"The Benedetti family, they keep us safe from the outside troubles. When bad men come to the village—and they do come, from Palermo, from other places—they know this is protected territory. They know not to bother us."
"Because of Enzo?"
"Because of what his family represents. Power. Connections. The kind of influence that makes problems disappear before they start." She touches my hand gently. "The school playground your children play in? Enzo paid for it, like his father paid for the church repairs. The road that was finally repaved last year? Enzo knew the right people to call. Signor Basile's son needed surgery the family couldn't afford? Somehow the hospital bill disappeared."
"But the things he does... the violence..."
"You think I don't know?" Her voice is sharp now. "You think any of us don't know? Of course we know. But we also know that without the Benedetti family, this village would havebeen destroyed long ago by men much worse than Enzo could ever be."
She stands up and walks back behind the counter, busying herself with rearranging items that don't need rearranging.
"I'm not saying he's a saint," she continues. "I'm not saying everything he does is right. But I'm saying that sometimes the world gives you impossible choices, and you do what you can to protect the people you love."
"Even if it makes you dangerous?"
"Especially then." She meets my eyes. "Because dangerous men who love nothing are monsters. But dangerous men who love deeply... they can be the best protectors."
I finish my coffee in silence, thinking about everything she's said. The Enzo she's describing isn't the romantic figure from my fantasies or the calculating manipulator from last night's research. He's something more complex. A man shaped by loss and responsibility, who chose to become dangerous in service of the people he cares about.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask finally.
"Because you're going to decide whether to stay or go. And you should know what you'd be walking away from." She pauses. "And what you'd be choosing, if you stay."
"What do you think I should do?"
"I think," she says slowly, "that Enzo has never brought a woman to this village before. Never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Never changed his whole life around to make space for someone else's happiness."
"He lied to me. He manipulated me."
"Maybe he did." Her voice is firm. "But the question is not what he did before. The question is what kind of man he chooses to be now, with you."
I stand to leave, pulling money from my pocket for the coffee. She waves it away, as always.
"Signora Ricci?"
"Yes?"
"Are you afraid of him? Ever?"
She considers the question seriously. "I am afraid of what might happen to this village if something happened to him. I am afraid of what kind of man he might become if he lost someone he loved again. But afraid of Enzo himself?" She shakes her head. "Never. Not once."
I walk back through the village square with her words echoing in my head. Children are playing in the playground Enzo paid for, old men are reading newspapers in the café he probably subsidizes, shopkeepers are opening businesses that exist because he provides protection they can't get elsewhere.
This is the context I was missing. Enzo Benedetti isn't just a criminal who happens to live in Monte Vento, he's the unofficial patron of a community that depends on him for survival. The surveillance and manipulation that feel so violating to me are just extensions of the protective instincts that have kept this village alive.
That doesn't excuse what he did. But it helps me understand why he did it.
By the time I reach my cottage, it's nearly time for Enzo to arrive. He’ll be here soon for the conversation that will determine our future.
If we have one.
I sit on my front steps, pulling the tracking device from my pocket and staring at it in the morning sunlight. Such a small thing to have caused such a massive crisis of trust.
But maybe trust isn't about the absence of secrets. Maybe it's about choosing to believe someone's intentions are good, even when their methods are questionable.
Maybe it's about loving someone enough to forgive them for being imperfect, while still demanding they do better.
I hear a car engine in the distance, growing closer. My heart starts racing as I recognize the sound of Enzo's sedan coming up the mountain road.
