The drive down the mountain is gorgeous, winding through hills covered in olive groves and vineyards. The car handles the curves perfectly. Whatever repairs they did, everything feels smooth and responsive.
I take the coastal road, following signs toward smaller villages I've never heard of. The Mediterranean sparkles in the morning sun, and I roll down the windows to let the salt air fill the car. This is exactly what I needed, a reminder of why I fell in love with this place to begin with.
I'm about halfway to a town called Castelmola, driving a particularly winding section of road through forested hills, when I notice the car behind me.
It's been there for several minutes, staying exactly the same distance back no matter how fast or slow I drive. When I slow down for a tight curve, it slows down. When I speed up on a straightaway, it matches my pace.
Probably just another tourist taking the scenic route, but something about it makes me nervous. The car is dark andexpensive-looking, and I can't see the driver clearly through the tinted windshield.
I test my theory by deliberately slowing down to well below the speed limit to give it a chance to pass me. The car behind me slows down too, making no attempt to pass despite having plenty of opportunity.
My heart starts beating faster. This isn't normal tourist behavior.
I speed up, taking the curves a little faster than is probably safe. The car behind me keeps pace effortlessly, its driver clearly more familiar with these roads than I am.
Then I see the second car.
It appears around a bend ahead of me, moving slowly. As I approach, it slows down even more, forcing me to reduce my speed to avoid rear-ending it.
Now I'm trapped between two cars on a narrow mountain road with no shoulder and nowhere to turn around.
This is not a coincidence.
The car in front of me stops completely, blocking the road. A moment later, the car behind me pulls up close, boxing me in completely.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my phone. No signal. Of course there's no signal up here.
Two men get out of the car in front of me. I recognize them immediately. They were in Enzo's office when I brought coffee and pastries. The ones who looked at me like I was less than nothing.
The scarred man approaches my driver's side window while the other one walks around to the passenger side. I consider locking the doors, but realize how pointless that would be.
The scarred man taps on my window with one thick finger. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
I roll down the window a few inches, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hi. Is there a problem?"
"No problem," he says in heavily accented English. "We want to talk."
"About what?"
"Your business with Signor Benedetti."
This can’t be good. "I don't understand. We're tourism partners. Is there something wrong with that?"
The man on the passenger side leans down to look at me through that window. "Tourism," he repeats, like it's a funny joke. "Is that what he said?"
"Yes. We're developing cultural tourism experiences for the village."
They exchange a look over the roof of my car that makes me wish I had the key chain mace I left behind in the United States.
"Very cute," the scarred man says. "You give message to Signor Benedetti."
"A message? I don't understand what this has to do with me."
"You tell him that some partnerships require more respect than others. You tell him boundaries must be respected."
I stare at him, completely confused. "Boundaries? Do you mean roads? Am I on the wrong road? I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you're talking about. Enzo and I are just working together on bringing tourists to Monte Vento. I don't know anything about other partnerships or boundaries."
The scarred man's expression hardens. "You think we are stupid? You think we don't see what happens?"
