Chapter 15 Maddie
Franco arrives earlier than expected and spends an hour poking around my electrical system, making thoughtful Italian noises and taking notes in a small leather book. His English is limited, but he manages to convey that the wiring is very old and will need to be completely replaced.
"How long?" I ask.
He holds up both hands. "Ten days. Maybe twelve."
"And the cost?"
More thoughtful noises. He writes a number in his book and shows me. It's less than I expected, but still a significant chunk of my remaining savings.
"When can you start?"
"Next week. I bring assistants."
In less than two weeks, I'll have electricity and running water. The house will actually be livable.
Today is starting out as a great day.
The day gets even better when I discover my repaired car. I'm walking down the hill to check the mail when I spot it parked in the exact spot where it disappeared from three days ago. My little blue rental car, sitting there like it never left.
There's a note tucked under the windshield wiper: "Car is good now. Keys under seat."
The keys are exactly where the note said they'd be, and when I turn the ignition, the engine starts immediately and purrs like it is brand new.
After three days of being dependent on other people for transportation, having my car back feels like Christmas morning. I sit in the driver's seat for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of being able to go anywhere I want, whenever I want.
Franco isn't coming until two o'clock to look at my electrical system, which gives me the entire morning free. And I have a car.
The decision is easy. I'm going to take a drive.
I've been stuck in Monte Vento since I arrived, seeing only the village and Enzo's villa. Now that I have wheels again, I want to explore the area. Maybe drive to one of the coastal towns I’ve read about, do some window shopping, grab lunch somewhere new.
Just enjoy being a tourist for a few hours.
The drive down the mountain is gorgeous, winding through hills covered in olive groves and vineyards. The car handles the curves perfectly. Whatever repairs they did, everything feels smooth and responsive.
I take the coastal road, following signs toward smaller villages I've never heard of. The Mediterranean sparkles in the morning sun, and I roll down the windows to let the salt air fill the car. This is exactly what I needed, a reminder of why I fell in love with this place to begin with.
I'm about halfway to a town called Castelmola, driving a particularly winding section of road through forested hills, when I notice the car behind me.
It's been there for several minutes, staying exactly the same distance back no matter how fast or slow I drive. When I slow down for a tight curve, it slows down. When I speed up on a straightaway, it matches my pace.
Probably just another tourist taking the scenic route, but something about it makes me nervous. The car is dark and expensive-looking, and I can't see the driver clearly through the tinted windshield.
I test my theory by deliberately slowing down to well below the speed limit to give it a chance to pass me. The car behind me slows down too, making no attempt to pass despite having plenty of opportunity.
My heart starts beating faster. This isn't normal tourist behavior.
I speed up, taking the curves a little faster than is probably safe. The car behind me keeps pace effortlessly, its driver clearly more familiar with these roads than I am.
Then I see the second car.
It appears around a bend ahead of me, moving slowly. As I approach, it slows down even more, forcing me to reduce my speed to avoid rear-ending it.
Now I'm trapped between two cars on a narrow mountain road with no shoulder and nowhere to turn around.
This is not a coincidence.
The car in front of me stops completely, blocking the road. A moment later, the car behind me pulls up close, boxing me in completely.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my phone. No signal. Of course there's no signal up here.
Two men get out of the car in front of me. I recognize them immediately. They were in Enzo's office when I brought coffee and pastries. The ones who looked at me like I was less than nothing.
The scarred man approaches my driver's side window while the other one walks around to the passenger side. I consider locking the doors, but realize how pointless that would be.
The scarred man taps on my window with one thick finger. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
I roll down the window a few inches, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hi. Is there a problem?"
"No problem," he says in heavily accented English. "We want to talk."
"About what?"
"Your business with Signor Benedetti."
This can’t be good. "I don't understand. We're tourism partners. Is there something wrong with that?"
The man on the passenger side leans down to look at me through that window. "Tourism," he repeats, like it's a funny joke. "Is that what he said?"
