Chapter 8 Enzo
I sit in my study with a glass of whiskey, trying to make sense of what happened in my office this morning.
Madison Sullivan nearly got herself killed today, and she has no fucking clue how close she came. Those men from Palermo weren't just talking territory. They were testing me, looking for weakness they could use against me.
And she walked into the middle of it with coffee and pastries like it was a damn corporate meeting.
The smart thing would be to get rid of her. Write off Giuseppe's debt, put her on the next plane to America, forget she ever existed. That's what I should do.
Instead, I keep thinking about the way she looked when I had her against that wall. Not scared like she should've been. Curious. Like she wanted to understand what kind of man I really am.
Dangerous thinking for a woman in her position. Even more dangerous that I want to show her.
My phone buzzes. Emilio. "Need to discuss this morning."
He arrives twenty minutes later, his expression telling me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth.
"The Palermo situation is handled," he reports. "For now. But they're not happy about being dismissed."
"They'll get over it."
"Boss, we need to talk about the girl."
I lean back and wait. Emilio's been with me eight years. He's earned the right to speak his mind, even when I don't want to hear it.
"She's becoming a problem," he continues. "Walking into meetings, asking questions around the village. The men are starting to wonder if you're thinking clearly."
"My thinking is fine."
"Is it? Because keeping her around for a fifty-thousand-euro debt doesn't make business sense. Not when she could bring attention we don't need."
Emilio's not wrong. The money Giuseppe owed me is nothing. I could forgive it without noticing. But letting her leave means watching her disappear back to America, and there’s something about that idea I don’t like.
"She might be useful," I say.
"How?"
Good question. One I don't have a clean answer for.
"That remains to be seen."
It's thin, but Emilio nods. He's used to me keeping information close.
"What do you want me to tell the men?"
"Tell them she's under my protection. Anyone who touches her deals with me."
"And Palermo?"
"Set up another meeting. Neutral ground. Make sure there are no interruptions this time."
After Emilio leaves, I pour another whiskey and try to figure out what the hell I'm doing. Madison Sullivan is a complication I don't need. Smart thing would be to solve the problem quickly and permanently.
But I keep thinking about what she wants to tell me. Some business plan that's got her so excited she's willing to face me after this morning's lesson in reality. I should leave it alone. Let her work on her proposal, keep things professional.
Instead, I find myself walking down to her cottage that evening.
The camping lanterns are on when I reach her door, warm golden light spilling from the windows. I can see her moving around inside, probably organizing something or making lists or whatever relentlessly optimistic people do when they think planning can solve any problem.
I knock, and there's a moment of silence before she calls, "Coming!"
When she opens the door, I catch the wariness that flickers across her face before she covers it with a smile.
"Enzo," she says, and there's just enough breathlessness in her voice to remind me of this morning, of the way she felt when I had her against the wall. "Hi."
"Madison. Mind if I come in?"
"Of course." She steps back, but I notice the way she unconsciously smooths her hair, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She's nervous, as she should be.
The cottage already smells like her, something clean that shouldn't be as appealing as it is. She's made the space her own with papers scattered on the floor and her laptop open.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asks. "I have warm wine, or bottled water..."
"Wine's fine."
She moves to the kitchen, and I use the opportunity to look around. She's changed out of the dress she wore this morning, now wearing jeans and a sweater that clings in ways that make me want to see what’s underneath. Her hair is down, falling around her shoulders.
"I wanted to talk about your proposal," I say when she hands me a paper cup of red wine.
"Really?" Her whole face lights up. "You're interested?"
"I'm curious. Tell me more about this idea."
She hurries over to grab her laptop and notebook. "We should sit on the hearth by the fireplace since I don’t have a table yet. I managed to get a fire going, and it's the only good light."
The stone hearth is wide and deep, warmed by crackling flames.
She's thrown what looks like a sleeping bag over the stone with some cushions. Jesus Christ! She’s been sleeping almost in the fire to stay warm at night.
