Chapter 20 Enzo
After Madison leaves to prepare for dinner, I remain in my study reviewing the security arrangements Emilio has implemented. Her friends land in less than an hour, and every variable needs to be controlled.
"Boss," Emilio enters without knocking. "The lawyer made more calls. Three to her office, one to the U.S. Consulate in Naples."
"Content?"
"No specific concerns raised yet, but she's establishing contact patterns."
She’s building a network before she needs it.
"And the social media one?"
"Posted twice about visiting her friend in Sicily. Tagged the location as 'somewhere magical.' No photos of Madison yet."
"Monitor all posts. Shut it down if she photographs anything problematic."
"Already have protocols in place."
My phone buzzes. Antonio texts from the airport: "Subjects have landed. Baggage claim now."
"They're here," I tell Emilio. "Confirm all positions."
While Emilio coordinates with our people, I review the deeper intelligence that came through after the initial background checks. Sarah Phillips's firm doesn't just handle corporate mergers, they've worked on three cases involving RICO. She knows what organized crime looks like, at least on paper.
Even more concerning, she clerked for a federal judge who specialized in international money laundering cases. Her training makes her the kind of person who could recognize patterns in my operations.
"She might try to connect the properties you own," Emilio says, reading the same file.
"Not if she only sees what we show her."
"And if she digs deeper?" he asks.
"Then we remind her that her friend's safety depends on her discretion."
"That's a dangerous game to play with a lawyer."
"A lawyer from America,” I remind him. “Not Sicily. And everything involving Madison is dangerous."
Another text from Antonio: "Subjects at rental counter. Arguing about the cancellation fee."
Of course they are. Sarah Phillips doesn't accept inconvenience without questioning it.
"How long before Madison calls you to check in?" Emilio asks.
"Any moment."
As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s Madison.
"They're at the rental counter," she says. "Sarah's giving them hell about charging her a cancellation fee."
"Tell her it must be a language issue and Antonio will handle it."
"She's already suspicious. This is going to be a disaster."
"Only if we let it become one. Call her now. Insist on the driver."
I hear her sigh before she ends the call. "Done," Madison says when she calls back. "They accepted the driver."
"Good news. Be ready in thirty minutes."
"For what?" she asks.
"Dinner. We need to establish the narrative immediately before things get out of control."
"What narrative are we pitching?"
"That you're safe, happy, and here by choice,” I tell her.
"I am here by choice,” she says. “And as far as I know, I’m safe.”
"Then it should be easy to convince them."
The pause tells me she's not as certain as she wants to be.
The restaurant I've chosen for dinner is one of my legitimate businesses, but Sarah Phillips doesn't need to know that.
"How is the security at the restaurant?" I ask Emilio.
"Already in place. Two inside, three on the perimeter."
"Are they too obvious?"
"Only if someone's paying attention."
"The lawyer will be."
Madison texts: "Leaving now."
I make sure to arrive early enough at the restaurant to ensure everything is ready. The manager knows tonight needs to be perfect with exceptional service.
Through the window, I watch Antonio's car arrive with the three women. Sarah Phillips emerges first, scanning the street. Jessica Williams follows, already photographing everything. Madison's nervous energy is visible even from a distance. She's maintaining her smile, but her shoulders are tense.
They enter with Madison spotting me immediately. The relief on her face when she sees I'm already here is both gratifying and concerning. She's truly worried about this visit.
"You must be Enzo," Sarah extends her hand before Madison can make introductions. A power play. Taking control of the interaction first.
"Ms. Phillips." I keep my grip firm but not aggressive. “Nice to meet you.”
"Sarah, please." Her eyes are already cataloging details. "Madison's told us absolutely nothing about you."
"There's not much to tell."
"Oh, I doubt that."
Her challenge is subtle but clear. She's testing me to see how I respond.
The dinner proceeds exactly as anticipated. Sarah asks probing questions I casually deflect. Jessica takes photos of everything. Madison tries to keep conversation light while her friend continues her interrogation of me and our situation.
The waiter approaches, one of mine, briefed on tonight's requirements. He addresses me in Italian.
"English, please," I tell him. "Our guests don't speak Italian."
Sarah's eyes narrow slightly. She heard how he addressed me, even if she didn't understand the words. His tone was clear, I’m someone important, someone feared.
I order wine, an excellent local vintage from a vineyard I own but don't advertise. Sarah notices the label, files it away. Everything she observes is data for later analysis.
"So," Jessica says brightly, "how did you two meet?"
Madison freezes slightly. We haven't rehearsed this story.
"Madison inherited some property complications with her house," I say smoothly. "I helped resolve them."
"What kind of complications?" Sarah asks.
"Legal matters. Very boring."
"I'm a lawyer,” she says. “I don't find legal matters boring."
"Italian property law is different from American. Complex inheritance taxes, usage rights, agricultural classifications."
All true, all boring, all completely beside the point of Madison owing me fifty-eight thousand euros.
"And that led to a tourism partnership?" Sarah's skepticism is sharp.
"Madison has vision for the village's potential. I have resources to help realize it."
"What kind of resources?"
"Capital. Connections. Experience with development."
Madison jumps in. "Enzo owns several businesses in the area. He knows everyone."
"Everyone?" Sarah repeats. "That must be useful."
"It has advantages,” I say. “My family has lived here for generations.”
The appetizers arrive, providing a brief respite from interrogation. But I see Sarah watching how the waiter serves me first, how other diners glance our way nervously, how the manager hovers nearby ready to respond to any signal.
