Chapter 14 Enzo
I drive back to the villa alone, pissed off and trying to figure out where I went wrong.
The bathroom encounter was supposed to remind her who's in charge. Instead, it made her run back to her old house without electricity or water. She's asking for her car back, wants contractor numbers, trying to set up some kind of independence that puts her out of my reach.
Can't let that happen.
But I keep thinking about what she said: "It's mine."
Mine. The way she said it, like owning something that belongs only to her matters more than comfort or safety or common sense. Should've seen that coming from a woman who'd buy a house sight unseen for one euro in a lottery.
My mistake.
The whole drive back, she sat there staring out the window like she was seeing the place different now. Not some romantic Italian fantasy, but home.
When we got to her place, it looked even worse in daylight. Broken shutters, weeds growing through the steps, the whole place screaming "condemned."
"Second thoughts?" I asked.
"No. This is where I belong."
Where she belongs. Not where she ended up, but where she's choosing to be.
I carried her bags to the door, waited while she fought with that ancient lock. Inside was just as bad as expected, cold, dark, smelling like mold and neglect.
She smiled anyway.
"Franco will be there at two to look at the electrical," I told her.
"What should I expect for cost?"
"We'll figure it out after Franco gives estimates."
Meaning I'd pay for it, which keeps her dependent on me. But she's smart enough to know that's the game.
"Thank you for understanding why this matters to me," she said at the door.
Understand what?
I don't understand shit about why someone would choose misery over luxury just to prove a point. But I'm starting to think that's exactly why she's more interesting than I expected.
Now I'm back at the villa, looking down at the village, knowing she's down there trying to figure out how to survive another night in that hellhole.
She could've stayed in my cottage. Soft bed, hot water, everything she needed. Instead, she picked cold stone and darkness because it comes with something she wants more than comfort.
My phone buzzes. Emilio: "Boss, Naples situation handled. What's the plan with the girl?"
Good question. The plan just got a lot more complicated.
I text back: "Keep watching. She's more useful than I thought."
"How so?"
How so? Because most women in her position would either run screaming or throw themselves at me hoping I'd take care of them. She chose option three: stay and fight for her independence.
Takes guts. I’ll give her points for that.
"Brief you tomorrow," I send back.
I pour whiskey and think about strategy. Direct control isn't going to work with her. She's too stubborn, too suspicious of anything that looks like charity or manipulation.
But she needs help, whether she wants to admit it or not. That house is a disaster. And her tourism plans need permits and connections she can't get without me.
So instead of trying to control her, I’ll make myself necessary.
Franco fixes her electricity, but slowly, so she needs him around longer.
I help with permits and local politics, make it clear her business depends on my cooperation.
Let her think she's winning these little battles while I control the war.
The smart long-term play.
But sitting here, I'm thinking about something else. How genuinely happy she looked when she walked into that broken house and smiled like she'd come home.
Most people I deal with want something from me—money, protection, power. Madison Sullivan wants something I can't give her and wouldn't if I could.
She wants to belong somewhere. To build something that's hers. To prove she can handle whatever gets thrown at her.
And for some reason, that makes her a hell of a lot more interesting than all the women who've thrown themselves at me hoping I'd solve their goddamn problems.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a message from one of my contacts in Palermo: "Meeting next week. Your territory or ours?"
Business. The kind that requires my full attention and careful planning. The kind that could get people killed if I'm distracted.
I type back to Palermo: "Mine. Details to follow."
I stare at the message and realize I'm thinking about Madison instead of strategy.
About whether she's warm enough in that house.
Whether her damn sleeping bag will catch on fire if she goes to sleep too close to the fireplace.
Whether she'll actually call if she needs help.
Whether she's wondering if she made the right choice.
She’s already a huge fucking problem.
And I can't stop thinking about her.