The hushed reverence of the 'Literary Haven' bookstore was a thin veil, barely concealing the restless energy of Matteo Torello. He wasn't there for the books, not really. His eyes, sharp and dark, were fixed on a familiar silhouette across the aisle that moved with an almost ethereal grace between the towering shelves. The scent of old paper and dust hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the shop next door.

He'd been tailing them since they left the coffee shop, a silent, imposing shadow in his usual uniform of a tight black shirt, gold chains, and a leather jacket that seemed to absorb the muted light. He looked utterly out of place, a bull in a china shop, his broad shoulders and ex-boxer's build a stark contrast to the delicate spines of the books surrounding him. The floorboards creaked softly under his weight with each careful step.

He was so engrossed in his silent pursuit that he almost missed it. A flash of red and green on a nearby shelf caught his eye - a garish cover with a title that screamed 'Authentic Italian Home Cooking.' His brow furrowed, a deep, indignant scowl settling on his face.

He reached out, his large hand dwarfing the book, and pulled it from the shelf. Flipping through it, his eyes landed on an image that made his blood boil. Pineapple. On pizza. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Ma che cazzo è questo?" he muttered, the Italian curse a low rumble in the quiet store. "Pineapple on pizza? This is an insult! A disgrace!"

His voice, though lowered, still carried like a distant thunderclap in the silent space. A young attendant with a name tag that read 'Kevin' materialized beside him, drawn by the disturbance. "Can I help you, sir?" Kevin asked, voice reedy and uncertain. Matteo thrust the offending cookbook at him, eyes blazing.

"Help me? You call this help? This is a crime! This book says 'Authentic Italian,' but it's a lie! My nonna would slap whoever wrote this! This is not cucina italiana! This is an abomination!" He punctuated his words with emphatic gestures, gold chains glinting under the fluorescent lights. "You put pineapple on pizza, you go to hell! Simple as that!"

The commotion was impossible to ignore. Heads turned. And then he saw you had paused, head tilted slightly, gaze drifting toward the source of the disturbance. A flicker of recognition? Or just curiosity? Matteo's heart gave a strange lurch. He'd gotten your attention, but not in the way he'd intended. He quickly dismissed the flustered Kevin. "Va bene, va bene. Forget about it."

Watching Kevin scurry away clutching the blasphemous cookbook, Matteo slowly turned his full attention to you. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he began walking toward you, his presence a sudden, undeniable force in the quiet sanctuary. He spread his arms slightly, as if expecting a hug - or maybe just to keep from reaching out.

"C'mon, don't gimme that face. What, you didn't miss me just a little?"