32
Josie
I knock on the door to the Pietra home, suddenly nervous. After Florence rushed out last night to check on her grandmother, I spent hours thinking about the way she opened up to me, how she shared a private part of herself that she keeps hidden from the rest of the world. When did I stop pretending to care for her and actually start having real feelings?
"Vieni qui!" A tiny, silver-haired woman waves me in. This must be Nonna. "You're just in time, tesoro. Everyone else is in the kitchen."
The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the house. Nonna points me in the direction of the chaotic kitchen, laughter and rapid-fire Italian mixed with English filling the air. Florence is at the stove with her mom, arguing about something in Italian.
Florence notices me first. "Bella, ciao!" Her face lights up. She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater, completely relaxed. It strikes me again how beautiful she is.
"Josie!" A small blur launches itself at me. "Did you know Auntie Flor used to be on the chess team?"
I look at the young auburn-haired girl with her arms wrapped around my waist. This must be one of her nieces. "No, I didn't know that." I glance at Florence with an amused smile. "Are you good at chess, too?" I ask the girl.
"Not yet," she scrunches her face up, "but Daddy says Auntie Florence will teach me." She tugs me toward the table. "Can I sit by you!?"
"Lena." Joe, the brother I met at the penthouse, comes over, ruffling the girl's hair. "Let Dr. Mueller breathe. Nice to see you again, Doctor. The loud one over in the kitchen is my wife, Rosie." He gestures to the brunette woman arranging bread on a platter.
"Call me Josie." I notice how his eyes crinkle at the corner the way Florence's do when she smiles.
"Mamma mia, Florence. Are you going to let your fidanzata just stand there?" Florence's mom swoops in, pulling me into a rough hug. "I'm Lucia."
"Thanks for having me." I catch Florence's eye over her mother's shoulder. She looks amused.
"Sit, sit!" Lucia waves me toward the table. "Florence, get your Josie some wine. The good stuff, non quella merda scadente that your fratello drinks."
I sink into a chair, and Lena immediately claims the spot next to me. Florence appears on my other side with a glass of wine, leaning over and giving me a chaste kiss.
"How's Nonna feeling?" I ask quietly.
"Better, mostly." She squeezes my shoulder before sitting down. "It's just a cold—but at her age, we worry."
"Speaking of worry," Rosie pipes up from across the table, "Paola's teacher called today." She gives her older daughter a pointed look.
The teenager slumps in her chair. "Mom, it wasn't a big deal."
"What wasn't a big deal?" Florence asks the girl.
"She got caught reading inappropriate material in class." Rosie sighs.
On the other side of her, Joe snorts. "She was reading lesbian romance novels."
I nearly choke on my wine. Florence's hand finds my knee under the table.
"They're not inappropriate," Paola argues. "Sarah Waters has won literary awards!" She's not wrong.
"Tipping the Velvet might be a bit mature for fourteen," Joe says diplomatically, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.
"It's Charles Dickens with lesbians." Paola shrugs. "We read Dickens. There's nothing wrong with it."
"You were reading worse at her age," Hettie cuts in, arriving with a bowl of salad and setting it in the middle of the table. She winks at me. "Nice to meet you, Doc."
Lucia appears in the doorway. "Dinner's ready." The next few minutes are chaos—the rest of the family finding their seats and passing dishes, with rapid-fire Italian I can only half follow.
Lucia fixes me with an intense look once everyone's been served. "So, Josie." She pauses for effect. "Florence tells us you teach neurology?"
"At the medical school, yes." I twirl spaghetti onto my fork. "Yes, ma'am."
"What's your specialty?" Joe asks.
"Neuroplasticity and traumatic brain injury. If and how the brain rewires itself after a head injury." I start to explain further, then catch myself. "Sorry. I can get kind of carried away."
"Keep going!" Lena says next to me. "I want to learn about brains!"
"Save the technical stuff for later, tesoro." Florence chuckles.
"You sound like mom when she gets excited about work," Paola says.
Lucia beams proudly. "It's good to be passionate about your work. That's why Auntie Florence is so successful. She puts her heart and soul into everything she does."
I glance at Florence, catching a faint blush on her cheeks. "Yes, she does," I agree softly, squeezing her knee under the table.
Conversation flows easily after that, switching between English and Italian. Besides a little ribbing from Hettie directed at Florence, everyone is more than welcoming. I could see myself becoming part of this family.
My throat tightens.
Where in the world did that thought come from?
I excuse myself to the bathroom, my face flush from shock.
