Chapter 25 Maddie
Their last night in Sicily, we meet at a small wine bar in Taormina, just the three of us. No Enzo, no Antonio, no orchestrated experiences. Just three friends sharing a bottle of wine like we used to in Seattle.
"This is more like it," Sarah says, pouring generous glasses. "Really talking without supervision."
"Enzo wasn't supervising—"
"Maddie, stop. Just for tonight, can we stop pretending?"
I take a long sip of wine. "Okay. You're right. He's been managing your entire visit."
Jessica reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "Thank you for admitting that."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of acknowledgment settling between us.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now we talk honestly," Sarah says. "No judgment, no ultimatums. Just truth."
"The truth is I don't know what I'm doing."
"That's a start,” she says, giving me an understanding smile.
The wine loosens something in me. "He's not what he says he is. You know that, I know that. He's probably involved in things that would terrify me if I knew the details."
"Probably?" Jessica asks gently.
"Definitely. There was an incident before you arrived. Some men threatened me on a mountain road. Enzo luckily showed up and handled it."
"Handled how?"
"I don't know. I don't want to know. But they're gone."
Sarah's face pales. "Maddie—"
"I know how it sounds. I know what it makes him. But he protected me."
"Through violence."
"Through whatever was necessary." I hear myself echoing his words and hate it.
"Listen to yourself," Sarah says. "You're justifying God knows what!"
"I'm not justifying anything. I'm telling you the truth. I'm involved with someone who makes me feel safer than I've ever felt. How fucked up is that?"
"Pretty fucked up if you ask me," Jessica says softly.
We order another bottle. The bar fills with tourists and locals, normal people living normal lives. I wonder what that feels like.
"Can I tell you something horrible?" I say.
"Always," Sarah responds.
"Part of me likes it. The danger. The intensity. Knowing he would literally kill for me."
"That's not love, that's—"
"I know what it is. Or what it isn't. But it's what I have."
"You could have more," Jessica says. "You could have normal."
"I had normal with Derek. Look how that worked out."
"So, because Derek was boring, you swung to the opposite extreme?"
"Maybe."
Sarah pulls something from her purse and hands it to me. A business card. "My cousin works at the U.S. Consulate in Naples. His personal cell number is on the back."
"What is this for?”
"I'm not asking you to call him. I'm just giving you the option. If things go bad, if you need help, he can get you out quickly. He will help you."
I take the card, finger its edges. "You think things will go bad?"
"I think you're playing with fire. Sometimes that means you get burned."
We're quiet again, drinking wine and avoiding eye contact.
"I keep thinking about that movie," Jessica says suddenly. "The one where the woman marries the mob guy and at first it's all romance and protection, but then—"
"This isn't a movie."
"No, it's worse. Movies end. You’re living this indefinitely."
"What if I want to keep living this?"
"Do you?" Sarah asks. "Really? Because from where I'm sitting, you look exhausted. You look like someone who's been performing so long you've forgotten who you really are."
She's not wrong. I am exhausted. The constant vigilance, the careful words, the things I can't know or ask him. It's wearing me down.
"What would you do?" I ask them. "Honestly. If you were me."
"Run and get the hell out of here," Sarah says immediately. "Pack what I could carry and run."
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Home. Start over with friends and family who care about you."
"And the debt? The house? Everything I've built here?"
"Leave it. Every damn bit of it. None of that matters if you're not free."
"But I am free. He doesn't control me as much as you think he does."
"Maddie." Jessica's voice is gentle but firm. "He controls everything. Where you live, how your house gets renovated, who you can see, what you can know. That's not freedom."
"It's safety."
"In his world, maybe they're exclusive. You can be safe or free, not both."
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest.
"I’m falling for him," I say quietly.
"I know," Sarah responds. "That's what makes this so hard."
"He cares for me too, in his way. I can feel it."
"His way involves surveillance and control and possibly violence."
"And protection and devotion and—"
"And you having to edit your entire life for our visit. We’re your best friends and he won’t let you be with us the way we’ve always been."
I can't argue with that.
