I knew I was being followed the moment I pulled out of the parking lot. There was the same prickling sensation at the back of my neck that I’d felt at the Monastery, the same eerie presence lingering behind, only now I could identify it: a black Porsche with New Jersey license plates.
The car arrived like a sheet of fog sliding over the moon: there was a sudden darkening of the atmosphere, a tremor in the air. It pulled out after my Honda, slowed, and drove carefully, too carefully, behind me. I checked the rearview mirror, saw the car trailing me, noted its tenacious proximity, and continued onward, trying to ignore it. But a new Porsche in the hamlet of Milton was an anomaly nearly as great as a letter from noble relatives in Italy. I fixed my eyes on the road and drove, determined to get home without having an accident.
A parade of emotions had marched through me that day, but for the first time I was really, truly angry. What in the hell was going on? Why had my parents kept Rebecca and John a secret? Or the other eight stillborn Monte babies? Hadn’t they thought that maybe one day I would discover the death certificates and figure out that there was some kind of medical issue in our family? What hurt the most was that my mom and I had spent so much time together when she was sick, so many afternoons watching television, so many mornings walking by the river, talking about everything under the sun, and she had said nothing. Not one word about Rebecca or John. Not one peep about the name Montebianco. Not a whisper that Grandpa Giovanni’s family had a fancy title and a castle and probably a shitload of money.
By the time I pulled up at home, I was fuming. I jumped out of the car, ready to confront whoever was driving the black Porsche, but I found—as I looked behind me, my headlights cutting voluminous sculptural shadows in the snow—no one. I was alone. My house was dark, the driveway empty. I started to tell myself that all of this was nothing to get worked up about, but of course, it was something to get worked up about. With the arrival of the House of Montebianco’s letter, the cogs and wheels of an unstoppable machine had been set in motion. I wanted to pretend that it was just another day, and that I could go on as I had before. But I couldn’t have ignored the letter, or anything else I had learned that day, even if I wanted to.
My head was throbbing. The sooner the day was over, I thought, the better. It wasn’t even six o’clock, but I wanted dinner, a hot shower, and bed. Tomorrow, I would look at the world with fresh eyes and a clear mind. Tomorrow, everything would make sense.
I made my way up the icy drive, keeping my balance the best I could, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the black Porsche parked down the street. I stopped, a lightning bolt of fear bursting through me, and ran to the front door. My heart racing, I slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open. I was nearly inside when a shadow fell across the entrance. I caught my breath, and terror, sharp as a spike of ice, slid up my spine. They had, as Nonna Sophia had warned, found me.
From Nonna Sophia’s description of Nevenero, I had imagined the home of my ancestors as a place in a fairy tale, a cursed village hidden in the mountains. In my mind, I envisioned ice-glazed gingerbread houses, a haunted castle, a ring of spiked granite peaks looming at the periphery. I imagined the Montebiancos as a cruel Italian Mafia family whose vicious crimes had pushed the villagers to flee. The one thing that never crossed my mind was that the House of Montebianco would send someone after me and that this someone would be so disturbingly, so disarmingly charming.
“Really sorry,” a man said, stepping from the shadows. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I’d jumped away from the door and dropped my keys. I may have screamed, as well, and although I can’t remember hearing my voice, the expression on the man’s face told me that my reaction had startled him.
He held up his hands to show they were empty. “I’m harmless, I promise,” he added, giving me a big smile. “Unless you have a legal problem. In that case, I can be quite devastating.”
Devastating to say the least. He was thirty-something and handsome, with dark, unruly hair, very shiny oxfords, and a well-cut suit. Not winter attire in rural New York, to be sure. He spoke with a strange accent, one that I later understood to be British English softened by the fluidity of his native Italian.
“Who the hell are you?” I said, recovering my composure enough to retrieve my keys from a snow-filled planter.
“Enzo Roberts,” he said, offering me his hand. “I realize this is an unconventional way to approach you. But . . .” He shivered and looked past me, into the house. “Could I possibly . . . ?”
“Come in?” I said, ignoring his extended hand. “No way.”
He looked wounded. “I’m here to help you, if you would let me explain.”
“Help me?” I said. “Help me with what?”
“With the details.” He tapped snow from his oxfords on the edge of the concrete step. “I’m a lawyer with the Montebianco Estate. You should have received some rather complicated legal documents. I want to clarify some points that may be . . . confusing.”
“Not necessary,” I said, stepping into the foyer of my house and gripping the door. “Thank you very much.”
“Just let me explain . . .”
But he didn’t need to explain. The letter had caused too much pain and confusion already. I didn’t want to speak to Enzo Roberts. I didn’t want to shake his hand or hear his explanation. I wanted Enzo Roberts to turn around and walk away, so that I could hold off thinking about the Montebianco family, and the bundle of death certificates in my purse, for one more night.
I pushed the door closed and latched the lock.
