After arriving yesterday in Lake Como and knocking out from an intense case of jet lag in the run-down bed-and-breakfast near the center of town, I finally walk the main road of the village.
Lake Como is a beautiful lakeside town surrounded by mountain ranges. The village truly is something stolen straight out of history, with old stucco buildings and cobblestone roads. My charming temporary home has a population the size of La Guardia airport on a Tuesday. Seriously, Google told me less than two thousand people live here. Not to mention George Clooney has a house here.
Yes. I’m talking about that George Clooney.
Did I take a gamble by never messaging Matteo before to let him know I was his long-lost daughter who wanted to meet him after all these years? Probably. But I couldn’t risk him shutting himself off to me and claiming I was some scammer. So instead, I took a risk and decided to introduce myself the old-fashioned way—in person while shitting bricks. But first, I need to find out where he lives.
Small shops line the streets, with people waving at each other and children running around. It comforts me to see the locals caring about one another. It’s like a fairy tale, with people stopping to have a conversation. Their kindness makes me hopeful that someone knows who Matteo is and where I can find him. Unfortunately, Brooke’s stalking abilities only go so far. Matteo’s address wasn’t public information, much to our frustration.
Like a bad salesman, I visit different shops trying to find out where he lives. I attempt the same awful Italian conversation in four different shops before I hit the gold mine.
“Sto circando signore Accardi.” I gesture toward the latest prop in my hands and ask about Matteo. Brooke suggested impersonating a food delivery person.
“Signore Accardi e morto.” The store owner frowns.
Accardi is dead? I laugh to myself. That’s not right. The man updated his profile picture on Facebook yesterday. I don’t know what Accardi she is referencing, but I guess it’s a popular last name here. “Morto? No. Sto circando signore Matteo Accardi.” I emphasize his first name for good measure.
Her lips form an O. She apologizes in Italian and scribbles Matteo’s address on a piece of paper.
Italian people. So kind. So trusting. The true unsung heroes of Expedition Find My Father.
I exit the store and dump the empty paper bag in a nearby trash bin. The entire walk back to my bed-and-breakfast is spent with me grinning like a madman at the townspeople.
It’s time to meet the man I’ve spent my entire life wishing for.
The screech of the car brakes pulls my attention away from my thoughts.
“Here we are.” The driver speaks in a heavy Italian accent.
My eyes slide from my lap to the car’s window. A quaint house sits at the top of a winding path, with high walls and a front gate covered in ivy. The yellow stucco walls stand out against the backdrop of the beautiful lake. It’s a house I wish I had grown up in.
I release a shaky breath and sift through the front pocket of my backpack to grab my money.
The driver accepts it with a grin. “Grazie.”
I exit the car. A quick scan of the street reveals only two houses. One belongs to Matteo and the other looks like it’s something straight out of the latest horror film. The dark mansion sits at the edge of the lake, surrounded by tall trees. Dark brick spires shoot into the sky, reminding me of a villain’s evil castle. A rotted wooden fence reveals unkempt bushes and an overgrown yard.
I turn away from the abandoned house back toward Matteo’s. “You can do this.” With legs resembling Jell-O, I walk toward the huge iron gate at the base of Matteo’s property.
Loud music plays from somewhere on his property. I stick my head through one of the gaps in the gate and check his driveway, finding multiple cars parked. Shit. Stupid me for thinking my father would be by himself.
I text Brooke to let her know I arrived at his house but he’s not alone. This moment makes me grateful that she insisted on paying the ridiculous service fee for two weeks while I got situated in Italy. I need her advice on what to do.
A car revving down the road pulls my attention away.
Do they know Matteo? Are they going to ask me what I’m doing outside, lurking by the gate? Or worse, what if they drag me inside and out me as some kind of stalker in front of Matteo? All the options would blow my chance at making a good first impression.
Logic escapes me as I panic about Matteo’s newest visitor catching me creeping outside of the property.
Maybe I wasn’t ready for this family reunion after all. My eyes flit toward the gap in the fence of the house next door. I run toward it as headlights bask the road in a glow. Branches from the bushes scrape my face and arms, but I push through the pain. Curiosity pushes me to go deeper into the property.
A howl in the distance makes me shiver. Are there wolves in Italy? “Shit. If I die tonight, I’m haunting Brooke for the rest of my life. This idea is going to hell.”
Using my phone’s flashlight, I walk through grass rivaling Africa’s Serengeti plains. I follow the stone wall dividing my father’s property from this one. My sneakers catch multiple times on thick roots, and I curse into the night.
After five minutes of avoiding fallen branches and scary-looking thorns, I make it to the part of the wall where the music sounds the loudest. Laughing and people talking forces my heart rate into overdrive. An urge to check out the other side feeds my bravery. I search the wall for any purchase to climb, but the stones are slick to the touch.
“Not even the wall could be easy?” I eye the large tree next to the fence. It looks decent enough to climb. “Just like old times, Chloe.”
My phone chiming in my hand startles me. “Shit!”
I listen for any changes in the music or conversation just in case they heard me. Nothing seems amiss, with laughter bouncing off the cement wall.
I swipe the glass to answer the call. “Brooke. You won’t believe what I’m up to right now.” After placing Brooke on speaker, I stuff my phone under my bra strap so I can hear her better while I climb.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Well. I’m currently scaling a tree like when we snuck back into our room past curfew.” I speak low as I grab onto a close branch and prop my foot on the trunk. My arms wobble, but I push through with gritted teeth.
“You always sucked at climbing trees so this can’t be good.” She snorts.
“Don’t remind me.”
A twig snaps nearby. My arms tremble as I halt my climbing.
