Chapter 31 Maddie
I stand in my cottage for exactly five minutes after Enzo's car disappears, trying to be the obedient woman who stays safely locked inside while others handle the danger.
Then guilt overwhelms me.
What if they were watching this morning?
What if they saw me talking to Signora Ricci, learning about Enzo's childhood, asking questions about his role in the village?
What if they followed me to the bakery and decided the sweet old woman who talked so openly about Enzo would make the perfect leverage?
My stomach churns as I replay the morning conversation. Signora Ricci telling me about Enzo's lonely childhood, his family's protective role, the village's dependence on him. Information that could be valuable to his enemies. Information she shared because I asked.
What if this is my fault?
I grab my jacket and run for the door. There's no way I'm staying safely hidden while an innocent woman suffers because she was kind to me.
I take the narrow street that leads down into the village, then follow the winding path toward the harbor. I know every route now, the main road Enzo would take with his men, and the quieter paths locals use. I stick to the shadows, moving as quickly as I can while staying out of sight.
By the time I reach the overlook above the harbor, I'm breathing hard and my hands are scraped from catching myself on rocks.
But I can see everything from here: the old customs house where light spills from the windows, several figures moving around the harbor, and Enzo's car parked near the water.
I settle behind a cluster of trees that provide cover while giving me a clear view of the scene below. I can make out at least six men positioned around the area, though from this distance it’s hard to tell which ones are Enzo's people and which are the Palermo crew.
Then I see him.
Enzo walks out of the shadows near the customs house, moving with that fluid confidence I've come to recognize. Even from this distance, even in the dim light, there's something about his posture that makes him unmistakable. No fear, no hesitation.
He's walking directly toward the customs house, apparently alone.
A man emerges from the building, tall, broad-shouldered, holding what looks like a gun. He calls out something in Italian that I can't catch from this distance, but his body language is clearly aggressive.
Enzo responds, his voice carrying across the water, calm and conversational. I wish I could understand what they're saying, but I can’t.
More men appear from the shadows. Three, four. I count at least five surrounding Enzo now. This looks like an execution, not a negotiation.
But Enzo doesn't seem concerned. If anything, he appears almost relaxed as he talks to them.
Then I hear Signora Ricci yell for help.
The sound cuts through the air, high and terrified and completely wrong coming from the woman who hums while she kneads dough.
Everything changes in that moment.
Enzo's casual posture disappears, replaced by something coiled and deadly. Even from my hiding spot, I can see the shift. The way his shoulders set, the way his head tilts slightly, like a predator calculating angles of attack.
Then he moves.
I've never seen anything like it. One moment he's standing surrounded by armed men, apparently at their mercy. The next, there's an explosion of violence that happens too fast for my eyes to follow completely.
The man closest to him drops first. I see Enzo's hand move in a blur, then the man is falling. A gun clatters across the stones. By the time the others react, Enzo has the weapon and is already firing his own.
The sound of gunshots echoes off the water and stone buildings, sharp cracks that make me flinch behind the tree. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm frozen, watching a man I thought I knew transform into something out of a nightmare.
Two more men fall in rapid succession. But the fourth man has his gun trained on the customs house, and I realize with horror what he's threatening.
Signora Ricci.
Enzo realizes it too. Instead of taking cover, instead of finishing off his remaining attackers from a safe position, he runs directly toward the customs house. Toward the gunman who's threatening to kill an innocent woman.
It's completely stupid and reckless. The man has a clear shot at him. There are still other threats he hasn't neutralized. But Enzo throws himself between the gunman and the building where Signora Ricci is being held, and in that moment, I realize something I never expected.
He's willing to die for her.
Not for me, not for some strategic advantage, but for a seventy-year-old baker who feeds his village and asks nothing in return. A little old lady who remembers him as a lonely child living on a hill, watching other children play.
The gunman fires. I see Enzo stumble, but he doesn't stop moving. He reaches the man and they go down together in a tangle of limbs and violence that ends with only one of them getting back up.