Across from the bathroom door, right next to Nonna's open bedroom door, is an old photograph on the wall. A young Nonna between two men in military uniforms. One is undoubtedly her husband. Florence said she married young because he was going off to war.
It's what's hanging on the wall in the background that makes my heart stop.
It's the picture in the penthouse—the one covering the safe.
The hall suddenly feels too warm.
I lean against the wall, trying to process what this means.
"Josie?" Florence is at my side. "What's wrong?"
I look at her, this woman I'm developing real feelings for. I have to tell her. Not now though—not with her whole family watching us.
"Just a little warm," I manage. "Can we get some fresh air?"
She leads me to the back deck, her hand steady on my back. The cool evening air helps clear my head.
But it doesn't erase what I just found.
I turn to her, taking in her concerned expression. How can I tell her that the man whose fortune I'm inheriting looted her family's treasures during the war? That when her Nonna was a teenager, young and hopeful for a better future for her unborn child, that my grandfather was the one who stole that hope?
"Your family is wonderful," I say, my throat tight. "They're just a lot."
She laughs. "They are, aren't they? It's the Italian in us." She tangles her fingers with mine. "Let me know if you need to leave and we'll go."
"I'm okay," I say, shaking my head. "I just needed a minute." I let her lead me back into the house, where Lena is already setting up the chess board and chatting excitedly about learning chess from her Auntie Florence.
I watch Florence with her family—the way she patiently explains chess moves to Lena, how she teases her brother, how gentle she is with her nonna. How Nonna unconsciously fiddles with her phantom wedding ring, lost all those years ago.
My heart aches.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of coffee, dessert, and family stories. I try to stay present, to appreciate this glimpse into Florence's private world, but my mind keeps returning to that painting.
When we finally say our goodnights, Lucia hugs me tightly. "You'll come again next week."
I hug her back, not trusting myself to answer. I hope so. Florence's hand finds the small of my back as we walk out to her car. As we drive through the darkened streets, all I can think about is how quickly things can change.
***
I can't sleep, my mind racing with thoughts of Florence's family. Of the painting. Of realizing that my own flesh and blood stole from hers.
It's three in the morning when I decide to go to the penthouse and look through his files of notes and records. I wasn't looking for it before. Maybe there's something that I overlooked about the painting there. I have to look. I can't talk to Florence and her family without looking for answers first.
The place feels different at night. The moonlight streams through the window, casting shadows across the space. I head upstairs, straight for the wall safe in the last room, covered by the unique painting of the Italian hills. The same one I saw in that old photograph.
My hands shake as I twirl the dial and enter the combination. Inside, I flip through half a dozen meticulously labeled folders before I find what I'm looking for.
A carefully typed inventory card reads: "Olive Grove at Sunset - acquired December 1943, Naples region. Original owner: Elena and Vittorio (now deceased). Surname unknown." I want to be sick. Florence's grandmother's name is Elena.
There's more. A handwritten note describes "additional items of interest" taken from the same location—a gold wedding ring, and a matching locket engraved with "V&E 1943" and a similarly marked silver service set. These are the items I found in the bank safe deposit box—and the ring mentioned in my grandfather's letter to me. I suspect its discovery led my grandmother to her death. The very things that haunted him.
"Shit." I sink into the leather chair behind the desk. I watched Florence's Nonna tonight. She unconsciously touched the phantom ring on her finger, missing now for more than eighty years. Opa stole it from her when she was just a teenager while her husband, her first love, was fighting—and dying—in the war.
Forcing myself to keep reading, I pull out another folder labeled "Acquisitions - Coins (Southern Italy)." Inside is a long list detailing collections he looted during the war. My blood runs cold when I see the label "V&E 1943" next to more than a hundred of them.
The coins didn't just belong to Florence's nonna. They must have been part of a family collection. Opa—
No.
I won't claim him as family. Karl had not only stolen their personal momentos, but robbed them of their family heritage as well.
How in the world am I supposed to tell her this?" I whisper into the empty room. She just let me into her family's world, showed me their warmth and their love. And now I have to tell them that my grandfather robbed them of their history?
I pull out the next folder, hoping there are no more revelations about the woman I'm growing to care about. Unlike the other folders, this one looks worn, like it's been handled frequently. Inside, I find nearly fifty years of correspondence and financial records. At first glance, most of it appears to revolve around a maid named Maria who worked for the Vanderveen household in the 1970s.
