"Of course. Rest well."
I unlock my front door and step into the house. Thankfully, Franco has removed most of the construction debris. The lights work now, the water runs hot, and the electrical systems hum. But standing here alone, I can't shake the feeling that even this space isn't entirely mine.
When did that change?
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into the kitchen chair, trying to process everything that's happened. Sarah's questions, Enzo's careful non-answers, the growing sense that I'm living inside a performance designed to convince everyone—including me—that everything is normal.
My phone rings. It’s Enzo calling which is unusual for him. He usually only texts.
"I thought you might want to talk about your friends and their visit today," he says when I answer.
"What about it?"
"Your friends seemed to have many questions."
"They're protective. It's what friends do."
"Indeed. Sarah seems to think I’m a dangerous man."
My blood goes cold. "What did you say?"
I never told him that. Sarah said those exact words to me once, and only once, tonight at the café, when it was only the three of us. Enzo wasn’t there so he couldn’t possibly know what was said.
Or does he?
"How do you know what Sarah said tonight?" I ask slowly. “You just quoted her exact words. Words she said to me when you weren't there."
The silence on the other end of the line stretches too long.
"Madison—"
"How do you know what she said?"
"She may have mentioned it at lunch today. Sarah said many things. She’s quite worried about you.”
"Bullshit. Sarah did not say that at lunch today. Why would she say you were a dangerous man if you were sitting right there?”
Unless he was listening. Unless somehow my private conversation with my best friends wasn't private at all.
"Madison, let me explain—"
"Oh my God." The pieces are falling into place with horrible clarity. "You knew where we were going before we went tonight, didn’t you?"
"That's not—"
"And the road. When those men threatened me. You appeared out of nowhere on a mountain road in the middle of Sicily like you knew exactly where I was."
My hands are shaking as the full scope of what I'm realizing hits me.
"You've been tracking me this whole time. You've been listening to my private conversations. You've been..." I canbarely say the words. "You've been spying on me! What the fuck, Enzo!"
"Madison, please let me explain."
I hang up.
The silence in my kitchen feels deafening after the weight of that revelation. My phone immediately starts ringing again—Enzo calling back—but I reject the call. It rings again. I reject it again.
Finally, I turn the phone off completely.