Enzo.
But he's hurt. I can see him favoring his left arm as he approaches the customs house, and there are other men there now. Reinforcements from the other side, maybe, or maybe some of his own people finally moving in to help.
The next few minutes are chaos. Shouts in Italian, more gunfire, figures moving in and out of the shadows. I lose track of Enzo in the confusion until I see him emerge from the customs house half-carrying a small, familiar figure.
Signora Ricci.
Even from this distance, I can see she's crying and upset but walking on her own. Enzo has his good arm around her, guiding her carefully away from the building, and the gentleness of the gesture is so at odds with the violence I just witnessed that it makes my chest tight.
He killed at least three men tonight. Maybe more. I watched him do it with my own eyes.
But he also risked his life to save a woman who bakes bread and refuses payment from strangers.
I don't know how to reconcile these two truths about the same person.
More of his men appear, surrounding them both, creating a protective barrier as they move toward the cars. The harbor is littered with bodies now, dark shapes on the stone that were living men just minutes ago.
I should go. I should get back to my cottage before anyone realizes I disobeyed Enzo's orders and came here. But I can't seem to move. I'm frozen, staring down at a scene that looks like something from a war zone, not a picturesque Italian fishing village.
This is who Enzo is.
This is what he does.
When someone threatens what's his, he kills them. Personally, if needed and without hesitation.
But he also protects his people. Even at the cost of his own safety.
I finally understand why the villagers show him such complex deference. It's not just fear. It's the recognition that he's dangerous enough to protect them and powerful enough to make that protection mean something.
I watch the cars leave the harbor, taking Enzo and Signora Ricci and the survivors back to whatever comes next. The bodies remain where they fell, reminders of what happens when someone makes the mistake of threatening Enzo Benedetti's territory.
The walk back to my cottage feels endless. Every shadow could be hiding threats, every sound could be more violence coming to find me. But nothing happens. The path is quiet except for my own heavy breathing and the distant sound of waves.
By the time I reach my front door, the adrenaline is wearing off but my mind is racing with one terrifying thought. How badly is he hurt?
I saw the blood spreading across his shoulder, saw him stumble when the bullet hit. What if it's worse than it looked? What if he's bleeding internally? A million terrible questions race through my mind.
I can't just sit here and wait.
I rush inside and start grabbing anything that might be useful in a medical emergency. The first aid kit from under my bathroom sink, clean towels, bottled water. I have no idea what to do with a gunshot wound, but I can't do nothing.
My hands are shaking as I throw everything into a duffel bag. This is insane. I don't know anything about medical care. I've never even taken a basic first aid class. But the image of Enzo stumbling, blood dark against his shirt, won't leave my head.
What if he's dying right now while I'm standing here panicking?
Where would they take him? Would they go to a hospital where questions would be asked that he wouldn’t want to answer?
No, they wouldn’t. Not unless he was dying.
I grab my car keys and run for the door. The drive to his villa takes forever and no time at all, my heart pounding the entire way. I keep checking my phone, hoping for another text, some sign that he's okay.
Nothing.
The villa's gates are open when I arrive, which probably means they're expecting a doctor or his men are coming and going. I park and run to the front door, not bothering to knock.
"Enzo?" I call out as I push inside. "Enzo! Where are you? Emilio! Antonio!"
The main floor is empty, but I can hear voices upstairs and a tense, urgent conversation in Italian. I follow the sounds, my bag of supplies clutched against my chest like it might actually be useful.
I find them in what must be a bedroom I've never seen before. Enzo is sitting on the edge of a large bed, his shirt off, while a middle-aged man with a medical bag examines his shoulder. There's blood on the white sheets, more blood on discarded bandages dropped onto the floor. Blood all over him.
"Enzo," I breathe, and both men look up.
The doctor, please God, let him be a doctor, says something sharp in Italian. Enzo's response is clipped, but his eyes are on me.