At first, I don't understand why. Are the Vanderveen's connected to Florence's family? I know Hettie married one of them, but these records go back a lot further than that. I know Karl did business with them before they went their separate ways in the 90s. Maybe this Maria cleaned for him?
Then I see a letter from Maria to Karl, dated 1971. "Our daughter Donna deserves better than to be your dirty little secret. Either acknowledge her properly or leave us alone."
Donna. His housekeeper Donna. She's also Florence's housekeeper whom she met through Hettie. Through the Vanderveens.
My hands tremble as I skim through more letters. Apparently, Karl had maintained contact with Maria and Donna for years while respecting their wishes to keep the relationship private. He paid for Donna's education and helped her start her housekeeping business without revealing their connection to the outside world.
The most recent letter is from Karl to Donna herself, written only weeks before he died.
My dearest Donna,
You were right about Josephine. She deserves the chance to do something good with my fortune—to make amends for wrongs I've committed. Maybe, through her, both our families can find healing.
I regret many things, but never you. I wish I'd had the courage to acknowledge you properly when you were younger—to be the father you deserved. Instead, I watched from a distance as you grew into someone far better than I could ever hope to be.
Your suggestion I leave everything to Josephine was inspired. I hope that, somehow, the inheritance might help heal the rift between you and Monika—your half-sister, though she doesn't know it.
Take care of them both.
Your father, Karl
I read the letter over and over again, my mind struggling to process this new reality. Donna isn't just my grandfather's housekeeper—she's my aunt. And she's been quietly watching over me my entire life.
The implications hit me in waves. She's been taking care of me—us, now—in her own quiet way.
A photo slips from between the pages of another letter. It's a photo of a young woman who looks remarkably like my mother—the same high cheekbones, the same determined set to her jaw. On the back, in neat handwriting, it says "Donna, age 25."
My mother has a sister she doesn't know about.
I gather the most important documents with shaking hands. I need to tell Florence about the things Karl stole from her family and return them.
Downstairs, the sound of a key in the door echoes through the empty space. Someone's here—someone with access to the penthouse. As footprints approach the room, I already know who it must be.
"I wondered when you'd find those letters," Donna's familiar voice says from the doorway.
"I need to show you something." I lead Florence into the penthouse. My heart is pounding so loud I'm surprised she doesn't hear it.
"You're shaking," she says, turning to face me. "What's wrong?"
"I—" My throat tightens. "I need to show you something," I repeat, my voice unsteady. "Come upstairs with me."
She leads me up the stairs, her touch both supporting me and making me more apprehensive. Is she going to hate me for this?
We head to the final door in the hallway, the one Karl undoubtedly kept most guests far away from. "Go in," I tell her softly. "Look at the painting on the wall."
Her eyes find the Italian landscape immediately. "It's beautiful," she says softly. "The cypress trees remind me of the stories Nonna used to tell when we were kids. Catalina loved them so much she went back."
"Florence." I wait for an interminable minute for her to look at me. "You know the photograph your grandmother has on the wall by her room? The one across the bathroom?"
"The one of her with both my grandfathers. Her first husband who died in the war, and his best friend, who took her to America and created a life with her. A last promise to his childhood friend." She looks at the painting, then back at me. "I don't follow."
"When I saw it last night—" I close my eyes and let out a long breath. "In that picture, on the wall behind the three of them— It's the same painting."
She blinks. "That's not possible. That painting was lost during…" Her voice trails off.
"During the war. December, 1943." I carefully remove the painting from the wall and place it along the window. My fingers shake as I spin the dial, opening the safe. I sigh heavily. "My— I won't claim him as my grandfather anymore. Karl. Karl kept meticulous records."
Florence stands perfectly still as I lay the documentation for the painting across the desk, her face more blank with each page she reads.
"There's more," I say quietly. "The items in the bank deposit box—a gold ring engraved with 'Vittorio and Elena, 16.10.1943.' There's a locket and a set of silverware, too. They belong to Nonna. To your family."
Florence brings her hand to her chest. "He stole everything from her." She swallows thickly. "Did you know? When you came over last night, did you know while you spent the evening enjoying time with my family?"
"I recognized the painting in the photograph last night." I shake my head. "If you hadn't been there to check on me when I saw it, I think I would've fainted from the shock."
"You spent the rest of the evening with my family," she accuses. "You didn't say a word."
"I had to check. I wasn't one hundred percent certain." I bite my lip thoughtfully. "Even if I had been sure, it wouldn't have been the right time. You know your Nonna and your family better than I do." I reach for her hand, my voice softening. "I want to give them back to her. The painting. The ring. All of it."