"She might be useful," I say.
"How?"
Good question. One I don't have a clean answer for.
"That remains to be seen."
It's thin, but Emilio nods. He's used to me keeping information close.
"What do you want me to tell the men?"
"Tell them she's under my protection. Anyone who touches her deals with me."
"And Palermo?"
"Set up another meeting. Neutral ground. Make sure there are no interruptions this time."
After Emilio leaves, I pour another whiskey and try to figure out what the hell I'm doing. Madison Sullivan is a complication I don't need. Smart thing would be to solve the problem quickly and permanently.
But I keep thinking about what she wants to tell me. Some business plan that's got her so excited she's willing to face meafter this morning's lesson in reality. I should leave it alone. Let her work on her proposal, keep things professional.
Instead, I find myself walking down to her cottage that evening.
The camping lanterns are on when I reach her door, warm golden light spilling from the windows. I can see her moving around inside, probably organizing something or making lists or whatever relentlessly optimistic people do when they think planning can solve any problem.
I knock, and there's a moment of silence before she calls, "Coming!"
When she opens the door, I catch the wariness that flickers across her face before she covers it with a smile.
"Enzo," she says, and there's just enough breathlessness in her voice to remind me of this morning, of the way she felt when I had her against the wall. "Hi."
"Madison. Mind if I come in?"
"Of course." She steps back, but I notice the way she unconsciously smooths her hair, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She's nervous, as she should be.
The cottage already smells like her, something clean that shouldn't be as appealing as it is. She's made the space her own with papers scattered on the floor and her laptop open.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asks. "I have warm wine, or bottled water..."
"Wine's fine."
She moves to the kitchen, and I use the opportunity to look around. She's changed out of the dress she wore this morning, now wearing jeans and a sweater that clings in waysthat make me want to see what’s underneath. Her hair is down, falling around her shoulders.
"I wanted to talk about your proposal," I say when she hands me a paper cup of red wine.
"Really?" Her whole face lights up. "You're interested?"
"I'm curious. Tell me more about this idea."
She hurries over to grab her laptop and notebook. "We should sit on the hearth by the fireplace since I don’t have a table yet. I managed to get a fire going, and it's the only good light."
The stone hearth is wide and deep, warmed by crackling flames. She's thrown what looks like a sleeping bag over the stone with some cushions. Jesus Christ! She’s been sleeping almost in the fire to stay warm at night. When she settles beside me with her laptop, we're close enough that our shoulders brush.
"Okay, here's what I'm thinking," she begins, showing me photos on her laptop. "The village has incredible potential for authentic cultural tourism. Not big bus tours, but intimate experiences for people who want real connection to Italian culture."
She shows me plans for renovated houses, cooking classes, boat tours to hidden coves.
"The key is authenticity," she continues. "Americans will pay premium prices for experiences they can't get anywhere else."
