No. No. No.

Tears fill my eyes and I just can't accept the reality that is setting in.

I pick up my phone, punching in his name with my finger and putting it on speakerphone. When he doesn't pick up--shocker--I leave a message.

"I already called the cops. I can't believe you, Max. You're a thief! You can't do this to me!" I start out screaming but by the end, I'm nothing but a pile of tears. "That was all my money," I tell him tearfully. "I needed it to start my business. You knew that. And I trusted you." Wiping the snot from my nose, I try to collect my thoughts but it's no use. I wear my heart on my sleeve. "I thought I mattered to you, Max. And you do this to me. I just..."

I drop the phone, knowing it's pointless. He was supposed to invest the money and triple it. Instead, he took it and ran.

Why did I trust a surfer dude who gets stoned every night?

Because I was desperate. Hopeful. Living on a prayer.

There's a knock on the door and I ask who it before opening the door.

"It's Fiametta, bellisima."

Grabbing a tissue, I try to wipe my eyes but it's no use. The moment I open the door and see Fiametta's outstretched arms, I fall apart all over again.

"Ohh, sweet child, come here," she says patting my head. "You're okay. Come. Drink and eat and you'll feel better."

Sniffling, I reach for my phone, but she bats my hand away. "The walls are thin, ma bella. I know why you are crying. No phone for you tonight."

I follow her to her apartment, sinking onto the couch as she dotes on me like the grandmother I never had. After pouring me a glass of sweet port and offering a slice of her famous tiramisu, she tells me to take a bite before I spill the beans. So, for a minute I sit there, in her cozy apartment, savoring the creamy espresso and mascarpone as the flavors melt in my mouth.

"Now," she says, patting the cushion between us. "Tell me everything."

I start at the beginning, though she knows most of it. I've been renting the next-door apartment from her for six months, so she has heard me lament the men I've been dating in L.A. who never bring flowers, or take me on a proper date, or bother to ask me questions about myself. I'm living in a city filled with Peter Pans -- boys who never want to grow up.

Not the kind of men I am interested in. I want a man who is strong and can take care of me and consider me an equal.

Right now, though, I'd settle for a man who was honest.

"So, what happened with Max?" she asks, moving toward the kitchen, her house slippers padding against the carpeted floor. She's in her eighties, but still has a glow about her. It's because she spent so many decades with a man who loved and cherished her--her husband Ricardo.

"He told me his cousin could triple my money. Turns out it was a pyramid scheme." I shake my head, feeling so naive, so played. So dumb, plain and simple.

"Oh, sweet one, it's okay. Money comes, and money goes." She adds another slice of tiramisu to my plate. Because like I really need another 500 calories. Well, actually, I do. Truth is, I can hardly afford groceries at this point. Max wiped me clean.

I chuckle. "Money comes and goes? I don't know what world you live in, but in mine, there is no coming. I gave him all of my savings. Every penny from the farmer's markets over the past four months. Everything I had. Now I'll never open an online shop. I can't afford to make the inventory."

I'm exhausted, thinking about my situation. It's depressing at best, leaving me homeless at worst.

"What am I going to do, Fiametta?" I run a hand through my thick hair. "My mom is back East and she has never once returned my calls since I moved away. No surprise, she never cared about me anyway."

Fiametta clucks her tongue, not wanting to believe it.

"I know it's hard for you to accept; you are a good mom who loves her daughter, but my mother? She was absent, always. I don't have a backup plan. I have... nothing. I just wish I'd been as lucky as you. To meet a man when I was young who swept me off my feet, leading to a long, lasting marriage."

"Is that what you, want, Hannah?" Fiametta asks. "A husband?"

I sigh, picking up my small glass of port. "I want security. I want to be able to make my organic beauty products without worrying about keeping a roof over my head. I want someone to take care of me. And maybe that's stupid, but right now every man I meet through a dating app or on the street is a certified asshole. Or a thief without a conscience. I'm tired of vetting men on my own. I have awful instincts."

"No, not awful," Fiametta says with a warm smile on her lips. "You just trust very easily. It's not a bad thing."

I groan. "Unless it leads to being robbed. You know the police won't even go after him? They suggested I hire a lawyer. Right, because I have money for a lawyer."

Fiametta taps her finger on her chin. "You know, Ricardo didn't sweep me off my feet."

I twist my lips. "What do you mean? I've seen the family photos of you both smiling through the years," I say, pointing to the framed photographs on the wall hanging next to her porcelain plates.

"It's true," she says with a smile. "Lots of happy memories, but we had an arranged marriage. Never met until our wedding day. He lived in a different village in Italy, and our parents planned it for us."

I widen my eyes. "That's so romantic."

She laughs. "You think? Oh, I was so mad at my parents. Forcing me to be with a man I didn't know. But then..."

"Then you saw him and fell madly in love as you stood at the altar?" I ask, wanting to believe in a dream come true.

The corners of Fiametta's eyes crinkle as she laughs. "Oh, bellisima, no. I met him and thought he was a... jerk. An arrogant playboy. I wasn't interested."

"Then what?" I ask, setting down the glass of port and leaning in to hear her story.

"Then slowly but surely, the two of us found common ground. He loved my cooking. I loved his sense of humor. We were suited for one another, after all."

"I wish I had parents who could set me up like that." I snort. "Meanwhile here I am, swiping left all day looking for a match."

Fiametta's eyes sparkle. "But you can, child, have a matchmaker."

"What do you mean?"

Fiametta lifts her hands in the air, and I know she's holding something back.

"Tell me," I ask.

"My daughter is the matchmaker in my family now. She sets up lots of women and men."

I fall back on the couch. "Gah, no offense, but I'm done with dating services. I don't have the money anyways."

Fiametta frowns. "No, Isabela doesn't have a dating service. It's a mail-order bride agency."

"A what?"

"She sends brides to millionaires, all over the country. But she specializes in rural areas."

"So, like, she could find me a husband, no hidden fees?"

Fiametta rubs her hands together. "Should we call her?"

I bite my bottom lip, weighing my non-existent options. "Yeah, let me go get my phone."