Chapter 11 - The Monastery's Secret
"She ran away," Lorenzo repeated, staring at the delicate silver vines of the bracelet. The ocean breeze suddenly felt cold.
Emily set her coffee mug down on the railing, taking Lorenzo’s free hand. "Lorenzo, your father was a ruthless man. If he lied about how she died, it was to protect his pride. Or to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" Lorenzo murmured. He looked at the handwritten note again. Give it to the woman who saves your heart. "She knew I would have a child. She knew I would need someone to save me. This note wasn't written thirty years ago when she left. The ink is fresh."
Emily's eyes widened. She took the note, rubbing her thumb over the edge of the parchment. "You're right. The paper is old, but the ink... it hasn't faded at all."
"She's alive," Lorenzo said, the realization hitting him like a tidal wave. "My mother is alive, Emily. She's been hiding in a monastery in Sicily for thirty-six years."
Clara ran up the wooden stairs of the deck, out of breath, the golden retriever panting happily beside her. "Daddy! Emmy! Barnaby found a crab!"
She stopped, noticing the serious expressions on their faces. Clara looked at the silver box in Lorenzo's hand. "Ooh, pretty. Is that for me?"
Lorenzo smiled softly, kneeling down to her level. "No, Principessa. This was a gift from your grandmother."
Clara tilted her head. "I don't have a grandmother."
"I didn't think you did either," Lorenzo said, looking up at Emily. "Pack our bags, Emily. We're going to Italy."
Two days later, the Moretti family stood before the heavy wooden doors of the Santa Rosalia Monastery, perched high on a sun-drenched cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The air smelled of lemons and burning frankincense. It was a place untouched by time, far away from the violence of the world Lorenzo had left behind.
An elderly nun with kind, weathered eyes opened the door. She looked at Lorenzo, her gaze dropping to the silver bracelet Emily was now wearing on her wrist.
"You received the package," the nun said in heavily accented English, stepping aside to let them in. "We prayed it would reach you."
"Where is she?" Lorenzo asked, his heart hammering in his chest. "Where is Sofia?"
The nun led them through a quiet, shaded courtyard filled with olive trees. "She waited for you for many years, Lorenzo. When she heard on the news that you had dismantled the Vescari family and left the life behind, she finally felt safe enough to send the heirloom."
The nun stopped in front of a small, simple stone garden. There, sitting on a wooden bench with her back to them, was a woman with silver hair, pruning a rose bush.
"Mother?" Lorenzo called out, his voice cracking.
The woman froze. She slowly turned around. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes—the exact same dark, piercing eyes as Lorenzo's—filled with instant tears. She dropped her shears.
"Lorenzo," she wept, holding her hands out.
Lorenzo rushed forward, falling to his knees and embracing the mother he had never known. Thirty-six years of lies, of believing he was abandoned to a monster, washed away in the warmth of her arms.
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Sofia looked up over her son's shoulder and saw Emily standing there, holding Clara's hand. Sofia’s eyes dropped to the silver bracelet on Emily’s wrist. She smiled through her tears.
"You found her," Sofia whispered to Lorenzo. "You found the woman who saved you."
