No one walks away from me.
Most women in her position would have either accepted my hospitality out of fear or gratitude. Smart women. Living women. Instead, this American princess chose to walk five kilometers down a mountain road in heels rather than spend one night under my roof.
Either she's got bigger balls than half my crew, or she's too stupid to live.
I slam my whiskey glass down harder than necessary, the crystal ringing against the marble bar top. The sound echoes through my study like a warning shot. My knuckles are white around the glass, and I force myself to relax my grip before I shatter it completely.
She looked me in the eye and said no. To me. In my own house.
The last person who showed me that kind of disrespect ended up feeding fish in the Mediterranean. But Madison Sullivan, naive, stubborn, completely fucking clueless Madison Sullivan walked down my driveway like she owns the world.
My phone buzzes. Antonio. "Americana made it home. No visible injuries."
Of course I had him follow her. These mountain roads at night have claimed more lives than I have, and a dead American tourist brings federal attention I don't need. That's the only reason. Not because I was worried about her breaking her pretty neck in those ridiculous shoes.
Another text: "House is still dark. Using camping lantern."
She's sitting in that disaster of a house with no electricity, no heat, probably rats in the walls, because her precious principles matter more than survival instincts.
Most people I deal with fold within hours. Money, threats, a demonstration of what happens to people who disappoint me—they all work. She had luxury handed to her on a silver platter and threw it back in my face because she doesn't trust me.
Maybe she’s too smart for her own good.
The thing that's really burning at me isn't that she left. It's how she did it. Cool as ice, polite as a nun, like she was declining a second cup of coffee instead of walking away from someone who could have her disappeared with a phone call.
When was the last time someone had the balls to look me in the eye and tell me no? When was the last time someone chose ridiculous principles over breathing?
Emilio calls just after midnight. "Boss, the Naples situation is heating up. Need you there by morning."
"Handle it yourself."
"The Russians are demanding to meet with you personally. They're talking about pulling out of the arrangement—"
"I said handle it." My voice drops to the tone that usually sends grown men scrambling for cover.
Long pause. "Got it, boss. I'll take care of it."
Let the Russians posture. Let Emilio earn his keep for once. I'm not leaving Monte Vento right now, not when Madison Sullivan just declared war on me without even realizing it.
She thinks she can play games with me. Walk away from my table, reject my hospitality, make me look weak in front of my own men. She thinks her American passport and her dead benefactor's house give her some kind of protection.
She's about to learn how wrong she is.
I step onto my terrace and look down at the village. Her house is barely visible, just that pathetic glow of her camping lantern flickering through broken windows.
She could be sleeping in silk sheets right now. Hot shower, security, five-star meals. All she had to do was accept that I make the rules here. Instead, she chose that tomb of a house and a rat-infested mattress that probably hasn't been changed since Giuseppe died.
She’s completely fucking clueless about what she's dealing with.
But also... interesting.
It's been years since someone surprised me. Longer since someone made me work for what I want. Madison Sullivan just turned a simple debt collection into something personal.
She wants to do this the hard way? Fine. I've got all the time in the world, and she's got nowhere to run. This is my mountain, my village, my rules. Eventually, she'll understand that cooperation isn't optional.
And when she finally breaks—and she will break—it'll be that much sweeter for the fight she put up.
I finish my whiskey and head inside, already planning my next move. Tomorrow, I'll show her what happens to people who think they can walk away from Enzo Benedetti.