When she settles beside me with her laptop, we're close enough that our shoulders brush.
"Okay, here's what I'm thinking," she begins, showing me photos on her laptop. "The village has incredible potential for authentic cultural tourism. Not big bus tours, but intimate experiences for people who want real connection to Italian culture."
She shows me plans for renovated houses, cooking classes, boat tours to hidden coves.
"The key is authenticity," she continues. "Americans will pay premium prices for experiences they can't get anywhere else."
I listen to her describe bringing strangers to my territory. Strangers with cameras and questions and government connections, and my first instinct is to shut this down. Everything about her vision threatens the isolation I've maintained in Monte Vento.
But as she talks, something else occurs to me. "What about accommodations?" I ask.
"That's the beauty of it," she says, leaning closer. "We convert existing empty houses into vacation rentals. Partner with homeowners who need income."
Houses I control, filled with tourists I could monitor. Perfect cover for guests who aren't really tourists.
"And activities?" I ask.
"Cooking classes, wine tastings, boat excursions, historical tours. Total immersion in authentic village life."
Authentic village life that happens to include an illegal business she'd never suspect. A village that promotes tourism would have legitimate reasons for strangers coming and going. For money changing hands. For boats arriving at unusual hours.
"The revenue potential is enormous," she continues, showing me financial projections.
I take a closer look at the numbers. Legitimate revenue could hide much larger amounts of illegitimate income.
"You've thought this through," I observe with grudging respect.
"I have. And I think it could work, Enzo. I think it could really help this place."
She genuinely believes she can save Monte Vento through tourism. She has no idea the village's problems exist because I prefer it isolated and dependent. But her plans could serve my purposes in ways she'll never know or understand.
"There would be challenges to your plan," I say carefully.
"Such as?"
"Permits. Regulations. Some people in the village might resist change."
"All manageable with the right local partnerships, I’m sure." She looks at me hopefully. "That's where you come in."
"How so?"
"You have influence here. Connections. If you supported it, the others in the village would follow."
Influence. Connections. She has no idea how accurate that is.
"What would you need from me?"
"Help navigating the local politics." She pauses. "And trust."
Trust.
The one thing I can't give her, because everything I'm considering involves using her passion for purposes that would horrify her. But I can give her the illusion of trust.
"Your ideas are interesting," I say, which is not a lie.
"You'll consider it then? As a way to help me pay off the debt?"
"I'll consider it."
She gives me a bright smile. She has no idea I'm planning to use her intelligence to provide cover for activities she'd never accept.
"This calls for a celebration," she says, reaching for the wine bottle.
"A celebration might be premature. I said I'd consider it, not approve it."
"But you're interested. That's more than I had this morning."
This morning, when she was pressed against my office wall while I explained what happens to people who walk into rooms full of killers. The memory makes my cock throb.
I finish my cup of cheap wine and stand. "I should go."
"Already?" There's disappointment in her voice she tries to hide.
"It's late. And you have work to do if you want to convince me this idea is worth the risk."
She follows me to the door, and when I turn back, she's close enough that I could reach out and touch her.
"Enzo?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For considering it. For believing in my ideas."
I don't believe in her ideas. I'm planning to corrupt them for my own purposes. But the gratitude in her voice makes me inexplicably feel like the worst kind of bastard.
"Goodnight, Madison. Meet me at the harbor at 8 a.m. tomorrow. You can show me your ideas while we walk the village. Wear comfortable shoes."
I walk back to the villa with the taste of shared wine still on my tongue and her scent clinging to my clothes. By the time I reach my study, I'm hard and frustrated and completely aware that I'm in deeper than I intended.
Madison Sullivan thinks she's found a business partner. What she's really found is a man who's becoming dangerously interested in her, willing to let her chase impossible dreams if it means keeping her within reach.
The question is whether I can trust her to stay naive enough to be useful. Or whether her curiosity will eventually lead her somewhere she shouldn't go.