Chapter 10 Enzo
I show up at the harbor five minutes early and find Madison already there, buzzing around like she's about to change the world with a pile of papers and some hand-drawn charts.
She's wearing sneakers this time, along with jeans and a sweater that shows off her figure without trying too hard. Hair's doing that messy thing again where pieces escape and catch the light.
She looks like she belongs in a corporate conference room, not in a village where most business gets handled through handshakes and understanding what happens when people don't pay their debts.
"Good morning," I say, walking up to where she's got everything spread out on an old crate.
"Enzo! Perfect timing." She grins like I just made her whole week by showing up to something I told her to do. "I've organized everything by location so we can walk through systematically and I can show you exactly what I'm thinking for each area."
The fact that she thinks this is her meeting is almost funny. Like she's running this show instead of dancing to music I'm playing.
"You've been busy," I tell her.
"I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of new ideas." She shuffles through papers like she's about to present to the board of directors. "Did you know the harbor here was a major trading port in the eighteenth century? There's so much history we could use."
Trading port. Yeah, it still is. Just different cargo, different customers. None of the shit that goes through here these days gets recorded in any history books.
"Show me," I say. Might as well let her perform.
She lights up and starts walking me around the harbor, pointing out sights I’ve seen every day for decades. The irony is not lost on me.
"The harbor's perfect for small boat tours," she says, waving toward the water where my guys sometimes unload packages she'd rather not know about. "Day trips to hidden coves, sunset sailing, maybe fishing expeditions where tourists learn traditional techniques."
I watch her chat with old Carlo, who's trying not to look nervous about being watched while he talks to her. She doesn't know Carlo's "fishing" sometimes involves picking up packages that get dropped overboard, or that his nets pull up more than fish.
"And this building," she continues, pointing at the old customs house where we store things that need climate control and no questions asked. "With renovation, this could be an amazing waterfront restaurant. Fresh seafood, sunset views over the Mediterranean."
I picture my clients trying to have meetings while American tourists take selfies at the next table. The logistics would be a nightmare, but the balls on this girl, thinking she can repurpose everything like it's available for her little project.
"The building's got specific uses," I point out.
"Nothing that can't be adapted. I researched local contractors and the cost estimates are reasonable."
She researched contractors. Wonder what Franco told her when she asked about his availability for jobs that don't involve soundproofing and reinforced doors.
"What'd they say about permits?"
"That's where local partnerships matter." She turns to me with this look that's all business confidence mixed with complete cluelessness. "Someone with established relationships could cut through the bureaucracy."
Someone like me.
She wants to use my connections to make her tourist fantasies happen, no idea that my relationships work through fear and respect, not building permits and zoning committees.
But the idea has possibilities. Not for her reasons—for mine.
"Keep going," I tell her.
We walk through the village while she points out opportunities in places I never thought about.
Every spot she picks has value she doesn't see.
That abandoned bakery? Perfect view of the main road.
Empty house by the church? Three different exit routes.
Those narrow streets she thinks are romantic?
Great for controlling movement when you need to.
She's accidentally designing a surveillance network disguised as a tourist trap.
"Tourism could save this place," she says when we stop by the church. "I talked to some residents. They’re worried about young people leaving and the village dying. But sustainable economic opportunities could change that."
Fuck! She's already been talking to residents about this. Three days here and she's done more community outreach than most people manage in months.
"What kind of opportunities?" I ask.
"Hospitality jobs, artisan crafts, food service. Training programs for people who want to stay but need careers. Partnerships with farmers and fishermen to supply experiences."
She wants job training in a village where I'm the main employer and most of the work can't go on any resume. Wonder what kind of skills she thinks Emilio and his crew need to be taught.
"You think tourists would come somewhere this remote?"
"Are you serious? Americans pay thousands to fight crowds in Tuscany for experiences we could offer here with complete authenticity and privacy. The remoteness isn't a problem—it's the point."
Privacy. She keeps pushing privacy like it's a selling point, not realizing she just identified exactly what makes this useful to me.
