Prologue
My heart thumped in my chest like the beat of a solemn war drum as I stared at the newly churned earth over my mother’s grave.
The pulse of my blood reminded me that I was alive, and she was not.
Ominous clouds dotted the sky. Thunder boomed in the distance, announcing impending weather. A warm, gentle breeze tugged at my hair.
I clasped my hands together, my jaw clenched as I tried to keep my emotions locked inside me. If they were allowed to escape, allowed to run free, I might never be able to wrangle them back under control.
My mother had been a devout Catholic, but she was now buried in a nondenominational cemetery in a town I’d never heard of. When the minister had called to inform me of her death and that her funeral had already been scheduled and paid for, my mind jumped into overdrive.
Had she been sick? No. If she’d been sick, she would’ve tried to get into contact sooner than a week ago. I’d silenced her call and hadn’t even bothered listening to her voicemail. She called again and again. I’d deleted every message.
My chest was tight with guilt, each breath like jagged glass puncturing my lungs and shredding my heart.
I hadn’t cried. Not even when I’d gotten the phone call from the minister.
What the hell was wrong with me? Was I in shock? Or was it something more?
A lifetime of resentment had stood between us, and what began as months of not speaking so long ago had melded into years.
Grief, shame, and confusion…it was an ongoing battle of emotions, the victor still unclear. Feelings consumed me like a tidal wave, and just when I was able to break the surface and breathe, another emotion would crash down on me.
The soft tread of footsteps on damp grass momentarily diverted my attention. An older woman in a thick black sweater dress, black hose, and rounded-toe heels came toward me. Her chestnut hair was heavily laced with gray and her brown eyes were warm with compassion as they met my gaze. Her face was lined with age, smile parentheses bracketing her mouth and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
She held a manila envelope. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she wore a dainty diamond tennis bracelet.
Who was this woman? She clearly had money, but it was more than that. She had class.
This town didn’t showcase either of those things. When I’d driven down Main Street, I noticed the decayed state of the buildings. Those that weren’t boarded up were dilapidated and required renovation. Most needed new roofs and some were too rundown to inhabit, even for a business. No one had paved over the crumbling brick streets, not bothering to conceal the fact that the town had once been a bustling hub of economic activity at the height of an era when small-town America reigned. It was a time I’d only seen in vintage movies that my mother had loved to watch when I was a child. All that remained now were memories of what once was, a nostalgia that was nearly tangible.
“Ms. Miller,” the woman greeted, hand outstretched with the envelope. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your mother…was a good person.”
She released the envelope as I grasped it and then turned to leave.
“Wait!” I called to her.
She looked over her shoulder.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see me again. Good luck, Sterling.”
I swallowed as I watched her vacate the immaculate grounds of the cemetery. The lawns had been mown; the flower beds along the sidewalks were all pruned to perfection. It was as though the town cared more for the dead than the living.
I looked down at the thick envelope. My finger toyed with the edge of it, wanting desperately to rip into it so I could devour my mother’s final words to me.
I headed to my old blue Toyota Camry that was parked along the curb. It wasn’t going to turn heads, but it was reliable enough to have made the drive all the way from Dallas without a worry.
As I drove back toward the cheap, outdated motel I was staying at near the edge of town, I kept glancing at the envelope that rested on the faded and cracked leather passenger seat. It taunted me, intrigued me. I didn’t know what I’d find when I opened it, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.
I pulled into the parking lot of the motel. It looked like a crime scene waiting to happen. I’d only booked it for one night, but I wasn’t sure I even wanted to stay. I contemplated buying an energy drink and hitting the road—after I read my mother’s letter.
I unlocked the door to the motel room and went inside. The old air conditioner kicked on as I entered, groaning and whirling, clearly struggling despite the fact that it wasn’t sweltering outside. The back of summer had broken, and it was nearly autumn, but still, the unit could barely keep up.
The room smelled of must and decay, of a place long forgotten and hardly used. Everything was tan and brown, and the faded taupe carpet bubbled at the corners of the floor.
I kicked off my heels and sat down on the edge of the bed, and finally, with a deep breath, ripped open the envelope.
There was a folded letter inside with my name scrolled in her elegant handwriting.
But that wasn’t all. I grabbed the thick envelope and turned it upside down so its contents spilled out. Bundles of bright green bills tumbled onto the questionable paisley bedspread.
I reached for the letter and unfolded it. It was written in Italian, my mother’s native language.
* * *
Dear Sterling,
I’ve started this letter so many times, never feeling like I said everything I needed to say or that I was able to say it coherently.
So, I guess I’ll start writing and pray this is a decent goodbye.
God, I wish there had been more time.
There are so many things I want to tell you. So many moments I wish I could do over. Our estrangement hurts me more than you know. And you may not understand this because you’re not a mother, but everything I did, every choice I made, and every town I moved us to was to protect you.
It’s always been about you, Sterling.
There is nothing—NOTHING—a mother wouldn’t do to protect her child, as I’ve tried to protect you. Even by committing this cardinal sin, I have to believe that God will forgive me because in taking my own life, I have given you a chance to live yours.
It was the only way.
All these years, I’ve let you think the worst of me. That I was unreliable, that I couldn’t ever hold down a job long enough to give you roots or provide a good life for you. The lie was easier to believe than the truth, a truth I never wanted to share with you, but now I must because your survival is at stake.
What I’m about to tell you means life or death for you, Sterling.
Do you remember the stories I told you when you were a child? About a beautiful princess who rode bareback on a great black stallion through the luscious green forest and rolling hills of her family’s estate? An estate so grand and opulent that it rivaled the great palaces of Europe? Those stories weren’t fiction. They weren’t made up to lull you to sleep with your head full of dreams and whimsy. Those were stories from my own childhood.
I come from a family called Moretti, and we can trace our lineage back to The Crusades. Within our veins runs the blood of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco, known as The White Company. We are fantastically wealthy Italian mercenaries that yield great power and influence amongst Western Europe, and our family name is known within elite circles.