Chapter 19 Maddie
I'm sitting in my newly electrified kitchen, sipping actual hot coffee and admiring Franco's excellent work on the wiring, when my phone buzzes with a FaceTime call.
My old college roommate Sarah's face fills the screen. She's clearly somewhere loud and chaotic. Behind her, I can see an airport terminal.
"Madison Sullivan, you sneaky bitch!" she shouts over the background noise. "Why didn't you tell us you were living in a fairy tale?"
My heart skips a beat. "Sarah? Where are you?"
"Rome! Jessica and I decided to take our girls' trip to Europe, and obviously we had to come see your Italian love nest." She turns the phone to show Jessica waving frantically in the background. "Surprise!"
Oh God. Oh no. This is not happening.
"You're in Rome right now?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"We fly to Catania in three hours, then rent a car to drive up to your village. We looked it up and it's only like two hours from the airport." Sarah's grin is enormous. "I can't believe you didn't invite us to visit sooner!"
"Sarah, wait! This isn’t a good time."
"Don't you dare try to talk us out of this. We've already booked everything. We're staying for five days to see your house and meet this mysterious Italian businessman you've been so cagey about on social media."
Mysterious Italian businessman. If only she knew.
"You guys, this is really sudden. I mean, I wasn't expecting—"
"That's the point! Surprise visits are the best visits.
" Jessica leans into the frame, looking exactly like she did in college, all blonde highlights and infectious enthusiasm.
"We want to see everything. The house, the village, the hot Italian guy you're obviously sleeping with but won't admit to. "
Heat floods my face. "I never said I was sleeping with anyone."
"You didn't have to," Sarah says smugly. "You have that glow. Plus, your Instagram posts have gotten way less frequent and way more mysterious. Classic signs of being dickmatized."
"Sarah!"
"What? It's a scientific term." She laughs. "Anyway, we'll be there around dinner time. I hope you have wine because Jessica has been practicing her Italian on the flight attendants and it's horrifying."
"Ciao, bella!" Jessica calls out, butchering the pronunciation so badly it makes me wince.
The call ends before I can protest further, leaving me staring at my blank phone screen in absolute panic.
My friends are coming here. To my disaster house. To meet Enzo. Who they think is just a normal businessman instead of whatever the hell he is.
I start pacing around my small kitchen, mentally cataloging all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong.
First, there's the house itself. I've been posting carefully angled photos that make it look charming and rustic rather than structurally questionable and recently without electricity.
Sarah and Jessica are expecting some kind of Tuscan villa situation, not a medieval ruin that I'm slowly making habitable.
Second, there's the village. Monte Vento is gorgeous, but it's also clearly poor and isolated. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone's business and strangers are noticed immediately. My friends are going to stick out like blinking neon signs.
Third, and most importantly, there's Enzo.
My friends are smart, observant women who've known me since college.
They're going to take one look at him and immediately sense that something's off.
The expensive clothes, the way people in the village react to him, the casual authority he carries.
None of it's going to add up to being a normal local businessman.
And what if they witness something they shouldn't? What if one of his business meetings with thugs happens while they're here? What if they run into Emilio or his other men, who definitely don't look like tourism consultants?
I need to call Enzo. Right now.
But first, I need to figure out what to tell him. How do I explain that two of my closest friends just decided to surprise visit me without getting my approval first?
"Okay, Maddie," I say out loud to my empty kitchen. "Think this through logically."
The logical thing would be to call Sarah back and tell her not to come. Invent some emergency, claim I'm deathly sick with a contagious virus, something, anything.
But Sarah's been my best friend since freshman year of college, and she'd see right through any excuse I made. Plus, she's already bought plane tickets and made plans. She'd just show up anyway, probably more suspicious than before.
The other logical thing would be to tell them the truth about Enzo.
Except I don't actually know what the truth is.
I know he's potentially dangerous, I know his "business" involves violence, and I know he controls this village in ways that probably aren't entirely legal.
But I don't know specifics, and I definitely don't know how to explain any of it in a way that won't make my friends either call the police or stage an intervention.
Which leaves option three: damage control.
I grab my phone and dial Enzo's number, my heart pounding with each ring.
