What?My heart thunders. Dante was an Italian poet known for hisDivine Comedy, an epic poem that questioned evil, human nature, and redemption. We studied him in art school because so many artists were influenced by hisInferno, 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 Giannaon.” 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.”