"She'll pay," I say finally. "One way or another."
The men nod and change the subject to safer topics, the weather, the fishing, complaining about tourists who don't understand local customs. But I can feel their concern. They like the American girl already, just from her brief, cheerful interaction this afternoon. They don't want to see her hurt.
Neither do I, if it can be avoided. But business is business, and debts must be paid.
I finish my coffee and head home, already planning my approach. I'll give her a day or two to settle in, let her discover just how much work the house needs and how little money she actually has. Let reality soften her optimism just enough to make her receptive to solutions.
Then I'll introduce myself. Politely, professionally, with just enough implied threat to make her understand the seriousness of the situation. I'll offer her options. Possibly payment plans, work arrangements, ways to satisfy the debt that don't require cash she doesn't have.
Most people, when faced with fifty thousand euros of unexpected debt, become very cooperative very quickly.
The drive to my villa takes five minutes on roads that are maintained considerably better than the one she struggled up earlier. Money has its privileges, especially when that money comes with the kind of influence that makes local officials very eager to please.
My house sits on a hill overlooking the village and the sea beyond. All modern comfort wrapped in traditional stone. It's beautiful and intimidating. When I bring her here, and I will bring her here once she understands her situation, she'll be impressed.
Inside, I pour myself a glass of wine and review the file my people compiled on Madison Sullivan. Twenty-five yearsold, marketing coordinator for a tech company in Seattle. No criminal record, no significant debts, no family money. Parents are middle-class, divorced, both remarried to other people. No siblings. No current boyfriend, though there are social media posts suggesting a recent breakup.
She's alone in the world, which explains why she could just pick up and move to Sicily on a whim. It also means no one will come looking for her immediately if she decides to stay and work off the debt.
But the more I study her file, the more questions I have. Her job paid well enough that she shouldn't need to enter European housing lotteries. Her social media shows a comfortable, stable life in Seattle with a good apartment, nice car, plenty of friends. Why give all that up for a disaster house in a village she'd never heard of?
People don't make choices like that unless they're running from something. Or toward something they want more than comfort and safety.
I close the file and walk out onto my terrace, looking down at the village where lights are starting to go out as people settle in for the night. Somewhere down there, the American woman is probably trying to figure out how to sleep in a house with no electricity and questionable structural integrity.
Tomorrow, she'll wake up and start trying to solve problems that can't be solved with optimism and determination. She'll realize that her dream house is going to cost more than she has and that she’s gotten herself into a situation that's bigger than she is.
And then I'll arrive with solutions.
I'm curious to see how she'll react when she realizes that her fairy-tale adventure comes with very real consequences.Most people either break down in tears or start making desperate plans to escape.
But something about the way she talked to that broken-down house, the way she turned disasters into opportunities, makes me think Madison Sullivan might surprise me.
I'm looking forward to finding out.
Chapter 3: Maddie
I wake up to the sound of roosters and what I'm pretty sure is a goat having an existential crisis somewhere outside my window. For a moment, I forget where I am, then reality crashes back with all the subtlety of my medieval plumbing situation.
I'm in Sicily. In my house. In my disaster house that I own for one euro.
The morning light streaming through the broken window is absolutely gorgeous. I grab my phone to take a picture and remember, again, that there's no signal up here. I'm going to have to get used to experiencing moments without immediately sharing them with the internet.
What a concept.
I managed to sleep surprisingly well, though I'm pretty sure I shared the space with several generations of mice. The good news is they seem friendly. The bad news is I definitely need to invest in some serious cleaning supplies.
After a breakfast of energy bars and warm water from a bottle, I decide to tackle my most pressing problem; figuring out what this house actually needs to become livable.
I spend the morning making lists. Very detailed, color-coded lists, because I'm nothing if not organized when I'm completely out of my depth. Immediate needs of electricity, running water, roof repairs and glass for the broken windows. Medium-term projects of modern bathroom fixtures and kitchen appliances. And last, long-term fantasy dreams of a wine cellar and herb garden.
By the time I finish my assessment, it's almost noon and I'm feeling pretty good about the scope of work. Yes, it'sextensive. Yes, it's going to cost money I don't exactly have. But it's not impossible. I've seen enough home renovation shows to know that with determination, creativity, and probably several minor nervous breakdowns, this place could be amazing.
I'm just debating whether to walk back into the village to find lunch and Wi-Fi when I hear footsteps on the stone path outside.
Someone's coming up to the house, and from the sound of it, they're wearing very expensive shoes. The footsteps are confident, measured, like someone who's never doubted their right to go wherever they want.
I peek out the window and see a man in what has to be the most beautiful suit I've ever encountered outside of a magazine. He's tall, dark-haired, and walking toward my front door with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests this isn't a social call.