Legitimate tourism means strangers coming and going becomes normal instead of suspicious. Money changing hands has obvious explanations. And the infrastructure she wants, better communications, transportation, lodging would help my actual business plenty.
"Show me more."
She takes me through the upper village, excited like a kid with a new toy. Points out houses for vacation rentals—perfect safe houses. Gardens for outdoor dining—ideal for meetings that need to look social. Photo spots—good surveillance positions.
She's designing infrastructure improvements I've been thinking about for years, wrapped up in a tourism plan that would never attract the wrong kind of attention.
"The key is authentic experiences," she explains as we head toward my place. "Not fake attractions, but real participation in village life. Cooking with families, learning crafts, seasonal festivals."
Real participation. Where village life includes activities that require careful management and people who keep their mouths shut.
"And the villagers would be okay with strangers in their business?"
"Most seem excited. There'd be some resistance to change, but economic benefits should win out."
Of course, they seem excited once she tells them I’m involved. They’re scared to tell me anything I don't want to hear. But she reads their fear as enthusiasm for her vision.
"There's one more location I want your take on," I say as we get near my property.
"Oh?"
"My villa. You mentioned exclusive accommodations."
She stops and stares at me. "You'd open your home to tourists?"
"Maybe. Small guest house. Very select clientele. Very private."
The idea hit me while listening to her pitch. Having her live on my property, managing "tourist accommodations," solves a bunch of problems. I can watch what she's doing, control what she knows, keep the business partnership story going while having her exactly where I want her.
"That could be perfect," she says, and I can see her brain working through possibilities she'll never get to implement. "Luxury accommodation, personalized service, gourmet meals, wine tastings, private tours..."
"What would I do in this setup?"
"You'd be the host. The local expert providing insider access."
She wants to turn me from the guy who runs this territory through fear into a charming tour guide telling stories about local history.
Perfect. I’d rather put a bullet through my own head.
"And you?"
"Marketing, guest relations, activity coordination. Making sure everything runs smoothly and visitors have great experiences."
She's describing a job that gives her access to my house, my schedule, my routines—while thinking she's negotiating like an equal instead of accepting terms of captivity.
"What about your debt?"
"Revenue sharing. Percentage of profits applied to debt reduction until it's paid off."
"How long you figure that takes?"
She pulls out her phone, starts calculating like I'm actually planning to let her pay this off and leave.
"Conservative estimates, accounting for seasonal variations... three to four years?"
Okay, that’s plenty of time to see how this plays out. And enough time to decide what to do with her when it stops being useful.
"One condition," I say.
"What?"
"You live here. In the village. Tourism management means you're always available."
"I'm already here."
"I mean proper accommodation. Not a house with no electricity or water."
She's quiet, weighing options she doesn't really have. Pride versus comfort. Independence versus the fake independence I'm offering.
"What'd you have in mind?"
"A cottage on my property. Private but convenient. Part of the guest facilities."
The cottage exists. Needs some work to make sure she can't leave without me knowing. Security that looks rustic. Locks that work both ways. Communication I control.
"I'd pay rent," she says, still thinking this is a negotiation.
"Gets deducted from profits."
"And I'd have complete control over tourism operations?"
When hell freezes over.
"Within reasonable limits,” I reply.
"What limits?"
"We'll figure out guidelines," I say. Truth would end this conversation fast.
She sticks out her hand like she's about to seal a corporate deal between equals. The balls on this girl.
"Partners?" she asks.
I take her hand. Small, soft, breakable if she ever becomes more trouble than she's worth.
"Partners," I agree.
But holding her hand longer than I need to, I'm thinking about timelines. How long before she starts asking the wrong questions? How long before she becomes a problem instead of useful?
For now, Madison Sullivan's the most interesting thing to happen in my territory in years. Naive American who thinks she can turn a village I control through fear into some tourist destination with business plans and optimism.
I want to see how long she can keep believing her own bullshit.
And when reality finally hits her, I'll be right there to watch what breaks first.
“Come on,” I say. “Let me show you the cottage.”