting. I guess I should be happy that you didn’t deny I’ve earned another entry.
Tori:I think you’ll feature across multiple pages.
Me:Good, that’s the goal.
We continue our chat back and forth until the jet is making its descent into Florence’s airport.
***
Florence, Italy
“Why do you think he’s doing this?” I ask from where I’m perched on the corner of Antonio’s desk. We’ve started to look closer into the Barbieri Foods subsidiary. But to say the accounting practices have been poor would be a gross understatement. And every time we’ve requested a report from Ant’s CFO, we’re given the runaround.
“I’ve got no fucking idea. But I’m beginning to think that somebody has something to hide. What I can’t figure out is if it’s my CFO or our father?”
Rubbing a hand across my eyes does nothing to ease the headache behind them. It’s nearly midnight, and we’ve both been stuck in this office for most of the day. I pull myself to standing. “Come on, let’s call it a day. Then tomorrow, I’m going to contact those independent auditors I used last year. I’m willing to admit this mess is beyond me to decipher. We need a forensic analysis of these accounts.”
“I agree, but it’s going to take weeks,” Ant admits as we both pack up our laptops and clear the half dozen empty coffee cups into the bin.
“It’s the only way to do this properly and get the answers we need. It will be impossible to move forward on the new distribution contract until this is sorted. Because I can guarantee that if we don’t find out what’s going on here, they will, and that could be disastrous for the whole Barbieri corporation.”
He nods, his mouth a solemn straight line.
We leave the offices in the center of Florence, turning off the lights and locking the doors. Then we stroll down the empty narrow streets of the city on the way back to our hotel. For the busy, vibrant city Florence is during the day, the streets at midnight are deserted. The only sounds being a group of drunk tourists staggering home and the eerie squawks of a flock of birds circling above the Duomo.
Chapter eight
Tori
