I hear him relay the names to whoever's with him, followed by more Italian I don't understand.
"When do they land?" he asks.
"They said this evening, so probably around six or seven?"
"Flight number?"
"I don't know. They're flying from Rome."
"I'll find it." More Italian to his people. "What do they know?"
"About you? Just that you're a local businessman. They think we might be involved."
"Involved." He repeats the word like it’s a new experience for him to be involved with a woman. "What do they do?"
"Sarah's a corporate lawyer in Seattle. Jessica works in marketing for a tech company."
"A fucking lawyer?" I hear him bark orders, and I catch Emilio's name.
"Enzo, don’t freak out. They're completely harmless. They're just my college friends."
"No one enters my territory without clearance."
My blood chills. "Your territory? What the hell, Enzo! They're tourists. My friends."
"Which is the only reason we're having this conversation instead of me handling it differently."
The implication hangs heavy between us.
"You can't—they're not a threat—"
"I decide what's a threat." His voice is flat, final. "You have twenty minutes to get ready. We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Rules. Boundaries. What they can see, where they can go, who they can talk to."
"You can't control my friends! They’re on vacation."
"Twenty minutes, Madison. Don't make me come get you."
The line goes dead.
I stand there shaking, not from fear but from frustration. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Enzo treating my friends like potential enemies instead of party girls from my college days.
But underneath the anger, I understand. In his world, surprise visitors are threats. Unknown variables are dangerous. Two American women showing up unannounced, one of them a lawyer, asking questions and taking tons of pictures. Of course he's going to treat this like a security breach.
I head upstairs to change, choosing clothes that look nice but not too nice. Normal tourist-in-Italy clothes. As I'm pulling on jeans and a simple blouse, I hear his car outside.
He's fifteen minutes early.
When I open the door, he's not alone. Emilio is with him, along with another man I don't recognize. All three are dressed in dark suits, and their expressions are grim.
"Get in," Enzo says. Not a request.
I climb into the back seat, and Enzo slides in beside me. Emilio drives while the other man makes phone calls in rapid Italian.
"Sarah Phillips," Enzo says without looking at me. "Yale Law, graduated summa cum laude, works for Breslin & Associates in Seattle. Specializes in corporate acquisitions. Currently single, one cat, volunteers at a legal aid clinic."
