I stand in front of an Upper West Side brownstone where the Russo sisters live. It’s four stories and a rich chocolate color with a wrought iron door. Green winter ivy grows up the front. It’s like a dream house in Manhattan. Several steps lead up to the landing, and I worry about Darden getting up there.
I tighten the scarf around his neck. “You didn’t have to come with me.”
“I’m the one who’s been working on this since yesterday. I’m invested.” He grimaces, giving me a careful glance. “Plus, we don’t know what they’ll say. You need backup.”
“You’re the bad cop, and I’m the good cop?”
He huffs out a laugh. “We’ll see.”
Last night, he found the information he was looking for: their address, plus a little more. The Russos’ grandmother’s name was Francesca. She went by Frances and came from Sicily to marry into the Russo family.
We move carefully up the steps. I ring the bell, and a housekeeper opens the door. “May I help you?” she asks as she takes in my thick hoodie, joggers, and coat.
At least Darden thought ahead and put on a suit.
She sees an elderly man with a cane, and her bland expression softens.
I can’t find my voice, so Darden speaks—and puts some sweet in his tone. “Hello. How are you? Are the Russos in today?”
“Are you expected?”
He smiles. “Sorry, no. I knew their father, Lorenzo.” A gust of wind whips his hat off, and I dash to get it. Darden fakes a dramatic shiver as I set it back on his head.
She lets us in the foyer area that opens to a formal living and dining room. The ceilings are at least fifteen feet tall; heavy gold chandeliers glitter in the air. The walls are covered in a gold damask wallpaper, the wooden furnishings ornate.
Darden removes his coat and hands it to her. I do the same.
“Who was it?” Gianna appears in the hall, sees me, and blinks. It’s early, and she’s in a lounging two-piece sweater-and-pant set. There’s a cup of coffee in her hand. “Francesca? What . . . why are you here?”
I brush past the housekeeper. “We need to talk.”
“You could have texted?” she says.
“I could have, but it seemed imperative that we do it in person.”
She glances at Darden. “Who’s he?”
“Family,” I say.
She gives me a surprised look as I introduce them. She says she recognizes his name from around Manhattan.
Darden wobbles on his cane, and I’m not sure if it’s for effect or real. I steady him, then look at Gianna. “May we sit and chat? If your sister is here, we’d like to talk to her as well.”
Gianna’s back straightens, and her eyes gleam—whether with excitement or fear, I don’t know. “Sure. Lori, escort them to the study.”
Half an hour later, Valentina and Gianna appear in the study, a large room with two desks near the windows and more damask wallpaper, this time in green. A velvet lounger and chairs are arranged around a muted Oriental rug. It’s all very plush but uncomfortable.
Valentina is dressed in a black suit. Gianna wears red. I take in the widow’s peak on Valentina, and my breath quickens.
“So how are you, Francesca?” Valentina says formally.
“Great.” I take off my locket and hold it out. “My mother left this for me, and you know who she is.”
Gianna looks at her sister, and Valentina gives her an imperceptible nod. Gianna clears her throat. “Francesca, we believe your father left it for you, our uncle. His name was Dante, after the poet.”
What? My heart thunders. Dante was an Italian poet known for his Divine Comedy, an epic poem that questioned evil, human nature, and redemption. We studied him in art school because so many artists were influenced by his Inferno, the first part of the poem.
I swallow thickly. “Not my mother?”
Valentina picks up as her sister winces. “We didn’t know about the possibility of you until our father passed last year. We were going through his desk and found a few letters from Dante. One said that he’d become a father. No name or sex was given, just that he’d given the baby up. We didn’t know where. The letter was postmarked in Kentucky, but he never lived there, we think. Now that we know more, it seems he may have posted it on his way to Florida.” She sighs. “Lorenzo was our father, and there was no love lost between him and Dante.”
“I see.” I really don’t. My head races with questions. “Who was my mother?”
Valentina looks down at her hands. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Our uncle—your father, Dante—was older than our father by three years. He was all set to inherit his part of the company and work for the family, but he had a rebellious streak. He was handsome, and everyone adored him. That’s what our mother told us, anyway.” She points to a portrait to the right of a fireplace. “That’s him.”
As in a dream, I rise up from my seat and float to the painting, the type someone probably commissioned. He’s laughing, a glint in his blue-green eyes. There’s a widow’s peak in his dark hair. Tingles ghost down my spine.
“He grew up in this house?”
They nod.
I gaze around, searchingly, imagining I can hear male laughter in the background; I picture a broad-shouldered man with dark hair walking through the door of the study, spreading his arms wide and hugging his parents.
“What happened?” I ask as I turn around.
“At Harvard he got in with a rough crowd, drinking and partying. He got into a motorcycle accident and became addicted to painkillers; then it was meth, then heroin. One night he had a fight with our grandfather about getting his inheritance early. He didn’t want to settle down and do the family business. He wanted to strike out on his own. Our grandfather told him no and that if he didn’t go back to school and finish, he’d be disinherited. This may seem drastic, but Dante had just returned from a rehab facility, and with his drug issue, our grandfather refused.”
She continues. “So while the family slept, Dante opened the safe and took money, the family jewelry, then the candlesticks and silverware from the pantry. It was the last our family saw of him; then our grandmother, Frances, died a week later. She and Dante had a special relationship. He was her firstborn, and she doted on him.”
My head reels with stories of their family. My family?
She sighs. “My grandfather and father never forgave Dante for what they believed caused her death. Your father learned of her death a few months later when he called to ask for money.”
“Oh.”
