Chapter 5 Maddie
The car that picks me up is all black leather and tinted windows, with a scary, massive driver. He doesn't speak during the short drive up a winding road that gets progressively more private and intimidating.
I spend the entire ride trying not to think about how far I am from anything resembling help.
When we pull through wrought-iron gates, I get my first look at Enzo Benedetti's home, and my brain immediately short-circuits.
It's not a house. It's a villa. An actual, honest-to-God Italian villa perched on a hillside overlooking the village and the sea beyond.
This is where my fifty-thousand-euro loan shark lives.
"Holy shit," I whisper, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth because I'm pretty sure the driver heard me.
The car stops in a circular driveway before the driver gets out and solemnly opens my door.
"Grazie," I manage, because my Italian vocabulary is pathetic but I'm trying to be polite to the man who could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat.
The front door opens before I even reach it, and Enzo Benedetti appears wearing what has to be the most perfectly tailored shirt I've ever seen on a man. Dark blue, probably silk, open at the collar just enough to suggest he's human under all that intimidating perfection.
"Madison," he says, and the way he says my name makes something flutter in my stomach that has absolutely no business fluttering given the circumstances. "Welcome to my home."
"Thank you for having me," I reply automatically, then realize how ridiculous I sound. Like I had a choice about being here when I clearly did not.
But he doesn't comment on the absurdity. Instead, he gestures for me to follow him inside, and I step into what I can only describe as understated magnificence.
Everything is perfectly arranged and perfectly designed to impress without being over-the-top.
"Your home is beautiful," I say, because it is, and because my mother raised me to be polite even when being extorted by gorgeous Italian men.
"Thank you. Would you like a tour?"
I want to say no, that I'd rather just get this nightmare conversation over with and figure out how to escape. But I also want to see more of this place, because it's genuinely stunning and I have serious questions about what kind of "local businessman" can afford to live like this.
“Sure,” I hear myself saying. “I’d love to see it.”
He leads me through rooms that are each more beautiful than the last. A library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and leather chairs that look like you could sink into them and never leave.
A living room with a fireplace stretching across one wall and windows that frame the sunset like a painting.
A kitchen that's clearly designed by someone who actually cooks, all professional-grade appliances and marble countertops.
"Do you cook?" I ask, because the kitchen is so obviously functional despite being gorgeous.
"I enjoy cooking sometimes," he says, and I catch a glimpse of something almost normal in his expression. "It's meditative in a way."
I try to picture this intimidating man chopping vegetables and stirring sauces, and can’t quite stretch my mind that far.
"The view here is incredible," I say as we move onto a terrace that overlooks the entire valley. The village spreads out below us like a collection of dollhouses, and the sea stretches to the horizon in every direction.
"Thank you,” he says. “The hilltop location allows me to keep an eye on both the water and the village."
We're standing close enough that I can smell his cologne and it makes me want to lean closer instead of stepping away like a sensible woman would.
The setting sun is painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and if this were literally any other situation, it would be the most romantic moment of my life.
Instead, it's probably the most dangerous.
"Shall we have dinner?" he asks, and leads me to a dining room that's somehow both formal and intimate. The table is set for two with delicate antique china, and candles that cast everything in warm, flickering light.
A woman appears from the kitchen, older, kind-faced, wearing an apron that suggests she's the one responsible for whatever smells amazing.
"This is Maria," Enzo says. "She'll be serving dinner tonight."
Maria smiles at me and says something in rapid Italian that I don't catch but sounds welcoming. I smile back and manage a "Ciao, Maria" that makes her beam.
"Maria doesn't speak English," Enzo explains as he pulls out my chair. "But she's an excellent cook."
I sit down and try not to think about how this feels like a date instead of a debt negotiation. The chair is comfortable, the candles are romantic, and the man across from me is absolutely gorgeous despite being potentially dangerous.
This is so messed up.
Maria appears with a bottle of wine and Enzo pours for both of us without asking if I want any.
"To new arrangements," he says, raising his glass.