"Madison," he answers, and I can hear the concern in his voice. "Is something wrong?"
"Enzo, we have a problem."
The warmth vanishes instantly. "Where are you?"
"My house. I'm fine. But my friends from America are coming to visit. They're flying into Catania this afternoon."
Silence. Then I hear him speaking rapid Italian to someone else, his voice sharp and commanding.
"How many?" he asks me.
"Two. Sarah and Jessica."
"Full names. Now."
The sudden coldness in his voice alarms me. "Sarah Phillips and Jessica Williams."
I hear him relay the names to whoever's with him, followed by more Italian I don't understand.
"When do they land?" he asks.
"They said this evening, so probably around six or seven?"
"Flight number?"
"I don't know. They're flying from Rome."
"I'll find it." More Italian to his people. "What do they know?"
"About you? Just that you're a local businessman. They think we might be involved."
"Involved." He repeats the word like it’s a new experience for him to be involved with a woman. "What do they do?"
"Sarah's a corporate lawyer in Seattle. Jessica works in marketing for a tech company."
"A fucking lawyer?" I hear him bark orders, and I catch Emilio's name.
"Enzo, don’t freak out. They're completely harmless. They're just my college friends."
"No one enters my territory without clearance."
My blood chills. "Your territory? What the hell, Enzo! They're tourists. My friends."
"Which is the only reason we're having this conversation instead of me handling it differently."
The implication hangs heavy between us.
"You can't—they're not a threat—"
"I decide what's a threat." His voice is flat, final. "You have twenty minutes to get ready. We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Rules. Boundaries. What they can see, where they can go, who they can talk to."
"You can't control my friends! They’re on vacation."
"Twenty minutes, Madison. Don't make me come get you."
The line goes dead.
I stand there shaking, not from fear but from frustration. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Enzo treating my friends like potential enemies instead of party girls from my college days.
But underneath the anger, I understand. In his world, surprise visitors are threats. Unknown variables are dangerous. Two American women showing up unannounced, one of them a lawyer, asking questions and taking tons of pictures. Of course he's going to treat this like a security breach.
I head upstairs to change, choosing clothes that look nice but not too nice. Normal tourist-in-Italy clothes. As I'm pulling on jeans and a simple blouse, I hear his car outside.
He's fifteen minutes early.
When I open the door, he's not alone. Emilio is with him, along with another man I don't recognize. All three are dressed in dark suits, and their expressions are grim.
"Get in," Enzo says. Not a request.
I climb into the back seat, and Enzo slides in beside me. Emilio drives while the other man makes phone calls in rapid Italian.
"Sarah Phillips," Enzo says without looking at me. "Yale Law, graduated summa cum laude, works for Breslin & Associates in Seattle. Specializes in corporate acquisitions. Currently single, one cat, volunteers at a legal aid clinic."
My mouth falls open. "How do you know this?"
"Jessica Williams. USC graduate, marketing director at TechFlow Industries. Married two years ago, divorced last year. No children. Active on social media, particularly Instagram where she has fifteen thousand followers."
"You ran background checks on my friends? It's only been thirty minutes!"
"I protect what's mine." He turns to look at me then, and his eyes are cold. "Your friends are entering my territory. I need to know if they're threats."
"You’re being ridiculous! I can promise you they're not threats!"
"The lawyer might be. Lawyers ask questions. Lawyers notice things."
"Sarah's not going to cause problems,” I assure him.
"She's going to stay at a hotel property I own in the next village. Both of them will. It's been arranged."
"You can't just tell them where to stay."
"It's done." He cuts me off. "The hotel is perfect, with a view they can put on Instagram. They'll love it."
"And if they want to stay with me instead?"
"Your house is under renovation. Unsafe for guests. I've had Franco make sure it looks that way."
I stare at him. "You're really going to stage my house to make it look unsafe to my friends?"
"I'm protecting my interests." He pulls out his phone, showing me photos of the hotel. "This is where they'll stay. Elegant rooms, pool, walking distance to three restaurants I own. They'll be comfortable there and pleased with the accommodations."
"Restaurants you own. So, you can monitor where they eat?"
"I’m only ensuring they have a wonderful, safe visit." His tone suggests those two things are mutually exclusive.
"What else?"