I had an unsettled night in the company of Isabella's suite, haunted by the memory of the riddle spoken by the housekeeper. The first light of morning, and the Madonna will show you the way. A riddle; a trial of faith from a woman who feared to uncover the truth quite clearly. "Madonna" was the obvious reference, with a nod towards something religious. "First light of morning" seemed to be a physical, geographical distraction pointing toward an eastern room. That villa must have a chapel. The Morettis-being the well-established, prominent family that they are-would definitely have a private place for worship.
I had to time my exploration well. I waited until dawn, that time when the house was in its deepest slumber and when, hopefully, Dante was still sleeping. I slipped out of my room, a ghost of my own right. Barefooted, I made no sound on the cold, polished stone. I crossed through the sleeping house, a maze of shrouded furniture and deep shadows, with my heart pounding with fear and sense of purpose. It was located far to the eastern end of the main wing: a small arched door leading to a private family chapel.
Inside, the atmosphere was still and heavy with dust and incense. When the pale fingers of almost dawn penetrated through a tall stained-glass window, the small room was suffused in the hues of rose and gold; and it fell directly on a small marble statue of the Madonna, arms extended in a gesture of calm grace. I held my breath when I approached. As the light shone on her face, just behind her shoulder, I saw it-a small dark hollow carved into the stone wall-concealed behind her silhouette. Tucked inside was a small ornate silver key. It felt cold.
Clutching the key, I bolted back to the study, exulting. Oh my God. The locked drawer. The letters. The key slid into the mahogany writing desk's lock. It turned with a soft click of well-earned-the-an-old-oil. For a breathless moment, I sat there staring at the drawer, my hand frozen. Everything that had come to pass—the auction, the humiliation, the very real fear—had all brought me to this one moment. Inhaling a deep jagged breath, I yanked the drawer open.
It was a sinking feeling, almost the heartbroken. The drawer was half-empty. No bundle of letters. No evidence. Barely two small things lay on the dark velvet medium in there: one single folded letter, yellowed and brittle with age; and a miniature portrait about the size of a palm and painted on a piece of smooth ivory.
Disappointment clashed with frantic hope as I carefully picked up the letter. The handwriting belonged to Isabella, though inscribed hastily, even wildly.
My Dearest Cousin,
I cannot send the rest as I promised. He is watching me constantly. I fear he knows everything. The lies are unraveling. I have hidden the letters where only a mother's love can find them. If the worst should happen, you must use this miniature. Show it to my son when he is old enough to understand. He must know the truth of the serpent who raised him. He must know who his father truly is.
The serpent who raised him? She meant Dante's father. But why would Dante need a miniature portrait to know what his own father looked like? Confused, my fingers closed around the small, cool oval of the portrait. I turned it over.
My head stopped. Air fled from my lungs in one lapse. I stared on the face of the man painted with exquisite, lifelike detail. A man in the fullest bloom of his mid-age, confident eyes, sharp jaw, and a familiar, determined set of his mouth.
This was not Dante's father.
It was my father. Lorenzo Romano.
I couldn't stare anymore; my brain was processing too slowly. He was not the weak, defeated man who sold me. That had been a fresh, spirited, merciless man, long before my time. Now the letter made horrible sense: Show it to my son... He must know the truth of the serpent who raised him. The serpent Isabella had referred to, the man she was terrified of, the man at the heart of this tragic secret... was my father.
Every single thing that Sofia told me and everything written in the diary-it was all falsehoods, but not in the way I had thought. Isabella was not afraid that her husband would discover her affair with some distant cousin; she was terrified that he would discover her affair with his greatest enemy, Lorenzo Romano. My father hadn't betrayed the Morettis to run off with my mother; my mother, Elena, the loyal best friend, must have been helping to cover for the real secret lovers: Isabella and Lorenzo.
The entire foundation of my understanding crumbled into dust. My father wasn't a footnote in this tragedy; he was its author. And the love story at the center of it all, the one that had cost Isabella her life, wasn't a work of fiction. It was real; it was just between the wrong people. Between my father and my captor's mother.