Nothing.
Or rather, nothing that matches him. There's an elderly man with dementia who wandered from home. A teenage girl in Siena. A car accident near Pisa, but the victims were all accounted for.
No mention of a dark-haired man in his thirties, handsome, expensive clothes.
I try different searches. Unidentified man found. Assault victim. Even mafia activity Tuscany.
That last one makes my stomach clench. The results are mostly old news articles, nothing recent. Nothing about missing men or violent attacks in the area.
Which means either no one's reported him missing, or whoever's looking for him isn't going through official channels.
I remember the way he looked when I found him. The brutality of his injuries. The expensive clothes with no identification. The complete absence of anything—wallet, phone, keys—that might identify him.
Someone stripped him clean before they left him for dead.
Or he stripped himself.
But why would he do that?
Unless he was running from something.
I close the browser and set my phone down, my hands shaking slightly. Every instinct I have says this man is dangerous. That he's connected to the world I ran from. That keeping him here is going to get us killed.
But I can't throw him out.
Not yet. He can barely walk. And despite everything, despite the fear, there's something in his eyes that I recognize.
Confusion. Pain. The desperate need to understand what's happening.
I saw the same thing in my mirror eighteen months ago when I left Draco.
The radio on the counter is tuned to the local station. I've kept it on constantly, listening for any news. Now the broadcaster isreading the afternoon headlines, a political scandal in Rome, a festival in Florence, traffic delays on the A1.
Nothing about a missing man.
I should be relieved. Instead, the silence feels ominous.
I make myself move, wiping down the already-clean counter, folding the dish towel, anything to keep my hands busy.
Through the window, I can see the barn. Still closed. Still quiet.
He was stronger this morning. Not strong, but better. He managed to eat half the bread I brought, drank all the water. Asked me again about a hospital, and I gave him the same non-answer.
"I’m sorry, I can’t take you to the hospital."
He didn't push. Just watched me with that one good eye, the other still swollen shut, like he was trying to figure me out.
I don't blame him. I'm trying to figure me out too.
Why am I doing this? Why am I risking everything for a stranger who might be exactly the kind of man I'm hiding from?
Because he needed help, I told him. But that's not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that when I found him broken and bleeding in my olive grove, I saw myself. I saw what would have happened if my father hadn't helped me. If someone hadn't taken a risk on me when I was desperate and alone.
Maybe I'm paying it forward.
Or maybe I'm just stupid, like I told him.