"This is delicious," Jessica says, genuinely enjoying the food. "Is this your restaurant, Enzo? It’s lovely."
Madison kicks her under the table, but the question's already asked.
"I have an interest in it," I say carefully.
"Majority or minority interest?" Sarah asks, pouncing on every small detail.
"Enough of an interest to make sure my guests are treated well."
She frowns at me. "You don't like direct questions."
"Sarah,” Madison warns. “You’re grilling Enzo as if he’s on trial.”
Sarah and I lock eyes across the table. She knows I'm something more than I claim. I know she's going to dig until she finds answers. The only question is whether those answers cause problems for everyone.
Madison tries to change the subject. "Sarah, tell me about the Henderson merger. Still driving you crazy?"
The redirect works. Sarah launches into a story about corporate politics, but her eyes keep returning to me, watching me carefully.
The main course arrives. Conversation flows more naturally now with Jessica telling stories about disastrous dates, Madison laughing at shared memories, Sarah gradually relaxing as the wine takes effect.
But she's still watching. Still noting every detail.
When the check arrives, I wave off Madison's offer to split it.
"My territory, my responsibility," I say, then realize the phrasing.
Sarah's eyebrow raises. "Territory?"
"Local custom, I meant. Hospitality is taken seriously here."
"I imagine many things are taken seriously here."
The weight she puts on the words suggests she's already formed theories about what I take seriously.
We walk them outside where Antonio waits with the car. Sarah hangs back to talk to me while Madison hugs Jessica goodbye.
"I researched you online," she says quietly.
"Did you find anything interesting?"
"Enough to have more questions,” she replies.
"You’re welcome to ask those questions,” I say.
"Would you answer them honestly if I did?"
"Of course. Would you believe me?"
She studies my face as if she’s trying to figure out if I’m a bad guy. "Madison's my friend. I've known her for eight years."
"And now she lives in my village."
"Your village? That’s an interesting way to put it,” she says.
"An accurate way to put it."
"Is she safe here?"
"Very safe. I’m watching out for her."
Sarah nods slowly, processing this admission. "If something happens to her."
"Don’t worry, it won't,” I assure her.
"We’ll be here four more days," she says, almost as a warning to me.
"And I hope you enjoy every minute of your stay.”
After they leave, Madison turns to me. "I know Sarah. She's going to investigate harder now."
"Let her. She'll only find what I want her to find."
"Which is?"
"Enough truth to satisfy her curiosity, not enough to cause problems."
"And if she finds more?"
"Then we’ll do whatever's necessary to protect our interests."
"Our interests or your interests?"
"Same thing now."
The drive back to the villa is silent. Madison stares out the window, processing the evening's interactions. She's beginning to understand the complexity of managing her two worlds, the one her friends know and the one she actually lives.
"Tomorrow," I tell her as we arrive, "Antonio takes them on a tour. Somewhere beautiful, touristy, far from anything that matters."
"They'll want to see the village where we live,” she says.
"The village is being prepared first."
"Prepared how? What are you talking about?"
"Everyone knows American tourists are visiting. They’re your friends and they know the importance of being welcoming."
"You've coached the entire village?" she asks.
"I've taken precautions with them, that’s all."
"By turning the whole village into a Broadway play with actors?"
"I’m only ensuring your friends have a pleasant, safe visit that doesn't compromise my operations or your safety."
She looks at me with something between admiration and horror. "You’re a control freak. You control everything."
"Not you."
"Oh, really? I'm staying in your villa, following your rules, letting you manage my friends when they come to visit. You’re controlling everything."
"Only because you choose to allow it."
"Is that what it is? Or is the illusion of choice just another thing you control?"
It's a fair question. One I don't answer because we both know the truth.
"I don't like this,” she says, turning to look out the window. “Any of it."
"Only four more days,” I tell her.
"That's not what I mean. I don't like that my best friend is suspicious of you. That she's right to be suspicious. That you're the kind of man who needs sanitized Google results."
"You knew what I was before they arrived,” I remind her.
"Knowing and seeing it reflected in Sarah's eyes are different things."
I pull her against me, feeling her tension. "Your friend is smart. She senses danger. That's good, it means she'll be careful."
"Careful of you, you mean?"
"Careful of everything. In my world, careful people live longer."
"Take me home," she says quietly. “To my own house.”
"You're staying with me at the villa tonight,” I say.
"I want my own bed. My own space."
"Your house is off-limits until they leave. We discussed this."
"No, you declared it would be this way. That's not a discussion."
"Madison." I turn her to face me. "Your friends are here for four more days. During that time, you need to follow my rules exactly. After they leave, we can discuss new arrangements."
"And if I don't follow your rules?"
"Then I can’t guarantee your friends' vacation will be as wonderful as they hope."
"I hate this," she whispers.
“I know. So do I, if it makes you feel better.”
We have four more days of Madison watching me handle her friends like potential threats.
But something tells me that after seeing me through her friends' eyes, Madison's perspective of me will change.
Sarah will investigate me tonight and will find the careful digital footprint we've created. Tomorrow she'll push harder, ask more questions.
By day three, she'll either accept our story or become a problem that needs different handling.
Four more long, fucking days.
In Sicily, that's enough time for anything to happen.
Or for nothing to happen, if everyone follows the rules.
Madison's friends just need to decide which story they want to leave with. The pleasant vacation with an old friend, or the kind of story that no one back home would believe anyway.
Their choice.
Though in my world, choices are usually illusions we allow people to maintain.