"Yes. We're developing cultural tourism experiences for the village."
They exchange a look over the roof of my car that makes me wish I had the key chain mace I left behind in the United States.
"Very cute," the scarred man says. "You give message to Signor Benedetti."
"A message? I don't understand what this has to do with me."
"You tell him that some partnerships require more respect than others. You tell him boundaries must be respected."
I stare at him, completely confused. "Boundaries? Do you mean roads? Am I on the wrong road? I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you're talking about. Enzo and I are just working together on bringing tourists to Monte Vento. I don't know anything about other partnerships or boundaries."
The scarred man's expression hardens. "You think we are stupid? You think we don't see what happens?"
"I honestly don't know what you mean. What am I supposed to have seen?"
"You interrupt important business. You make problems for agreements."
The coffee incident. They're angry about the coffee and pastries interruption. But I still don't understand what agreements or partnerships they're talking about.
"I'm very sorry about interrupting your meeting," I say carefully. "I didn't realize it was important. I was trying to be friendly and bring coffee. It’s an American thing."
"American friendly." The second man laughs, but it's not a pleasant sound.
"You tell Benedetti," the scarred man continues, "that his americana woman needs to stay away from business that doesn't concern her. You tell him respect goes both ways."
"I can tell him that, but I'm still confused about what business you mean. The tourism project is the only business we have together."
The second man says something rapid in Italian to his partner.
"You are very good actress," the scarred man says, leaning closer to my window. "Or very stupid girl."
"I'm not acting. I genuinely don't understand what you want me to tell Enzo."
His eyes narrow. "You tell him exactly what we said. Word for word. And you tell him that next time, maybe we have longer conversation with his pet americana."
The threat in his voice pisses me off. "I'm not his pet anything. That’s not a nice thing to say. We’re business partners."
He straightens up and shrugs at his companion. "She believes this."
They're starting to look less amused and more annoyed, which I'm pretty sure is worse for me.
"Look," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "I'll give Enzo your message, whatever it means. But I need you to understand that I really don't know anything about your business with him beyond tourism development."
"Tourism development," the second man repeats mockingly. "In Monte Vento."
"Yes. Cultural experiences, vacation rentals, boat tours. That kind of tourism."
They both laugh now, but it's the kind of laughter that makes me want to lock my doors and drive away as fast as possible.
"You are either very good liar or very stupid woman," the scarred man says. "For your sake, we hope you are stupid."
"I don't understand what that means."
"It means," he says, leaning down to put his face closer to my window, "that if you are lying, if you know more than you pretend, things will be very bad for you."
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear my own voice. "I'm not lying. I don't know what you think I know, but I don't know it. I know nothing."
I don’t know why I keep trying to explain my innocence to these men who obviously don’t believe me anyway.
The second man says something else in Italian, pointing at his watch. They seem to be discussing the time, and I get the distinct impression they're deciding what to do with me.
"You give Benedetti the message," the scarred man says finally. "Exactly as we said. And you remember that Monte Vento is small place. We see everything that happens here."
"Yes, I'll give him the message."
He starts to straighten up. "Maybe next time we—"
The sound of an approaching car cuts him off. All three of us turn to see a black sedan coming up the mountain road fast, too fast for the curves.
I recognize the car immediately. It's Enzo.
The scarred man curses in Italian and says something sharp to his companion. Both men tense, their casual intimidation suddenly replaced by alertness.
Enzo's car screeches to a halt behind the second car, blocking any escape route. He gets out along with Emilio and another man I don't recognize, all moving with deadly purpose.
"Step away from the car." Enzo's voice carries clearly across the distance.
The scarred man doesn't move. "Benedetti. We were just having friendly conversation with your americana."
"Step away from her car. I won’t tell you again."
There's a moment of tense silence where nobody moves. Then the scarred man takes a deliberate step closer to my window instead of away.
"We were discussing respect," he says loudly enough for Enzo to hear. "And boundaries."