“Maddie,” he rasped, and he didn’t sound like himself. His voice was too high, cracked and breathless. In the background I heard shouting in Italian, the squawk of a police radio, and my mother sobbing—deep and guttural, the kind of crying that makes your skin crawl because it doesn’t sound human.
“Dad,” I said, sitting up and clutching the duvet to my chest. “What happened? Is someone hurt?”
“It’s a disaster,” he choked out. “Everything is gone. Giovanni—Giovanni left.”
“What do you mean he left?”
“He’s gone,” my father said, and the words tumbled out like he couldn’t hold them in. “He took the cash gifts. He took the jewelry. He took the rental car. He wasn’t an heir, Maddie. He was—he was a waiter from Naples with a record. He left Monica at the altar practically.”
My analyst brain tried to force order onto the chaos. “Okay,” I said, voice tight. “That’s awful. But why are the police there? Did you file a report?”
“No,” he snapped. “They’re not here for him.”
“Then why—”
“They’re here for us,” he said, and the panic in his voice curdled into fear. “Paul and your mother… they didn’t take the news well. There was damage. The villa—Maddie, the villa. They started throwing things. Expensive things. A statue. Some paintings. The owners called the carabinieri. They arrested Paul. They have Monica in a room. They took our passports. They won’t let us leave the country.”
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like my body hollowed out.
