Maybe he's from the village council? Or a local contractor who heard about the American who bought Giuseppe's house? That would be amazing! I definitely need professional help with the bigger repairs. Or, oh God! What if he’s with a neighborhood homeowner’s association? I’ve moved across the world to escape from HOA’s.
He knocks on the door. Three precise raps that somehow manage to sound both polite and commanding.
I check my reflection in the cracked mirror by the door, hair in yesterday's messy bun, jeans with dust on the knees, t-shirt that's seen better days, and decide this is as good as it's going to get. I'm a homeowner now. Homeowners are allowed to look like they've been wrestling with renovation projects.
"Coming!" I call out, making my way to the door.
I open it and immediately understand why women fall hard for Italian men.
He's probably in his early thirties, with the kind of bone structure that belongs in a Renaissance painting. His suit is charcoal gray and fits him perfectly. Everything about him screams money and sophistication.
But it's his eyes that catch me completely off guard. They're dark brown and they're looking at me with an intensity that makes my stomach do things that are completely inappropriate for someone I just met.
"Signorina Sullivan," he says, and his voice is exactly what you'd expect from someone who looks like a cross between a movie star and a Mafia don. Smooth, accented, and completely confident. "I am Enzo Benedetti."
He pauses like I should recognize the name, but it doesn't ring any bells. Though to be fair, I know exactly three people in this entire country, and one of them is the lady at the mayor's office.
"Hi," I say brilliantly, because apparently close proximity to gorgeous Italian men makes me forget how to use words. "I'm Madison. Maddie. My friends call me Maddie."
"Maddie." He repeats my name and I really need to get a grip on myself. "I believe we have business to discuss."
Business? My heart leaps. He must be a contractor. Or maybe someone from the tourism board who heard about the American who's planning to fix up one of the village's historic properties.
"Oh, that's wonderful! Please, come in." I step back to let him enter, then immediately regret it when I remember what the inside of my house looks like. "Sorry about the, um, everything. I just got here and it's a bit of a project."
He steps inside and surveys the damage with those intense eyes, taking in the holes in the ceiling, the medievalkitchen, and the general aura of structural despair. His expression doesn't change, but I catch him glancing at the staircase like he's calculating whether it's safe to walk on without falling through the boards.
"Would you like some water?" I offer, then remember my water situation. "Actually, I only have energy bars. And..." I check my provisions. "Granola. I have granola."
"That won't be necessary." He's still looking around the house, but there's something calculating in his gaze now, like he's appraising more than just the renovation needs. "Shall we sit?"
I gesture toward the main room, where I've set up a camping chair next to what used to be a sofa. He chooses to remain standing, which makes sense because the furniture situation is questionable at best.
"So," I say, settling into my camping chair and looking up at him expectantly. "What kind of business? Are you a contractor? Because I definitely need professional help with the electrical situation, and probably the plumbing, and honestly the whole roof situation is a bit concerning."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe? Like he wasn't expecting me to be quite so enthusiastic.
"I am not a contractor," he says carefully. "I am here about a debt."
"A debt?" I laugh because that's obviously a misunderstanding. "You must have the wrong person. I literally just bought this house yesterday for one euro. One euro! Can you believe it? How could there possibly be a debt? Are you sure you’re at the right house?"
But even as I'm saying it, something cold starts forming in my stomach. The way he's standing, the formal tone, the expensive suit, this doesn't feel like a misunderstanding.
"The debt," he continues, his voice still perfectly calm and polite, "belonged to Giuseppe Rossi, the previous owner. Fifty thousand euros."
The high number is shocking. "Fifty thousand... I'm sorry, what?"
"Giuseppe borrowed money before his death against this house. The debt remains with the property. Before his death, Giuseppe signed papers placing this house as collateral. The mayor’s office filed the lien quietly, at my request. The property cannot change hands without the debt attached.”
"That's impossible." I stand up so fast the camping chair tips over. "That's not how buying property works. You can't inherit someone else's debt! There are laws about this kind of thing!"
He gives a small, humorless smile. “Perhaps in America, yes. But here, the officials who sold you this house knew the debt existed. They simply chose not to tell you.”
"Traditions?" My voice is getting higher and I can't seem to stop it. "This isn't about traditions, this is about legal property transfer! I have paperwork! I have a deed! I paid one euro."
"Which is perfectly legitimate. The house is yours, Signorina Sullivan. As is the debt that comes with it."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline or the "just kidding" or the explanation that this is some kind of cultural misunderstanding that can be cleared up with a few phone calls.