“Truly,” he called from the other side of the door, “I’m sorry to approach you this way. It is an odd situation, to be sure, and you must want to think it all over in peace. But please allow me to come inside for just a few minutes and explain. There is more to this than you might suspect. Give me five minutes. Then I will leave you alone. I promise.”
“Wait there,” I said, pulling out my phone and dialing Luca. “My husband will be here in a few minutes.”
Ten minutes later, Luca’s Jeep pulled into the driveway. By then, I had googled Enzo Roberts and found, according to his profile on LinkedIn, that he was a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer who lived in Turin. Outside, Luca asked a few questions before he rapped on the door. As he brushed by me, he squeezed my arm to reassure me that everything would be okay. Although I had explained the situation on the phone—namely, that there was a strange man on the front steps and that we might want to call the police—it was clear that Luca was going to handle this the way he handled everything else: with a cool head and a generous pour.
“I think we all need a drink, what do you say?” he said, leading Enzo Roberts into the living room.
A drink was exactly what we needed. Sometimes, I wondered if I wasn’t divorcing a saint.
“I’ll make them,” I said, heading to the kitchen, where I dug out a bottle of my favorite gin from the cupboard, sliced a lime, and grabbed a bottle of tonic water from the fridge. The sound of the ice cracking and the smell of juniper and lime calmed my nerves. No need to panic, I told myself. Nothing bad was happening. We would have a drink with Enzo Roberts, hear him out, then send him on his way.
Enzo and Luca were laughing by the time I joined them in the living room. Luca had begun his usual charm offensive, telling Enzo about one of the regulars at the bar, a guy named Butch who got drunk and used the bar phone to prank call his ex-wives. With his silk tie and buffed oxfords, Enzo looked nothing like the locals at the Miltonian, but Luca was a barman through and through, and could talk to anyone about any subject. No matter where you came from or what you looked like, Luca could make you feel at home in five minutes.
I put the tray of drinks on the coffee table. I hadn’t finished decorating the tree, and tinsel and ornaments were strewn here and there, making the room cheerier than it had seemed in a long time. I sat down next to Luca and looked at Enzo more carefully. He had black hair and large, dark eyes. His cheeks were still pink from the cold, and his elegant hands were folded over his wool trousers. There was a briefcase at his feet, its calfskin polished to a shine. It struck me that I needed this guy. He might be the only person who could help me understand the story of my family.
Enzo gave me a big, charming smile, took a sip of his gin and tonic, and said, “As I mentioned, I’m here to help you with the documents you should have received.”
“I did receive them,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.
“And is there anything I can help you understand?”
“You can start by telling me what in the hell is going on.” I could hear my voice rising, and felt Luca tense up at my side, but I didn’t care. In the past few hours, everything I had believed about myself had been turned inside out. I wanted answers.
“Well,” Enzo said, straightening, his voice turning lawyerly, as hard and cold as a winter morning. “You’ve inherited a legacy that is worth a great deal, and you will need to travel to Italy to meet with the estate lawyers to claim it.”
Luca said, “What does that mean—worth a great deal?”
“It means,” Enzo said, looking over the living room, his gaze settling on the small, sad-looking Christmas tree, “life-changing.”
I kept my expression neutral, hoping to mask how curious I was about what he could tell me. But in truth, I was dying to know everything about the Montebianco family. I wanted to understand my parents’ silence, my grandfather’s suicide, Nonna’s strange warnings. I wanted to know if my family history might explain the void that had formed at the center of my life.
“That said,” Enzo continued. “There are a few circumstances you should be aware of.” His voice became soft, as if he were telling us a secret. “This isn’t just about money. The Montebianco family is more than just another wealthy family. They are a rather special family. Were special, I should say.”
“Special?” I said, suspicious. “Special how?”
Enzo took a sip of his drink, swirled the ice, and took another. “What I’m trying to say is that your inheritance is not simply a matter of cash. It is comprised of quite a few other . . . elements.”
“The letter mentioned a list of assets,” I said. “A property in Nevenero.”
“Yes, there is that, of course. But I’m not referring to Montebianco Castle,” he said, finishing off his drink and putting it on the coffee table. “The Montebianco family is an old one. There are very few families like it in the world. Your first noble ancestor was born in the thirteenth century. You are the twenty-ninth generation to inherit the family title.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to imagine it. “I guess everyone has to come from somewhere.”
Enzo laughed. “Yes,” he said. “They do. That is certain. And you come from a very particular somewhere. The estate would like to speak with you to discuss your position. To offer guidance. The sooner the better.”
“It can’t hurt to get more information,” Luca said, and, if I hadn’t known him better, I’d have said he was warming to the idea of the Montebianco fortune.
“Okay,” I said. Maybe he was right. Nothing wrong with more information. “I’d like to speak with them.”
“Perfect,” Enzo said, looking relieved.
“What’s the time difference in Italy?” I asked. “Is it too late to call now? Or we could do it tomorrow?”