"What do you want us to say?" Jessica asks. "That it’s okay? That we support this? We can't."
"I don't want you to say anything. I just want you to understand."
"We do understand," Sarah says. "You're isolated in a foreign country, financially dependent on a dangerous man who's made you believe you owe him or need him."
"That's not true."
"Tell me one thing that's not true about what I just said."
I can't.
"Tomorrow, we leave," Sarah continues. "And you'll be alone with him again. No outside perspective, no one to question things. How long before you stop questioning them yourself?"
We finish the second bottle in relative silence, each lost in our own thoughts. When we hug goodbye outside the bar, it feels final in a way that breaks my heart.
"The consulate card," Sarah reminds me. "Keep it somewhere safe."
"I will."
"We love you," Jessica says, tears in her eyes. "No matter what happens, no matter what you choose, we love you."
"I know."
"Be careful," Sarah says. "Please."
I drive back to Monte Vento alone, the card burning a hole in my pocket. The village is quiet, most windows dark.
I park in front of my house and sit in the car for a moment, looking at the stone building that's supposed to represent my independence. The renovations Franco completed have made it livable, but it still looks fragile somehow, like something that could be taken away as easily as it was given.
My phone buzzes with a text from Enzo: "How did the evening go? Are your friends satisfied with their visit?"
The word ‘satisfied’ strikes me as odd. Like their approval was something that needed to be managed rather than earned.
I text back: "Everything went fine."
"Excellent. Will I see you later tonight here at the villa?"
I stare at the message for a moment before typing: "Actually, I'm tired. Maybe tomorrow?"
"Of course. Rest well."
I unlock my front door and step into the house. Thankfully, Franco has removed most of the construction debris. The lights work now, the water runs hot, and the electrical systems hum. But standing here alone, I can't shake the feeling that even this space isn't entirely mine.
When did that change?
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into the kitchen chair, trying to process everything that's happened. Sarah's questions, Enzo's careful non-answers, the growing sense that I'm living inside a performance designed to convince everyone—including me—that everything is normal.
My phone rings. It’s Enzo calling which is unusual for him. He usually only texts.
"I thought you might want to talk about your friends and their visit today," he says when I answer.
"What about it?"
"Your friends seemed to have many questions."
"They're protective. It's what friends do."
"Indeed. Sarah seems to think I’m a dangerous man."
My blood goes cold. "What did you say?"
I never told him that. Sarah said those exact words to me once, and only once, tonight at the café, when it was only the three of us. Enzo wasn’t there so he couldn’t possibly know what was said.
Or does he?
"How do you know what Sarah said tonight?" I ask slowly. “You just quoted her exact words. Words she said to me when you weren't there."
The silence on the other end of the line stretches too long.
"Madison—"
"How do you know what she said?"
"She may have mentioned it at lunch today. Sarah said many things. She’s quite worried about you.”
"Bullshit. Sarah did not say that at lunch today. Why would she say you were a dangerous man if you were sitting right there?”
Unless he was listening. Unless somehow my private conversation with my best friends wasn't private at all.
"Madison, let me explain—"
"Oh my God." The pieces are falling into place with horrible clarity. "You knew where we were going before we went tonight, didn’t you?"
"That's not—"
"And the road. When those men threatened me. You appeared out of nowhere on a mountain road in the middle of Sicily like you knew exactly where I was."
My hands are shaking as the full scope of what I'm realizing hits me.
"You've been tracking me this whole time. You've been listening to my private conversations. You've been..." I can barely say the words. "You've been spying on me! What the fuck, Enzo!"
"Madison, please let me explain."
I hang up.
The silence in my kitchen feels deafening after the weight of that revelation. My phone immediately starts ringing again—Enzo calling back—but I reject the call. It rings again. I reject it again.
Finally, I turn the phone off completely.
I sit there in the growing darkness, my wine untouched, as everything I thought I knew about my life here crumbles around me. The romantic dinners, the business partnership, the careful way he's helped with every problem I've encountered, it's all been built on surveillance and manipulation.
How long has he been watching me? Since the very first day?