I don't toast to that, but I do take a sip because I need all the liquid courage I can get. The wine is incredible, of course. Everything in this place is incredible.
"So," I say, setting down my glass and trying to look more confident than I feel. "About this debt situation."
"Later," he says. "First, we’ll enjoy dinner. Maria has prepared something special."
"I'd rather discuss business first."
"I prefer to eat before conducting business. It’s better for your health."
There's something in his tone that suggests this isn't a request, so I nod and try to think of safe conversation topics while Maria brings out the first course.
The food is amazing. A seafood dish that's been prepared in a way that makes it taste like the ocean decided to become art. The bread is warm and crusty and perfect for soaking up sauces I can't identify but definitely want to recreate.
"This is incredible," I say after the first few bites. "Maria is a fabulous cook."
"She's been with my family for many years," he says. "Her mother worked for my parents."
"You grew up here?"
"In this house, yes. Though it's been extensively renovated since then."
I try to picture him as a child running through these elegant rooms, and the image doesn't quite compute. "What was it like, growing up in a place like this?"
Something shuts down in his expression. "Privileged. Also lonely at times."
Apparently, childhood is not a safe conversation topic.
"What about you?" he asks. "What was your childhood like in America?"
"Normal," I say, then realize how inadequate that sounds. "Suburban. My parents got divorced when I was twelve, but it was pretty amicable. They both remarried people who are actually better suited to them. I have step-siblings now who I only see at Christmas, but they're nice enough."
"And what brought you to Sicily?"
The question I've been dreading. "I needed a change."
"From what?"
I take another sip of wine and consider how much truth I want to share with someone who's essentially holding me hostage.
"From playing it safe," I say finally. "From being the person everyone expected me to be instead of the person I wanted to be."
"And who did you want to be?"
"Someone brave enough to take risks. Someone interesting enough to have adventures." I laugh, but it doesn't sound happy. "I guess I got the adventure part."
"Indeed."
Maria brings the next course, and we eat in comfortable silence for a while. The wine is making me feel warm and slightly reckless, and the candlelight is doing absolutely unfair things to Enzo's already unfair bone structure.
"Can I ask you something?" I say as Maria clears our plates.
"Of course."
"What kind of businessman are you, exactly?"
His hand stills on his wine glass. "What kind do you think I am?"
"The kind who can afford to live like this in a village where everyone else seems to be struggling. The kind who gives fifty-thousand-euro loans based on handshakes. The kind who has cars towed without questions being asked."
"You think I sabotaged the car?"
"Didn't you?"
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
"Why?" I ask. "If you only wanted to collect the debt, there are legal ways to do that. Courts, lawyers, garnished wages. Why the elaborate dinner invitation?"
"Perhaps I enjoy your company."
The way he says it makes my heart speed up, which is absolutely the wrong reaction to have to someone who's essentially kidnapped me.
"You don't even know me,” I say.
"True, but I know enough."
"Such as?"
He leans back in his chair, studying me with those intense eyes again. "I know you see possibilities where other people see problems. I know you laugh when most people would cry."
The fact that he's been watching me closely enough to notice these things should be terrifying. Instead, it's weirdly flattering.
"And I also know," he continues, "that you're attracted to me despite knowing you shouldn't be."
My face goes hot because he's absolutely right and there's no point in denying it. "Of course I am because you’re handsome, but that doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?"
The way he's looking at me makes my pulse race. Like he's thinking about things that have nothing to do with debt collection and everything to do with the space between us that seems to be getting smaller without either of us moving.
"We should talk about the payment arrangements," I say, because this conversation is heading somewhere dangerous.
"We should," he agrees, but he doesn't look away.
Maria appears with dessert, a tart involving chocolate and berries, and the moment breaks.
"You have two options," Enzo says as we start eating. "You can attempt to pay the debt in installments, which we've established will take approximately sixteen years. Or you can work for me."
"What kind of work?"
"As a subcontractor. Perhaps doing event planning. Public relations. The kind of skills someone with your background would excel at."
That actually sounds reasonable. "How do you know what my skills are?”