“It is too late, as a matter of fact. And besides,” he added, giving me a serious look, “the estate will need to speak with you in person. Everything has been arranged. The estate is waiting for us in Turin. Transportation has been scheduled. We can go whenever you’re ready.”
“What? Now?” I said, startled. “As in right this minute? There’s no way I can go now.”
“Why not?” Enzo asked. “Luca, you are more than welcome to join us, of course. Clearly, this inheritance affects you both. The two of you can spend Christmas in Turin. There is a lovely hotel in the old part of the city. The estate will arrange everything.”
“I don’t even have a passport,” I said. Luca and I had been meaning to travel abroad for years, but the time had never seemed right. “Neither of us do.”
“Not a problem,” Enzo said. “We anticipated that and found a solution.”
I glanced at my husband. For the first time in our marriage, Luca was at a loss. Once, a surprise trip to Italy for Christmas might have thrilled him. Now, as we were navigating our separation, it was a minefield.
“I’d love to,” Luca said at last. “But New Year’s Eve is our busiest night of the year. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go, Bert. Actually, it might be good for you to get away from here for a week or two. It will help get your mind off things.”
“You don’t think this is totally crazy?” I asked. It was all happening so fast. I relied upon Luca to be reasonable, but he didn’t seem to think it was such a bad idea.
“Sure, it’s a little out there,” Luca said, giving me a smile. “But it hasn’t been the easiest year for you. Maybe this is what you need to get back on track.”
I turned to Enzo Roberts, perched at the edge of the couch, watching us with a cool, sharp gaze. I wanted to trust him, but couldn’t quite yet.
“Lawyers are used to dealing with false claims,” I said, eyeing the briefcase. “I can’t imagine you came all this way without some kind of evidence.”
Enzo bit his lip, considering my request. Then he pulled out his briefcase, slid it onto the coffee table, and flipped it open. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do have something.” He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it across the table. “Do you know what this is?”
It took me a full minute before I understood the charts and numbers on the paper in my hands. But once I got it, things began to fall into place. There was a genetic profile of my ancestry, the kind of basic breakdown Mrs. Thomas had shown me. On a separate page, I found columns of numbers and symbols, a bunch of terms I didn’t understand. The words “DNA Test Report” were written across the top of the page. The Montebianco family estate had used my DNA to find me.
Just then, as my eyes jumped down the ladder of data, a memory opened in my mind. I was a child, not even five years old. It was winter, and I was walking with my grandfather on the snow-covered land behind his house. I tried to keep up with him, but he moved at a pace that seemed impossible to me. At last, he stopped at a pond, frozen over and dusted with snow. He took off his boots, first one, then the other, until his large, wide feet were bare. He nodded to my boots and told me to take them off. It’s too cold, I said. Where I come from, this is not cold, he replied. I didn’t want to take off my boots, but I did anyway, one at a time, then my socks, until my bare feet stung in the snow. We walked on the pond, slipping over the ice until my feet burned with a white-hot fire, then went numb.
In my living room over two decades later, reading the document that changed my life, I felt the same white-hot fire in my body. I was frozen but burning up.
“How in the world did you get this report?”
“Apparently, it was quite easy,” Enzo said. “When you sent in your saliva sample, you checked a box allowing your information to be released to the company’s DNA specialists, so that they might include you in their so-called DNA Family Tree. This allowed your DNA to be analyzed and recorded in a database. A private genetic research company pays to access this database. To be fair, the research team we hired acquires genetic information from multiple online sources. There are a few major databases, but online ancestry companies are the most efficient. And streamlined.”
“Is that even legal?” I asked, trying to remember the release I had signed. It was just some form online, endless legalese with a box to check at the bottom. I hadn’t even read it, just clicked through. At the time, it had seemed innocuous enough.
“Very much so,” Enzo said.
“And so according to these results, my DNA matches . . .”
“The Montebianco family.” Enzo pulled out a second report. “This shows your relationship to your now-deceased great-uncle Guillaume Montebianco. The match is indisputable.”
I stared at the papers. I couldn’t argue with a DNA report, but I didn’t quite trust it either. It was like watching a magic act. You know it’s all sleight of hand, but the trick is so smooth you accept it as real. I finished my drink, all of it, in one gulp.
“You okay, Bert?” Luca asked, touching my hand.
“It’s just a lot to take in,” I said, wanting, suddenly, to go back in time to that morning in the kitchen, when the premonition of danger had been so vivid, and dump the envelope in the recycling bin.
“I’m sure this is all quite disorienting,” Enzo said, taking the DNA reports and sliding them back into his briefcase. “But it doesn’t have to be. The estate will go over everything with you in Turin. I assure you, there is nothing to worry about. It will all be clear soon enough.”
He snapped his briefcase shut and stood to go.
“I can’t believe my family kept so many secrets,” I said quietly, speaking more to myself than to Luca or Enzo.
“Every family has its secrets,” Enzo said. “But nothing reveals the truth like DNA.”