It’s the envelope on the kitchen island that starts it.
Not dramatic.
Not legal.
Just heavy.
Cream-colored paper. Embossed seal.
Addressed to Marcus Valerio.
He stands there staring at it like it might detonate.
“You going to open it?” I ask gently.
“I know what it is.”
“You don’t.”
He exhales.
“It’s from my father’s estate attorney.”
My stomach tightens.
“You haven’t heard from them in years.”
“Exactly.”
He finally tears it open.
The letter is short.
Formal.
Measured.
Mr. Valerio,
Due to the recent passing of Antonio Valerio, you are requested to attend the reading of his final will and testament. Your presence is strongly advised. Date: October 12. Location: Rome.
Marcus’s jaw tightens.
“He’s dead.”
I sit down slowly.
“I thought he was already dead.”
“He might as
