Chapter 4 Enzo
I give her exactly three hours before she calls.
Three hours to let the reality of her situation sink in, to realize that her options are limited and her resources are nonexistent. Three hours to understand that this isn't a problem she can solve with American optimism and determination.
When my phone rings, I let it go to voicemail first. Never appear too eager, even when dealing with amateurs.
The message she leaves is exactly what I expected: "Hi, Mr. Benedetti, this is Maddie Sullivan. About our conversation earlier, I think there might be some kind of misunderstanding. Could you call me back? I'd like to discuss this further."
Still thinking this is a negotiation.
I wait another hour before returning her call, timing it perfectly so she's had even longer to worry.
"Signorina Sullivan." I keep my voice professional.
"Oh, thank God! I mean, thank you for calling back." She sounds relieved, like she was afraid I might disappear entirely. "I've been thinking about what you said, and I believe we can work something out."
"I'm listening."
"Well, first, I want to verify the debt. I mean, I need to see some kind of documentation. Loan agreements, payment records, something that proves Giuseppe actually borrowed this money."
Reasonable request. Unfortunately for her, reasonableness is irrelevant here.
"Giuseppe's word was sufficient," I repeat. "His reputation in this community was his collateral."
"But surely you have some kind of record to prove the debt."
"Signorina Sullivan," I interrupt gently. "Are you suggesting that I am lying about the debt?"
The silence on the other end tells me she's realized how dangerous that accusation could be. Good thing she’s learning fast.
"No, of course not," she says quickly. "I need to understand the scope of what we're dealing with here."
"Fifty thousand euros. Plus, interest."
"Interest?" Her voice climbs an octave. "You didn't mention interest!"
"The loan has been outstanding for eight months. Accrued interest is standard."
I can practically hear her calculating numbers she can't afford. "What's the interest rate?"
"Twenty percent."
"Twenty percent? That's usury! That's illegal! What are you? A loan shark?"
"Perhaps by American banking standards. However, this was not a bank loan."
More silence while she processes this. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller, more careful.
"What's the total amount?"
"Fifty-eight thousand euros. And growing daily."
A sound that might be crying or might be laughter comes through the phone. "I don't have fifty-eight thousand euros. I told you, I used everything I had to get here."
"I understand your position is difficult."
"Difficult? No, not difficult. This is impossible! You're asking me to pay more money than I've ever had in my entire life for a house that doesn’t even have running water!"
Now comes the interesting part. How she handles impossible situations will tell me everything I need to know about Madison Sullivan.
"Perhaps," I say carefully, "we could discuss a payment plan."
The relief in her voice is almost painful to hear. "Yes! That's exactly what I was thinking. I can make monthly payments. What would be reasonable?"
"What can you afford?"
"Well, I need to find remote work first. And figure out the exchange rate. But I could probably manage... maybe two hundred euros a month?"
Two hundred euros. At that rate, it would take her twenty-four years to pay off the debt, assuming she never missed a payment and the interest didn't compound.
"Two hundred euros monthly would be insufficient."
"Okay, what about three hundred? I could cut expenses, live really simply..."
"Signorina Sullivan." I let a note of patience enter my voice, like I'm explaining basic mathematics to a child. "At three hundred euros monthly, you would be paying for a very long time. With interest continuing to accrue, the debt might never be paid."
"How long?"
I do the calculation for her. "Approximately sixteen years. Assuming no missed payments and fixed interest."
The sound she makes definitely qualifies as a whimper. "There has to be another way," she says finally. "Some other arrangement we can make."
"Such as?"
"I don't know! You're the businessman here! What do people usually do in situations like this?"
What people usually do is disappear in the middle of the night, or beg their families for money, or agree to work off their debts in ways that aren't always legal. But Madison Sullivan doesn't need to know about those options yet.
"Some people choose to work directly for me," I say instead. "To provide services that offset their debt obligations."
"What kind of services?"
"That would depend on your skills and qualifications."
“I don’t have a work visa.”
“Well then, that complicates things further. I’m sure there is something we can work out.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can almost hear her weighing options she doesn't fully understand.
"What did you have in mind?"
"We could discuss specifics in person. These matters are too delicate for phone conversations."
"When?"
"This evening. I'll send a car."
"Oh, that's not necessary. I can drive myself."
This is where the day gets interesting.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," I tell her. "Your rental car appears to be having mechanical difficulties."
"What? No, it was fine this morning. It’s parked at the bottom of the hill below my house."
