"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I'd like to find out."
Chapter 32: Enzo
I've been shot before. I know what pain feels like, how to compartmentalize it, how to function through it when necessary.
What I don't know is how to function through Madison Sullivan holding my hand while looking at me like I'm something worth saving.
"I don't know," she says honestly when I ask if she's brave enough to love all of me. "But I'd like to find out."
Dr. Castellano has left us alone, muttering about stubborn American women and the importance of rest. The pain medication sits untouched on the bedside table because I need to be clear-headed for this conversation. I need to understand exactly what Madison thinks she's choosing.
"You saw me kill three men tonight," I say, testing the waters of her newfound honesty.
"Four," she corrects quietly. "I counted four."
Four. She was watching more closely than I realized. "And that doesn't terrify you?"
"It should." She shifts closer on the bed, careful not to jostle my injured shoulder. "It should send me running back to Seattle and never looking back."
"But?"
"But all I could think about when I saw you get shot was that you might die. And that terrified me more than anything else I witnessed tonight."
I study her face in the soft lighting, looking for signs of shock, denial, the delayed trauma that often follows exposure to violence. Instead, I see determination and something that looks almost like relief.
"Madison, you need to understand what you're saying. What you saw tonight—that's who I am. That's what I do. This is my life."
"I know."
"Do you? Because there's no going back from this knowledge. There's no pretending I'm just a businessman with complicated interests. You've seen me kill people with my bare hands."
"To protect Signora Ricci."
"Tonight, yes. But I've killed for other reasons."
She's quiet for a moment, processing this information. I wait for the horror to dawn, for her to realize the scope of what she's trying to accept.
"What does it mean if I choose to stay in your world?"
"It means you become part of it. Complicit in it. It means the blood on my hands becomes blood on your hands, even if you never pull a trigger yourself."
"And if I can live with that?"
"Then you need to understand what else comes with it." I turn slightly to face her more directly, ignoring the spike of pain from my shoulder. "It means you can never leave. Not really. You'll know too much, be too valuable as leverage against me. It means accepting protection and giving up some of your freedom."
“Such as?”
"Security measures. Restrictions on your movements. Constant awareness that people might try to hurt you to get to me." I pause, letting her absorb this. "It means giving up the same independence you came to Sicily to find."
She's quiet for a long time, and I can see her working through the implications. The romantic notions about love conquering all are crashing against the practical realities of what choosing me actually means.
"What about my tourism project?" she asks eventually.
"It could still happen.”
"Meaning?"
"It would serve my purposes as well as yours. Legitimate business to explain certain financial activities. Cover for people who need to move through the area without attracting attention."
