Chapter 1 Maddie
The rental car's GPS has been saying ‘recalculating’ for the past twenty minutes, which is either a very bad sign or a very Italian one. I'm choosing to believe it's the latter because I'm nothing if not an optimist, even when I'm driving up what appears to be a goat path masquerading as a road.
"Turn right in fifty meters," the robotic voice announces with suspicious confidence.
I peer through the dusty windshield at the narrow stone path ahead. "Right where, exactly? Into that olive tree?"
But then I see it, a weathered wooden sign that reads "Monte Vento" in faded paint, and my heart does a little skip. This is it. This is actually happening. After twenty-five years of playing it safe, of following every rule and checking every box, I'm finally doing something completely insane.
I'm about to own a house in Sicily for one euro.
The village appears around the next bend like something out of a postcard that's been left in the sun too long.
Stone houses with red tile roofs cascade down the hillside toward a small harbor where fishing boats bob lazily in the afternoon light.
It's absolutely perfect, in that authentic, slightly crumbling way that screams "rustic charm" and "no tourists. "
I pull over next to what I hope is a parking area and not someone's private driveway, then grab my phone to take a selfie. The Wi-Fi signal is nonexistent, but that's fine. This moment is too perfect for social media anyway.
"Welcome, Madison Sullivan, property owner," I announce to my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The key pickup was supposed to happen at the mayor's office, which according to my printed directions should be in the main square. I shoulder my oversized purse, packed with enough emergency supplies to survive a small apocalypse and start walking.
The narrow streets are made of stones that have probably been here since the Renaissance, which is charming until I realize my sneakers have zero traction. I slide gracefully into a wall, catching myself with what I hope is dignity.
"Smooth, Madison. Very smooth."
A few elderly men sitting outside a café look up from their espresso and animated conversation. One of them says something in rapid Italian that I don't catch, but his expression seems concerned. Maybe they're not accustomed to seeing Americans stumble around their village like drunk penguins.
I wave enthusiastically. "Hi! Hello!"
They smile and wave back, so I'm calling it a win.
The main square is tiny but perfectly picturesque, dominated by a church that looks old enough to have hosted actual saints and a fountain that's definitely seen better centuries. The mayor's office is a small building with peeling paint and a door that's propped open with a ceramic donkey.
Inside, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and impressive arm jewelry looks up from her desk. "Signorina Sullivan?"
"That's me!" I bounce on my toes, probably looking like an overexcited golden retriever. "I'm here for the key pickup. For the house? The lottery house?"
She smiles warmly and gestures toward a chair. "Yes, yes! One moment, please."
She disappears into a back room, leaving me alone with my excitement and a poster advertising what appears to be a festival involving a lot of lemons.
I can’t believe this is really happening. I'm actually doing this.
Take that, Derek, with your "Madison never takes risks" and "Madison is too predictable." If only he could see me now, sitting in a mayor's office in Sicily, about to collect the keys to my own house.
She returns with an official-looking folder and an ornate iron key that looks like it belongs to a castle door in a fairy tale.
"Here you go!" She places the key in my palm with ceremony. "Up the hill, past the church." She points toward the window and makes a winding motion with her finger.
"Thank you!" I clutch the key like it's made of gold instead of iron. "This is so exciting."
Her smile is genuinely warm as she hands me a small map of the village. "Welcome home, Ms. Sullivan.”
Welcome home.
The words make my eyes water with happiness. Home. After twenty-five years of living in other people's spaces, my parents' house, college dorms, and shared apartments with roommates who left passive-aggressive notes about dirty dishes, I'm finally going to have a home that's all mine.
I practically skip out of the mayor's office, clutching my key and map like winning lottery tickets. Which they are, since I won the right to buy the house for one single euro in a lottery.
The afternoon sun is golden and warm, and the village looks even more beautiful than when I arrived.
Children are playing in the square, their laughter echoing off the stone buildings, while their mothers chat nearby.
Everything feels perfect and welcoming and exactly like the fresh start I was hoping for.
