Montavio was fixed. Infertile.
The older woman looks back at me and speaks in a thick Italian accent. “Old? How old you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
She shakes her head. “Impossibile.”
“Of course it’s impossible,” I sputter. “I knew my father! I knew my mother. I have my father’s crazy wavy hair and his smile, and my father had nothing to do with any of you!”
The man I met last night eyes me warily and speaks in a low warning tone. “Be careful, Vittoria.”
My heart thumps wildly. “Excuse me?”
He merely thins his lips before he speaks, then says curtly, “You heard me.”
Be careful of what? Or who? Is this some kind of a threat? Uh, excuse me?
Marialena speaks up. “Perhaps she can share my room. It’s large enough for the both of us and will give—”
“No,” the man—her brother?—says shortly. Marialena scowls but doesn’t contradict him.
I don’t know who this man is, but I know he’s someone with authority here. Maybe even the most authority.
“This is ridiculous,” the older man says, slamming his palm on the desk. “Even in death, her goddamn father is trying to ruin everything. Everything.”
“Of all the things to complain about…” He turns to her and looks as if he’s going to slap her, but one of the sons steps in.
“Mama,” he says quietly. Warning, perhaps. She closes her mouth, stands, and walks to the other side of the room and sits beside Marialena and another woman that looks like Marialena’s sister.
It’s all so strange and unusual. This is no normal family. First, they live in a castle. Second… do they even live anywhere else? Why are grown children like this still at home? Or did they just come here for the reading of the will? Third, it doesn’t make sense that I met them all last night and now they have some sort of hold against me I wasn’t prepared for.
My head spins, even as the logical part of my brain can’t help but piece this all together.
I have nothing, not a penny to my name. Nothing. And here, if I stay for thirty days, I’ll have half of the inheritance.
Then it dawns on me with such clarity, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.
I have no idea how much the inheritance is, and that matters. Would I give up my life for a few thousand dollars?
I clear my throat and turn back to the lawyer. “I need to ask.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not even considering giving up my life for a small sum of money.” I hate that I sound like I’m money-grubbing, but it has to be asked. “I need to know exactly what the stakes are before I make any decision.”
“Do you?” the older man at the desk asks. My blood turns cold just looking at the way his fingers tighten around a pen.
“Ah, yes,” the lawyer says. “A reasonable question, Ms. DeSanto. The inheritance in question is an estimated twelve million dollars, estimated only because there are investments and the like that will be cashed in upon receipt of the inheritance.”
I sit back down involuntarily. I think my knees just buckled.
I slept in my car, ate a gas station granola bar and used a slim bar of soap in a dismal public bathroom to clean up before I came here, every penny I’ve ever earned was stolen, and now I’m given the chance to inherit six million dollars?
No.
No.
It’s like some sort of twisted nightmare or dream, I don’t know which one.
“Thank you for your time,” the guy I met last night says to the lawyer. “If we’re done here, you may leave now.” He nods to the door, and the largest brother of the bunch stands and escorts the lawyer out.
The door slams shut, and the room falls into silence. I shake my head at them.
“There are things here that I don’t understand.”
“There are,” the man who saved me says. His voice, a composed, deep baritone, commands immediate attention. “And there are things I understand very well.”
I remember his promise to me. I remember what he said he’d do to me if I showed my face again. No one else recognizes me, no one else knows what I witnessed or what we shared. He promised me he’d hurt me if he ever saw me again, and he doesn’t look like someone who makes idle promises.
The pastries from earlier sit like stones in my belly.
“Before we make any decisions, some introductions are in order,” he continues, the deep, masculine timbre of his voice carrying with it a tone of authority all heed. He nods to his father. “Narciso Rossi, the head of our family and our father. Our mother, Tosca Rossi.” He nods to them. I stare before I remember my manners and finally just nod a greeting. He gestures toward his sisters. “My sisters, Marialena and Rosa. You’ve met Marialena it seems.” I nod again, then he points to his brothers. Oh gosh. Why does Rosa look like she has a black eye? I cringe inside to think of how Rosa got that black eye. Did one of them do it to her? Or was it her father? It makes me queasy.