“But remember the time you fell on that pile of dog poop?” Brooke breaks the silence.
Ignoring the noise, I grab onto the next branch. I pull myself up a couple of feet higher off the ground. “It’s not something I can exactly forget.”
“Care to explain why you’re climbing a tree?”
“Do you want the legal or the illegal story?”
“By all means, share the illegal one.” A new growly voice breaks up the conversation.
I let out a shriek. My fingers slip, and I fall onto my back. An audible oof escapes my lungs as something sharp in my backpack pokes my spine. “Ouch.”
“Chloe! What happened? Oh, God, please don’t be dead somewhere in Italy. I’ll never be able to afford the plane ticket to find you,” Brooke’s voice calls out from far away.
“Brooke, I’m alive!” I search my bra for my phone but come up empty.
“For now.”
A chill spreads across my skin at the stranger’s voice. His words steal my attention away from finding my phone.
He lingers near the base of a tree, cast in a dark shadow. “Care to tell me what you’re doing trespassing on my property?”
I squint, trying to make out his face. The scary idea I imagine isn’t doing wonders for my heart rate. Goosebumps explode across my skin as he lurks in the shadows, never stepping into the moonlight.
Like an idiot, I remain lying on the ground, petrified and unmoving. “I…umm…well…you see…”
“If this is how long it takes you to say a few words, we’ll be here all night.” The words come out short and agitated, with a hint of an accent.
Well, shit. This guy is an absolute asshole.
“Who sent you?” he snaps.
Who sent me? What does this guy think I am? A hitman?
Something rustles as his silhouette moves into my direct eyesight. A gust of wind carries his scent. It’s crisp and mouth-watering, and I attempt to get another sniff.
“I’m calling the police. They can deal with you like the others.” He lifts his phone to his ear. The light from the screen casts his sharp eyes in an ominous glow.
I jolt from my stupor, rushing to stand on shaky legs. The last thing I need is a run-in with the cops. A memory of the last time I saw them causes me to shudder. I hold up my hands to show him they’re empty of any weapons. “Don’t! Please! I come in peace.” I come in peace? Who the hell do I think I am? E motherfucking T?
He steps into my personal bubble. The shift in the clouds has the moon illuminating his face. Shadows dance along his sharp cheekbones, emphasizing his rough edges and plump lips. His strong jaw covered in stubble ticks, and his dark eyes narrow at my face. They have a wild look to them, scanning me in the same way. Thick, dark hair brushes the tops of his shoulders, shifting from the gust of wind.
Damn, the stranger has a rugged look I need to stop and appreciate for a second. I itch to reach out and touch his short beard, but I refrain.
“Are you done gawking?” He scowls.
His snappiness shocks me, pulling me out of my inappropriate thoughts. Great. Lusting after an unhinged man who wants to call the police on you. We have stooped to new levels of low, Chloe.
“No. Yes. Kind of?” I squeak out.
His jaw clenches. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t press the button right now and have them dispose of you.”
Holy shit. Dispose of me? The unfairly beautiful man holds the phone to his ear as he steps closer. Everything about him screams intimidation, from his height to the snarl in his voice.
My brain kicks into fight-or-flight mode. Flight is what I’m comfortable with. Flight is all I’ve known. Flight is what’s going to save me from being sent back to Brooke in tiny, cut-up pieces.
“Because…” I dart to the left, but he catches me in his strong arms. Very strong based on the way they tense as I try to escape him. And oh do I try. I thrash. I kick. I knock my head back, only to be met with air as he evades the hit. I even pinch his arms with everything my small fingers can muster, hoping he lets go. He doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s made of stone to match his personality.
Chloe. Think. You’re one move away from ending up on the evening news.
He turns me into his chest and locks my arms behind my back. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m sick of people like you trying to get a story.”
“A story?! What are you even talking about?!” My scream turns into a rasp as his arms tighten around me.
Is it stupid to hope that Matteo hears a woman yelling bloody murder and saves me from the clutches of a maniac? This man is absolutely paranoid. It’s the only explanation for his erratic behavior and his insistence on me being someone I’m most definitely not. I don’t know what kind of ghostbusters come creeping onto his property, but I’m not one of them.
His body stiffens as I attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. Something that shouldn’t be hard pokes into my stomach, and I go full-blown survival mode.
Hell. Fucking. No. I kick the stranger in the leg, hoping to incapacitate him. Another scream erupts from my mouth as my toes smashes against something that felt like the human equivalent of a cement wall. “What the hell! You’ve got to be kidding me. What are you even made of? A fucking rock?!” My big toe throbs to the crazy beat of my heart.
He grunts, but his grip remains tight. “More like who the fuck are you and what drugs are you on?”
“Me on drugs? You’re the one who is on the worst trip of your life, asshole.” Instead of allowing any tears to fall because of the pain in my foot, I let instinct take over. I knee the fucker in the balls with all the strength my body can manage.
He lets go with a string of curse words as he keels over.
No use checking out the damage. I run toward the direction of the main road, not bothering to look back at the psychopath who tried to call the cops on me and got a boner from the entire situation. I’ve watched a decent amount of horror movies. The girls who look back always get murdered first.
I don’t stop running until I’m at the entrance of my hotel. Sweat clings to my clothes as I take in large gulps of air. Leaning against the wall, I sift through my backpack for my phone. Brooke is probably freaking out after everything.
My search comes up empty. Like a cold shower, realization dawns on me.
Shit. Motherfucking shit. I forgot my phone by the tree after I fell.
I thought my experience with psychopaths ended once I left America. New country, same craziness. Except instead of running away from legal issues, I’m heading straight toward them.
But hey, breaking and entering is only considered a crime if I get caught.