The thought makes me feel sick. Of course, he has.
I walk through my house, looking at it with new eyes. The electrical work Franco did. How easy would it have been to install listening devices while upgrading the wiring? The new locks, the security improvements Enzo insisted on for my safety. Are they keeping threats out, or keeping me in?
My laptop. I power it on and start searching for information about surveillance, about how to detect hidden cameras and listening devices.
The internet connection in the village has always been surprisingly good for such a remote location.
Now I'm wondering if that's another convenience that comes with hidden costs.
I think about my friends' visit, how Enzo seemed to anticipate our movements, how he appeared at exactly the right moments to charm them and answer their questions. Sarah's comments about him being controlling and manipulative echo in my head.
She was right.
I've been living in a carefully constructed fantasy, believing I was making independent choices while being guided every step of the way.
The house purchase that seemed so spontaneous, the debt that tied me to Enzo, the tourism business that required his local connections.
I feel so stupid! How much of it was real, and how much was orchestrated?
My phone buzzes with text notifications even though it's supposed to be off. I must have only put it on silent.
There are already six messages from Enzo:
"Please let me explain."
"It's not what you think."
"Your safety required certain precautions."
"Madison, answer your phone."
"This is more complicated than you understand."
"I'm coming to see you."
That last message makes my pulse spike. I don't want to see him. I can't see him right now, not when everything feels like it's built on lies.
I grab my car keys. The rental car that was silently returned last week after the "repairs" were finally completed. At the time, I'd been so grateful to have my independence back. Now I'm wondering what else Enzo might have done while he had access to the vehicle.
I walk outside and stare at my car in the moonlight. If Enzo's been tracking me, there has to be a device somewhere. I pop the hood and shine my phone's flashlight over the engine, but I have no idea what I'm looking for. Everything looks mechanical and normal to my untrained eye.
I check under the bumpers, running my hands along the metal, feeling for anything that doesn't belong. Nothing obvious. The wheel wells, the undercarriage—as far as I can reach—all seem normal. Not that I know what the hell I’m searching for anyway.
Inside the car, I check the glove compartment, under the seats, in the door panels.
I even pry at the edges of the dashboard, wondering if something could be hidden behind the plastic.
But if there's a tracking device, it's either too small for me to find or too well-hidden for my amateur detective skills.
The frustration makes me want to scream. How can I prove I'm being surveilled if I can't find evidence? How can I trust anything when I don't even know what to look for?
But I need to get away from here before Enzo arrives. Even if the car is being tracked, at least I'll have mobility. At least I can choose where the conversation happens instead of being cornered in my own house.
I get in the car and start the engine, my hands shaking as I put it in gear. If there is a tracking device, he'll know exactly where I'm going. But staying here feels like walking into a trap.
I need time to think. I need distance. I need to figure out what's real and what's been carefully constructed for my consumption.
I'm just about to back out of my driveway when headlights sweep across my windshield. A car is coming up the narrow road to my house—fast.
My heart pounds as I recognize the sleek black sedan.
Enzo.
He pulls up behind me, effectively blocking my exit, and gets out of his car with the calm, purposeful movements of someone who's been expecting this exact scenario.
I sit frozen in my driver's seat, engine running, watching him approach in my rearview mirror. Even in the darkness, I can see the controlled tension in his posture, the way he moves like a predator who's cornered his prey.
He walks to my driver's side window and taps gently on the glass.
"Madison," he says, his voice perfectly audible through the thin barrier between us. "We need to talk."
I don't roll down the window. I don't turn off the engine. But I also don't try to drive away, because there's nowhere to go with his car blocking the only exit.
"Turn off the car. Let's handle this like adults."
I don’t answer.
"Madison." His voice carries a note of warning now. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."
I realize, sitting here with the engine running and his headlights illuminating my car like a spotlight, that this moment was always inevitable.
Eventually, I was going to see through the carefully constructed reality he'd built around me.
And eventually, he was going to have to decide what to do about it.
The question now is: what exactly is he planning to do?
For the first time since arriving in Monte Vento, I'm genuinely afraid of the answer.