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.