Decision time.
I stand up, brush the dust from my jeans, and slip the tracking device back into my pocket. Whatever happens next, at least I understand what I'm choosing between.
Not just freedom versus safety, not just independence versus protection.
I'm choosing between a life without complications and a life with Enzo Benedetti. All of him, including the parts that scare me.
His car appears around the bend, sleek and dark against the morning landscape. I watch him park and get out, moving with that careful control I've learned to recognize. But there's tension in his shoulders, uncertainty in the way he approaches my cottage.
He's nervous and that surprises me.
"Madison," he says when he reaches the bottom of my steps.
"Enzo." I hold up the tracking device. "Thank you for this."
He nods, studying my face. "Did you sleep?"
"No. Did you?"
"No."
We stand there for a moment, two exhausted people who've spent the night grappling with impossible questions.
"Are you ready to talk?" he asks.
I look at him—really look at him. The man who orchestrated my entire life in Sicily. The man who protects a village that raised him. The man who was willing to remove his surveillance and face the consequences of my anger rather than continue lying to me.
Dangerous and caring. Manipulative and protective. Impossible and somehow exactly what my heart wants, despite everything my head knows about why that's a terrible idea.
I take a deep breath. "I'm ready," I say.
Chapter 30: Enzo
She's waiting for me on her front steps, holding the tracking device in her palm like evidence in a trial. The morning light catches the exhaustion around her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. She hasn't slept either.
We study each other across the small space that feels like an ocean. She's dressed simply in jeans, a soft sweater, her hair pulled back carelessly. But there's something different in her posture, a resolve that wasn't there yesterday. She's made some kind of decision, though I can't read what it is.
I follow her inside, noticing how she leaves the door open behind us. An escape route, or a signal that she's not afraid of me? Both, perhaps.
Her laptop is open on the kitchen table, surrounded by empty coffee cups and pages of handwritten notes.
"Coffee?" she asks, moving toward the machine.
"Please."
I watch her go through the familiar motions, noting the slight tremor in her hands. She's nervous but not terrified. Still willing to serve me coffee despite everything she's learned. It's a small gesture, but in my world, small gestures often carry the most meaning.
She sets a cup in front of me and takes the seat across the table, the laptop between us like a barrier.
"I spent the night thinking about you," she says without preamble. "About your business activities. About what happens to people who cross you."
"And what conclusions did you draw?"
"That you're probably significantly more dangerous than I realized."
I nod.
"You're not going to deny it?"