"I told you to stay at the cottage," he says, his voice strained.
"I know, I saw you get shot." I step closer, and the extent of the damage becomes clear. The bullet tore through the muscle of his shoulder, leaving a ragged wound that's still seeping blood despite the doctor's work. "Oh God! How bad is it?"
"It's fine," he says, which is obviously a lie.
The doctor says something else in Italian, gesturing at me with obvious irritation.
"He wants you to leave," Enzo translates. "He says civilians get in the way. He’s my private doctor who I keep on call for emergencies such as this."
"I'm not leaving." I set my bag down and pull out the towels I brought. "Here, these are clean. In case you need more bandages or something." I grab a towel and start helplessly dabbing at the blood covering Enzo’s chest. I know I’m not helping. I know I’m being ridiculous.
The doctor looks at my offering with something between amusement and exasperation, but he takes one of the towels and says something that sounds like grudging approval.
"You don't know what you're doing," Enzo says, but there's something in his voice—surprise, maybe, or gratitude.
"No, I don't," I admit, pulling out the bottled water and first aid kit. "But I couldn't just sit there by myself knowing you were hurt. I had to come. I’m sorry. And I don’t know how to help. You’ve been shot and I brought bottled water and band aids. And a bottle of fucking aspirin."
"Madison—"
"Don't." I'm crying now, though I'm not sure when that started. "Don't tell me I shouldn't have come. Don't tell me to leave. I saw what happened down there. I saw you risk your life for Signora Ricci."
His eyes go very still. "You followed me."
"Yes."
"I told you to stay at your house."
"I know what you told me. I also know what I saw." I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, leaving probably leaving dirt streaks on my face. "You got shot protecting her. And now you're bleeding and I don't know how to help but I have to try. Because I’m so fucking scared you’re going to die."
The doctor says something else, and Enzo responds without taking his eyes off me. Then he switches to English.
"Dr. Castellano says the bullet went straight through. No major damage, but I'll need stitches and antibiotics. Physical therapy later."
"That's good, right? That it went through?"
"It's better than the alternative."
I watch the doctor work, cleaning and stitching. Enzo doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his free hand grips the edge of the bed.
"Is there anything I can do?" I ask. "To help? Can I get you something for pain? Surely you have painkillers here somewhere? All I have is aspirin."
The doctor glances at me and says something to Enzo, who almost smiles.
"He says for you to stay out of his way, but you can hold my hand if it makes you feel better."
"Would it make you feel better?"
"Yes."
I take his uninjured hand in both of mine, and feel some of the tension leave his shoulders.
"Madison," he says quietly while the doctor continues working. "What you saw tonight—"
"I know."
"Do you? Do you understand what it means?"
I look at him, really look at him. The man who just killed multiple people to save an innocent woman. The man who took a bullet rather than let harm come to someone under his protection. The man whose hand is warm and steady in mine despite everything.
"It means you're dangerous," I say. "It means you're willing to kill people who threaten what's yours. It means the life you're offering me comes with blood and violence and fear."
He nods slowly. "And?"
"And it also means you'll die before you let anything happen to the people you care about. It means your protection isn't just words—it's real, even when it costs you everything."
The doctor finishes his work and starts packing up his supplies, speaking quietly to Enzo about what I suspect is care instructions.
After he leaves, we sit in silence for a moment. Enzo's shoulder is bandaged and immobilized, and the doctor left pain medications on the bedside table he probably won't take.
"I was terrified," I admit finally. "When I saw you get shot. I thought you might die, and I realized I couldn't live with that."
"Even knowing what I am?"
"Because of what you are." I squeeze his hand. "All of it. The dangerous parts and the protective parts. They're the same thing, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Then I guess the question is whether I'm brave enough to love all of it."
He turns to look at me fully, and I see something vulnerable in his expression that I've never seen before.
"Are you?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I'd like to find out."