"These mountain roads are very hard on vehicles, especially ones not designed for such terrain. I took the liberty of having it towed to a repair shop."
The silence stretches so long I think the call might have dropped.
"You had my car towed?" Her voice is very quiet, very controlled. “My only transportation?”
"“The rental company flagged it; a mechanic picked it up. The brake lines looked questionable and potentially dangerous."
"The brake lines were fine yesterday."
"Did you check them? Mountain driving can reveal hidden weaknesses."
More silence. When she speaks again, there's something different in her tone. Not quite fear, but the beginning of understanding.
"Are you telling me, I'm stranded here without transportation?"
"Only temporarily. Until the repairs can be completed."
"And how long will that take?"
"These things are difficult to predict. Parts must be ordered, schedules must be arranged. Could be days. Could be weeks. Sometimes things move slowly in small villages."
I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line, processing what this means. No car. No way to leave the village. No way to run from a debt she can't pay.
"This is kidnapping," she says finally. “You’re kidnapping me and holding me here against my will.”
"No, this is simply automotive maintenance," I correct. "Though I understand your frustration with the timing."
"You can't just strand people here!"
"I'm not stranding you. I kindly offered you transportation. My driver will collect you at seven this evening."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll remain at your house, without transportation, while your debt continues to accrue interest at twenty percent."
She's trapped and she knows it. The only question is whether she'll admit it or continue pretending this is a negotiation between equals.
"Where are we meeting?"
"My home. We'll have dinner while we discuss your options."
"Your home? Alone?"
"I prefer to conduct sensitive business in private settings."
"This isn't business, this is criminal extortion!"
"Signorina Sullivan." I let my voice drop into a register that's carried more threat than most people hear in their lifetimes. "I suggest you reconsider your choice of words."
The silence that follows tells me she's finally beginning to understand who she's dealing with.
"Seven o'clock," she says finally with a long sigh.
"Excellent. Dress appropriately for dinner."
I hang up before she can ask what "appropriately" means or voice any more objections.
Phase one is complete. She now understands the scope of her problem and the limited nature of her options. The car situation ensures she can't simply flee in panic, and the dinner invitation establishes that this will be conducted on my terms, in my territory.
What I didn't expect was how much I enjoyed the conversation.
Most people, when faced with impossible debt and limited options, become predictable very quickly. They beg, they threaten, they try to bargain with emotions or promises they can't keep. Madison Sullivan tried to negotiate like she was refinancing a used car.
Two hundred euros a month. As if this were a student loan instead of a life-altering obligation to someone who doesn't operate by conventional rules.
Her naivety should be annoying. Instead, I find it almost... refreshing.
I call Emilio to confirm the evening arrangements.
"Car ready for pickup at seven," he reports. "Antonio’s handling the driving. You want me there for backup?"
"That won't be necessary. This is a dinner conversation, not an interrogation."
"Boss, you sure about this approach? Seems like a lot of trouble for fifty thousand euros."
Emilio's not wrong. I could have the debt collected in a dozen different ways, most of them faster and all of them more direct. But there's something about Madison Sullivan that makes me want to see how far her optimism can stretch before it breaks.
"Sometimes the indirect approach yields better results," I tell him.
What I don't tell him is that I'm curious about the woman who laughed with pure joy while sitting in a house that should have sent any reasonable person running back to America.
The afternoon passes quickly while I handle other business, shipment schedules, territory disputes, the kind of problems that require my personal attention. But I find myself checking the clock more often than usual, anticipating seven o'clock in a way that has nothing to do with debt collection.
At six-thirty, I dress for dinner. Not the intimidation suit from this morning, but something more subtle. Expensive enough to reinforce the power dynamic, but not so formal that she'll feel like she's walking into an execution.
By seven o'clock, I'm ready to discover just how Madison Sullivan handles impossible situations.
The car returns at seven-twenty with my reluctant dinner guest.
Through the window, I watch Antonio open the door for her, watch her hesitate before stepping out, watch her look up at my villa with an expression that's equal parts impressed and terrified.
She's changed into a simple dress that's probably the nicest thing she packed, her hair down instead of in that messy arrangement she favors. She's trying to meet the occasion appropriately, which shows she understands this is important.
What she doesn't understand yet is just how important.
I give her a moment to take in the view, the villa, the grounds, the implied wealth and power of someone who can afford to live like this while everyone else in the village struggles. Let her understand the scope of what she's dealing with.
Then I go to greet my guest and begin the real negotiation.