She nods. “To answer your earlier question, through our investigation, we learned that a woman gave birth to you in Albany at a house they rented. She died from blood loss.”
My eyes close. I mean, I suspected she was dead. Still, my fingers feel chilled, and I rub them together. “And Dante?” The syllables feel foreign on my tongue.
“He died from an overdose of heroin in Florida a year after you were born.”
My fists clench. He’s gone.
Valentina watches as I struggle with my emotions. Her voice turns gentler. “He left you behind because he couldn’t care for you. He wrote in the letter that he was despondent over your mother’s death but didn’t want you to grow up with us. I’m sorry. We have the letter, copies of it . . .”
“My mother? What do you know? Who was she?”
Gianna winces. “We assume she was someone he met along the way. The name he gave the coroner was Katherine May, but there’s no strings to follow from that. The trail ends there.”
A dead end, but so much more on my paternal side.
I rub my forehead as the moments tick by on a grandfather clock. “So we’re first cousins?”
Gianna nods with a soft smile. “Dante was the oldest. Lorenzo was our father; then there’s two sisters, Margarete and Amelia, who have two children each. You have six cousins.”
“Oh,” I say, my chest rising. I lick dry lips. “So you two read the letter, then set out to find me?”
Valentina says, “Our investigators discovered you.”
Rich people and their PIs.
I look at Valentina. Their dad died a year ago; later they found the letters, then proceeded to find me. Then she bought my paintings. “You came in and bought a painting but didn’t meet me; then Gianna shows up for a tattoo and talks my ear off. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Valentina leans forward. “How do you approach someone you don’t know and inquire? It felt like an overstep and very intrusive. I bought your painting because I liked it; it wasn’t planned, but it spurred Gianna on.” She throws a look at her sister. “It wasn’t my idea for her to get the tattoo, but my sister does her own thing.”
I study Valentina. I can believe she’d want to take baby steps.
“Did you know about my foster care? How I went from home to home?”
Gianna takes over. “We don’t know much, Francesca. We focused on getting your name and where you were. It felt wrong to dive into your life.” She pauses, her face softening. “I’d like to hear about how you grew up. If it was good or bad. If you were happy. I pray that you were.”
I shake my head. This isn’t the time or the place. “I’m still wrapping my head around this. Why haven’t you contacted me since then?” I direct my gaze at Valentina. She’s obviously in charge.
She nods. “We’ve been working up to it—”
Gianna flicks her hair. “Valentina was scared you might cause a scandal.”
Valentina sighs. “That’s not the whole truth. Scandals blow over these days, but we do care about the family business and have a reputation to maintain. We weren’t ignoring you. We’d been grieving for our parents, and the letter—well, it kind of blindsided us. We were mulling over how to approach you, and then we saw you at the gallery wearing the locket, and it hit home for us. We were planning to approach you after that, but—”
“My fiancé broke up with me a week later,” Gianna interrupts. She sniffs. “I’ve been a mess these past few weeks.”
“Gianna, I’m so sorry,” I say. “Your tattoo . . .”
She waves me off. “I’m keeping it as a reminder not to fall for jerks again. I’m doing better. Trust me. I’m just sorry we took so long and now you’re here finding us.” She walks over to me, stares at my locket, and smiles. “That was a wedding gift to our grandmother, Frances. He may have pawned everything else, but he made sure he left it with you, the eldest grandchild.”
“I’m not giving it up,” I say wryly.
She smirks. “I am a little jealous that it’s an heirloom, but it’s yours. I prefer diamonds anyway. You’re also entitled to an inheritance from our grandfather. Even though your father was cut out of the will, his descendants were not.”
Mr. Darden rubs his hands. “Now we’re getting to the nitty-gritty. How much is it?”
I glare at him, and he shrugs.
Valentina pops an eyebrow at him. “If the DNA fits, our lawyers and accountants will figure it out.”
Gianna scoffs. “Come on, Tina; look at her. She’s you! But way more fun!”
I blink as Gianna crushes me in a hug. “I enjoyed my time in your tattoo chair. And that Edward—I wanted to kill him.” She pauses as she considers my face. “Would you like to get to know us better, Francesca?”
There’s silence in the room as everyone looks at me.
I hear the hushed tinkle of dishes as the housekeeper brings in coffee and croissants.
Darden’s breathing. Mine.
Theirs.
Dante was my father. I know it in my soul.
He was a wreck but left his mother’s locket with me. He never sold it, so maybe his family did mean something to him. Why else would he write the letter to his brother to let him know about me? Maybe he never came back home because of blame and guilt over his mother.
He walked away because he was an addict. Perhaps he was devastated with grief. Perhaps he would have been a better man if she’d lived and they’d raised me. Or perhaps I was always meant to walk a harder journey. Or maybe my life was the better journey.
I inhale sharply, connecting a faint similarity between Tuck and Dante. Dante may have wanted a family with my mother—I’ll never truly know until I read his letter—but he gave me up because he didn’t think he was good enough to take care of me. In a way, Tuck feels the same.
After a hellish last few days, a sense of peace settles around me. I reply to Gianna’s question. “I have family. We all live on the Upper East Side in the same building for the moment. Cece is moving to California soon.” A breathless laugh comes from me as I hug Gianna. “I’m also pregnant, so you have a cousin coming, and yes, I’d love to get to know you and Valentina.”
Valentina watches us stiffly from her chair, but I see a sheen of tears in her gaze. A smile, a very small one, crosses her face.
I glance over at Darden as he dabs his eyes with his hankie.
“Allergies,” he grumbles under his breath, and I smile.
