"Go home, Madison. Think about what happened here."
"Enzo—"
"Go. Before I decide you're more damn trouble than you're worth."
The threat is soft but unmistakable.
I gather up my basket of increasingly ridiculous pastries and head for the door on unsteady legs. At the threshold, I turn back.
"I still want to talk to you about my business proposal."
"Your what?" he almost shouts.
"Tourism. For the village. I have a plan that could generate real revenue and help everyone." I take a breath. "Maybe enough to work off the debt."
"For fuck’s sake! Do you have a death wish?”
“You’ll think about it then?” I ask.
“Yes, if you’ll please just fucking go!”
I nod and flee his office, my heart pounding with equal parts fear and something I don't want to examine too closely.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 8: Enzo
I sit in my study with a glass of whiskey, trying to make sense of what happened in my office this morning.
Madison Sullivan nearly got herself killed today, and she has no fucking clue how close she came. Those men from Palermo weren't just talking territory. They were testing me, looking for weakness they could use against me.
And she walked into the middle of it with coffee and pastries like it was a damn corporate meeting.
The smart thing would be to get rid of her. Write off Giuseppe's debt, put her on the next plane to America, forget she ever existed. That's what I should do.
Instead, I keep thinking about the way she looked when I had her against that wall. Not scared like she should've been. Curious. Like she wanted to understand what kind of man I really am.
Dangerous thinking for a woman in her position. Even more dangerous that I want to show her.
My phone buzzes. Emilio. "Need to discuss this morning."
He arrives twenty minutes later, his expression telling me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth.
"The Palermo situation is handled," he reports. "For now. But they're not happy about being dismissed."
"They'll get over it."
"Boss, we need to talk about the girl."
I lean back and wait. Emilio's been with me eight years. He's earned the right to speak his mind, even when I don't want to hear it.
"She's becoming a problem," he continues. "Walking into meetings, asking questions around the village. The men are starting to wonder if you're thinking clearly."
"My thinking is fine."
"Is it? Because keeping her around for a fifty-thousand-euro debt doesn't make business sense. Not when she could bring attention we don't need."
Emilio's not wrong. The money Giuseppe owed me is nothing. I could forgive it without noticing. But letting her leave means watching her disappear back to America, and there’s something about that idea I don’t like.
