But he just stands there, perfectly calm, perfectly serious, like he's just told me the weather forecast instead of destroying my entire financial future.
"I don't have fifty thousand euros," I say finally. "I don't have five thousand euros. I used my savings to get here and buy this place. I have maybe five hundred euros to my name."
"I understand this is unexpected," he says, and his tone is still so reasonable, so civilized. "These situations are always complicated. Especially to foreigners."
"Complicated?" I can feel hysteria building in my chest. "This isn't complicated, this is insane! You can't just show up and tell someone they owe you fifty thousand euros! Who are you, anyway? Where's your documentation? Where's the contract Giuseppe supposedly signed?"
For the first time since he arrived, Enzo Benedetti smiles. It's not a reassuring smile.
"I am a local businessman, Signorina Sullivan. Giuseppe came to me when he needed money for his medical treatments. I was happy to help a neighbor in need."
Something about the way he says "local businessman" makes me uneasy. And the way he's standing there, so calm and confident, like he's used to people doing exactly what he tells them to do.
"What kind of businessman?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"The kind who expects his loans to be repaid."
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. This is not someone who filed paperwork with banks or went through legal channels. This is someone who operates by different rules entirely.
"I need to see documentation," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Loan agreements, contracts, something official. I can’t accept a stranger’s word that I owe fifty thousand euros."
"Giuseppe's handshake was sufficient at the time."
"A handshake?" I'm back to the hysterical voice. "You gave someone fifty thousand euros based on a handshake?"
"Giuseppe was a man of honor. His word was his bond."
"Well, I’m very sorry, but Giuseppe is dead!" The words come out nastier than I intended, but I'm past caring about politeness. "I’m not his family. They should be responsible for his debt! Not me. And I never shook your hand! I never agreed to anything! I bought a house, not a debt! I would never have bought the house for that much money!"
Enzo steps closer, and I suddenly realize how much bigger he is than me. How much space he takes up in my small, broken living room. How isolated this house is, how far from help.
"In Sicily," he says quietly, "when a man dies, his obligations do not die with him. Giuseppe's debt is now your debt. This is the way things have always been done."
"No, I don’t accept this. It’s impossible. How can I assume debts of a man I’ve never met? This is the twenty-first century! You can't just—"
"I can," he interrupts, and for the first time, his voice carries an edge that makes me take a step back. "And I will."
“You’re lying! The government or whoever ran the stupid lottery I won would’ve told me if there was debt involved.”
“Did you read the fine print?” he asks as if he already knows the answer. “Did you even read the legal contract?”
“Some of it,” I say. “I had to run it through Google translate first. Some of the wording was confusing.”
“Apparently,” he says. “Buried in the legal contract is a clause about encumbrances. It allows previous debts to remain with the property unless explicitly discharged. Giuseppe’s debt was not.”
We stare at each other across my ruined living room, and I can feel everything I thought I knew about my new life crumbling around me. The fairy-tale adventure, the fresh start, the dream of turning this house into something beautiful, all of it disappearing under the weight of a debt I never agreed to.
"What the hell do you want from me?" I ask finally.
"Payment. In full."
"I told you already, I don't have that kind of money."
"Then we will need to discuss alternative arrangements."
The way he says "alternative arrangements" makes me feel sick. I have a sudden, vivid image of myself cleaning offices at three in the morning or working in some olive oil factory to pay off a debt that isn't even mine.
“Oh, let me guess. You’ll offer to buy the house back from me at some ridiculous low amount. Right?”
