The bathroom encounter was supposed to remind her who's in charge. Instead, it made her run back to her old house without electricity or water. She's asking for her car back, wants contractor numbers, trying to set up some kind of independence that puts her out of my reach.
Can't let that happen.
But I keep thinking about what she said: "It's mine."
Mine. The way she said it, like owning something that belongs only to her matters more than comfort or safety or common sense. Should've seen that coming from a woman who'd buy a house sight unseen for one euro in a lottery.
My mistake.
The whole drive back, she sat there staring out the window like she was seeing the place different now. Not some romantic Italian fantasy, but home.
When we got to her place, it looked even worse in daylight. Broken shutters, weeds growing through the steps, the whole place screaming "condemned."
"Second thoughts?" I asked.
"No. This is where I belong."
Where she belongs. Not where she ended up, but where she's choosing to be.
I carried her bags to the door, waited while she fought with that ancient lock. Inside was just as bad as expected, cold, dark, smelling like mold and neglect.
She smiled anyway.
"Franco will be there at two to look at the electrical," I told her.
"What should I expect for cost?"
"We'll figure it out after Franco gives estimates."
Meaning I'd pay for it, which keeps her dependent on me. But she's smart enough to know that's the game.
"Thank you for understanding why this matters to me," she said at the door.
Understand what?
I don't understand shit about why someone would choose misery over luxury just to prove a point. But I'm starting to think that's exactly why she's more interesting than I expected.
Now I'm back at the villa, looking down at the village, knowing she's down there trying to figure out how to survive another night in that hellhole.
She could've stayed in my cottage. Soft bed, hot water, everything she needed. Instead, she picked cold stone and darkness because it comes with something she wants more than comfort.
My phone buzzes. Emilio: "Boss, Naples situation handled. What's the plan with the girl?"
Good question. The plan just got a lot more complicated.
I text back: "Keep watching. She's more useful than I thought."
"How so?"
How so? Because most women in her position would either run screaming or throw themselves at me hoping I'd take care of them. She chose option three: stay and fight for her independence.
Takes guts. I’ll give her points for that.
"Brief you tomorrow," I send back.
I pour whiskey and think about strategy. Direct control isn't going to work with her. She's too stubborn, too suspicious of anything that looks like charity or manipulation.
But she needs help, whether she wants to admit it or not. That house is a disaster. And her tourism plans need permits and connections she can't get without me.
