Chapter 2 Enzo
I watch the rental car struggle up the mountain road from my office window high above the village, and I already know this is going to be a problem.
The American woman Madison Sullivan, according to the lottery paperwork my sources provided, drives like someone who's never seen a road that wasn't perfectly paved.
She takes the curves too slowly, stops completely when a goat wanders into her path, and I can practically hear her GPS having a nervous breakdown from here.
She's early.
Three days early, which means either she's very eager or very stupid. Possibly both.
I've been tracking her arrival since the moment she won Giuseppe's house in that ridiculous lottery scheme the government cooked up to deal with abandoned properties.
What they didn't bother to mention in their charming marketing materials is that some of those abandoned properties come with complications.
Giuseppe owed me fifty thousand euros. His debt didn't die with him.
The car finally reaches the village square and I watch her park with the careful motions of someone who's terrified of damaging a rental. She sits there for a moment, probably gathering courage or checking her appearance, before climbing out with an enormous purse and an even more enormous smile.
She's smaller than I expected. Blonde hair caught up in a messy arrangement that's supposed to look casual but probably took twenty minutes.
Jeans and sneakers and a bright blue jacket that screams tourist. She looks exactly like what she is, a sheltered American girl who thinks the world is fundamentally good and everyone in it can be trusted.
This will be too easy.
She takes a selfie in front of the village sign, which confirms my suspicion that she's one of those people who documents every moment of their lives for strangers on the internet. Social media is useful for tracking people, but it also makes them predictable. And careless.
I step out of my office and follow her progress on foot through the village from various windows and doorways, staying far enough back that she won't notice.
Not that she would. She's too busy gawking at everything like she's wandered into a fairy tale instead of a place where people have been surviving through necessity and fear for generations.
She waves enthusiastically at the old men outside the village’s main café, butchering a simple Italian greeting with such confidence that several of them actually smile back. They probably think she's harmless. They're not wrong, but harmless doesn't mean consequence-free.
After she disappears into the mayor's office, I make a phone call.
"She's here," I tell Emilio, my most reliable lieutenant. "The American who won Giuseppe's house."
"Want me to handle it?" His voice is emotionless, professional. Emilio's good at handling problems quietly and permanently.
"No. This one requires a more delicate approach."
I can practically hear him frowning. Emilio doesn't do delicate. "Boss, she's just some tourist who got in over her head. Why complicate things?"
Because killing random Americans brings unwanted attention from governments with actual resources and long memories. Because she won the house legally and her disappearance would be noticed and investigated. There are easier ways to collect debts than creating international incidents.
I don't explain this to Emilio. He's not paid to understand strategy.
"Just keep the men away from her for now. Let me assess the situation."
I hang up and return to watching. She emerges from the mayor's office practically giddy with excitement, clutching an old iron key in her hand. Signora Rossi must have managed not to mention the complications of the house. I specifically requested the debt issue be left for me to handle.
The walk up to Giuseppe's house takes her fifteen minutes longer than it should because she stops to admire every doorway and smell every flowering vine. She has no idea that half the houses she's photographing are empty because their owners fled rather than face bankruptcy or worse.
When she reaches Giuseppe's place, she stands in front of it for a full minute, and I can see her optimism wavering slightly.
Even from my vantage point two streets over, it's obvious the house is a disaster.
Giuseppe stopped maintaining it years ago, once he started borrowing money against it to pay for his medical bills.
But she squares her shoulders and marches up to the front door with renewed determination. American stubbornness, probably. They think any problem can be solved with enough positive thinking and elbow grease.
I give her twenty minutes to explore before following. The front door is still propped open, and I can hear her moving around inside, talking to herself in that bright, confident voice Americans use when they're trying to convince themselves everything is fine.
"This is just cosmetic," she's saying as I approach the house. "Nothing that can't be fixed with some time and creativity."
I position myself where I can see through the broken window without being seen.
She's standing in what used to be Giuseppe's kitchen, hands on her hips, surveying damage that would make a contractor weep.
The ceiling has several holes, the plumbing is medieval, and there's a family of bats living in the chimney.
She takes out her phone and starts snapping pictures, talking to herself like she's narrating for an audience.
"Okay, so the kitchen needs some work. But look at these stone walls! This is authentic craftsmanship you can't buy. And the view through this window, once I get the glass replaced will be amazing."
She's cataloging disasters like they're selling points. This is either impressive optimism or complete delusion.
I watch her explore the rest of the house, listening to her cheerful commentary about "original features" and "rustic charm." When she discovers the bathroom situation, she actually laughs.
"Well, I guess I'll be getting very familiar with the village facilities," she announces to the empty house. "Just think of it as forced socialization."
Forced socialization.
As if the villagers' fear-based politeness is the same as friendship.
She settles upstairs in what used to be Giuseppe's bedroom, sitting on the window seat and pulling out her phone again. No signal, of course. This far up the mountain, most cell towers don't reach. I made sure of that years ago.
