This morning, when she was pressed against my office wall while I explained what happens to people who walk into rooms full of killers. The memory makes my cock throb.
I finish my cup of cheap wine and stand. "I should go."
"Already?" There's disappointment in her voice she tries to hide.
"It's late. And you have work to do if you want to convince me this idea is worth the risk."
She follows me to the door, and when I turn back, she's close enough that I could reach out and touch her.
"Enzo?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For considering it. For believing in my ideas."
I don't believe in her ideas. I'm planning to corrupt them for my own purposes. But the gratitude in her voice makes me inexplicably feel like the worst kind of bastard.
"Goodnight, Madison. Meet me at the harbor at 8 a.m. tomorrow. You can show me your ideas while we walk the village. Wear comfortable shoes."
I walk back to the villa with the taste of shared wine still on my tongue and her scent clinging to my clothes. By the time I reach my study, I'm hard and frustrated and completely aware that I'm in deeper than I intended.
Madison Sullivan thinks she's found a business partner. What she's really found is a man who's becoming dangerously interested in her, willing to let her chase impossible dreams if it means keeping her within reach.
The question is whether I can trust her to stay naive enough to be useful. Or whether her curiosity will eventually lead her somewhere she shouldn't go.
Chapter 9: Maddie
I wake up before dawn with my heart racing and my mind already spinning with plans. The dying embers in the fireplace cast a faint glow across the cottage, and for a moment I can't remember why I'm so excited. Then it hits me. Enzo said he'd consider my tourism proposal. Actually, consider it.
I grab my notebook and dive back into the research I'd started after he left last night. There's so much potential here it's almost overwhelming. Monte Vento has everything tourists dream of: authentic architecture, incredible history, dramatic coastline, and that elusive quality Americans pay thousands to experience—genuine local culture untouched by commercialization.
By the time the sun comes up, I've outlined a comprehensive presentation in my notebook, complete with hand-drawn charts, timeline estimates, and implementation strategies. I spent hours last night at the village's one café with Wi-Fi, researching local contractors, permit requirements, and examples of similar tourism initiatives in other Italian villages before my laptop battery died.
This could actually work.
This could save the village’s economy and give me a real purpose here, something beyond just hiding out in Sicily while my life back home falls apart.
I need real coffee, but since my ancient stove is still a mystery and I have no electricity, I settle for cold water and leftover bread from yesterday. The bread comes from the baker, Signora Ricci, who keeps refusing my money despite my insistence on paying. Every time I try to hand her euros, shewaves them away with rapid Italian and what I'm pretty sure are blessings.
The language barrier is frustrating, but her warmth comes through clearly. Yesterday she patted my cheek and said something that sounded worried, but I assumed she was just concerned about me living alone in Giuseppe's old house.
Speaking of which, I should talk to more villagers about the tourism idea. Get their input, understand their concerns, maybe even identify potential partners for cooking classes or artisan demonstrations.
I dress in jeans and sneakers. If I'm going to give Enzo a proper tour of my ideas, I need to be practical. Plus, something about his suggestion to wear comfortable shoes made me think he takes these things seriously.
My first stop is the bakery. Signora Ricci beams when she sees me, immediately bustling around to prepare a bag of pastries I definitely didn't order.
"Signora," I try in my terrible Italian, "tourists... turismo... good for village?"
Her face lights up with understanding, and she launches into rapid Italian while gesturing enthusiastically. I catch maybe every tenth word, but her excitement is unmistakable. She keeps pointing toward the harbor, then the church, then back to me with obvious approval.
"Si, si!" she says finally, pressing the bag of pastries into my hands along with what looks like a thermos of coffee. "Brava, signorina!"
Success! My first local endorsement.
The harbor is my next stop, where I find an elderly man mending fishing nets in the morning sun. This must be Carlo.Several people have mentioned him as someone who knows everything about the village's history.
"Buongiorno," I say, approaching slowly so I don't startle him.