Via della Luna turns out to be less of a street and more of a suggestion. The stone path winds up the hillside past silent houses with shutters closed against the afternoon sun.
Number twelve is at the very end, separated from its neighbors by overgrown gardens and what might generously be called "creative landscaping." The house itself is... well, calling it a house might be a tad bit optimistic.
It's more like a stone cottage that's been in a fight with gravity and lost. The roof has several tiles missing, one shutter hangs at a drunken angle, and there's something growing out of the chimney that definitely isn't supposed to be there.
"Rustic charm they said," I mutter, fitting the key into a lock that takes three tries and some aggressive jiggling. "Original features. Authentic Sicilian experience."
The door swings open with a horror-movie creak, and I step into my new home.
It's dark. Very dark. And it smells old. Old and maybe a little bit like something died in here, which hopefully is just the result of being closed up for months.
I fumble around for a light switch, find one, and flip it.
Nothing.
"Of course there's no electricity," I announce to the darkness. "Because why would there be electricity in a house no one lives in?"
I use my phone's flashlight to explore, which immediately reveals why the house was only one euro. The listing said "needs some TLC," but this is more like "needs a complete miracle and possibly an exorcism."
The main room has stone walls that might be charming if they weren't quite so moldy, a fireplace that's full of what I'm hoping is just debris, and windows that provide a lovely view of the village if you don't mind the fact that one of them is missing most of its glass.
The kitchen appears to be from the medieval period, which could be quaint if you're into the whole "cooking over an open fire" aesthetic. The bathroom... well, let's just say I'm grateful I researched the locations of all public restrooms in the village.
Upstairs, there are two bedrooms with slanted ceilings and enough dust to start my hay fever up. One of them has a window with an actual view of the sea, which would be romantic if it wasn’t blocked by thick cobwebs.
I sink onto what might have been a window seat in a previous century and look around at my new castle.
It's a disaster.
An absolute, complete disaster that's going to take every penny I have and probably some I don't have to make even remotely livable.
And I love it because it’s all mine.
Every cracked stone, every missing roof tile, every medieval plumbing fixture that probably hasn't worked since the Middle Ages. It's mine to fix and turn into something amazing.
I pull out my phone to take a few "before" photos. The camera flash reveals just how much work I'm facing, but that's okay. I have time, and a completely unrealistic belief in my own ability to handle home renovation projects. I’ve been watching YouTube channels for months in preparation.
"Okay, house," I announce to the dust dancing in the afternoon light streaming through the broken window. "You and me, we're going to figure this out together. All you need is a little bit of hard work."
I'm still sitting there, mentally cataloging everything that needs fixing when my stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl.
I've been so caught up in the excitement and house exploration that I completely forgot about dinner. The sun is starting to set, painting everything in that golden hour light that makes even disaster houses look romantic.
I should probably venture back into the village and find some food. Maybe that little café where the old men were sitting earlier. I could meet some locals and start building the community connections that will make this place feel like home.
Plus, I need to figure out the electricity situation. And probably find someone who knows about old plumbing. And maybe a structural engineer, just to be safe.
I grab my purse and lock the door behind me, though I'm not sure what I'm protecting. A family of bats? The ghost of Giuseppe, the previous owner? The collection of broken furniture?
Walking back down Via della Luna as the sun sets, I can't help but smile.
Yes, the house is a disaster.
But this will be so much fun! I’m so excited I don’t know how I’ll even sleep tonight.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Even if "where I'm supposed to be" currently lacks running water and electricity.
The village lights are starting to twinkle as darkness falls, and I can smell something amazing drifting from one of the houses, garlic and herbs and something that makes my mouth water. Someone is cooking real Italian food, and I'm about to go find my first proper meal in my new home.
Tomorrow, I'll start tackling the house repairs. Tonight, I'm just going to enjoy being Madison Sullivan, Italian property owner, in the most beautiful village in the world.
Even if my property is mostly held together by hope.