I'm about to leave and let her settle in for the night when she does something unexpected.
She starts laughing.
Not the hysterical kind that comes from realizing you've made a terrible mistake, but deep, genuine belly laughs that echo through the empty house. The kind of laugh that comes from pure joy.
"I actually did it!" she says, clapping her hands together. "I actually left! I actually bought a house in Sicily!"
Another wave of laughter hits her, and she's practically wheezing now. "They said I'd never take a real risk. Well, joke's on them! I just bought a medieval ruin with grocery money!"
There's definitely a story here.
Someone who underestimated her capacity for reckless decisions. Most people don't uproot their entire lives to prove a point, but Americans are strange about things like that.
She sits up, still grinning like she's just won something instead of inheriting a structural nightmare. "Okay, house. It’s just you and me against the world."
She's talking to the building like it's a partner instead of a problem. Americans really do think they can make friends with anything. Even inanimate objects.
I retreat as she makes her way downstairs, timing my exit so she won't see me when she looks out the windows. She needs to feel safe and unobserved for now. The approach I'm planning requires her to trust me, at least initially.
Back in the village, I stop by a café where the old men are still discussing the arrival of their new American neighbor.
"She seems nice," Paolo is saying. "Very friendly. Very optimistic and smiley."
"Too optimistic," grumbles Matteo, who's lived here long enough to remember what optimism costs. "She doesn't understand."
"Understand what?" I ask, settling into the chair they always keep empty for me.
The conversation stops immediately. It always does when I join them. Not from fear, exactly. These men have known me since I was a boy, but from respect. And awareness of what topics are safe to discuss in my presence.
"The house," Matteo says carefully. "Giuseppe's house. It has complications."
"I'm aware of the complications."
"What will you do?" Paolo asks. He was Giuseppe's friend, knew about the medical bills, the desperation, the choices that led to the debt.
"I'll speak with her. Explain the situation."
"And if she can't pay?"
I sip my espresso and watch the lights come on in the houses around the square. Families settling in for dinner, children being called inside, the comfortable rhythms of a community that's learned to survive by not asking too many questions.
"She'll pay," I say finally. "One way or another."
The men nod and change the subject to safer topics, the weather, the fishing, complaining about tourists who don't understand local customs. But I can feel their concern. They like the American girl already, just from her brief, cheerful interaction this afternoon. They don't want to see her hurt.
Neither do I, if it can be avoided. But business is business, and debts must be paid.
I finish my coffee and head home, already planning my approach. I'll give her a day or two to settle in, let her discover just how much work the house needs and how little money she actually has. Let reality soften her optimism just enough to make her receptive to solutions.
Then I'll introduce myself. Politely, professionally, with just enough implied threat to make her understand the seriousness of the situation. I'll offer her options. Possibly payment plans, work arrangements, ways to satisfy the debt that don't require cash she doesn't have.
Most people, when faced with fifty thousand euros of unexpected debt, become very cooperative very quickly.
The drive to my villa takes five minutes on roads that are maintained considerably better than the one she struggled up earlier. Money has its privileges, especially when that money comes with the kind of influence that makes local officials very eager to please.
My house sits on a hill overlooking the village and the sea beyond. All modern comfort wrapped in traditional stone. It's beautiful and intimidating. When I bring her here, and I will bring her here once she understands her situation, she'll be impressed.
Inside, I pour myself a glass of wine and review the file my people compiled on Madison Sullivan.
Twenty-five years old, marketing coordinator for a tech company in Seattle.
No criminal record, no significant debts, no family money.
Parents are middle-class, divorced, both remarried to other people.
No siblings. No current boyfriend, though there are social media posts suggesting a recent breakup.
She's alone in the world, which explains why she could just pick up and move to Sicily on a whim. It also means no one will come looking for her immediately if she decides to stay and work off the debt.
But the more I study her file, the more questions I have.
Her job paid well enough that she shouldn't need to enter European housing lotteries.
Her social media shows a comfortable, stable life in Seattle with a good apartment, nice car, plenty of friends.
Why give all that up for a disaster house in a village she'd never heard of?
People don't make choices like that unless they're running from something. Or toward something they want more than comfort and safety.
I close the file and walk out onto my terrace, looking down at the village where lights are starting to go out as people settle in for the night.
Somewhere down there, the American woman is probably trying to figure out how to sleep in a house with no electricity and questionable structural integrity.
Tomorrow, she'll wake up and start trying to solve problems that can't be solved with optimism and determination. She'll realize that her dream house is going to cost more than she has and that she’s gotten herself into a situation that's bigger than she is.
And then I'll arrive with solutions.
I'm curious to see how she'll react when she realizes that her fairy-tale adventure comes with very real consequences. Most people either break down in tears or start making desperate plans to escape.
But something about the way she talked to that broken-down house, the way she turned disasters into opportunities, makes me think Madison Sullivan might surprise me.
I'm looking forward to finding out.