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I blink in surprise at how many cars are here. Dozens. There are even parking attendants waiting in uniform by the main door. In the distance, several lithe Rottweilers lay down, chained with heavy black metal links to a sturdy fence.
I’m not the only one here. Am I the only one who doesn’t know why?
I don’t want to give my keys to one of the attendants. Thanks to Ashton, my entire world sits in the back of this car, and I don’t trust them. Where will they park my car? After all I’ve been through, I trust no one.
So I decide to park at the very end of the lot and glance at the time. I have fifteen minutes before the time I was told to come. Is it wrong to be so early? I can walk myself.
The attendants give me a strange look when I wave them off and park, pocketing my keys, but I only smile and wiggle my fingers like a weirdo, then walk in my heels to the front door. A cold wind kicks up leaves around my ankles. I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself.
Typically, a castle’s main entrance is shielded by a portcullis—a heavy, vertically closing gate most noticeable in medieval times, though modern-day castles still boast such entrances. The latticed grill made of wood and metal slides down into grooves set within the doorjambs. I look above me and smile to myself when I see the entrance does indeed have a portcullis, but it’s been raised. The large, heavy door looks as if it would take three strong men to open it.
Excitement roils in my belly. This is a special place and I’m on the cusp of the unknown. I lift the knocker and let it fall heavily. It makes a satisfying gong sound.
The door’s opened by a prim and proper young woman in full uniform, one of the Montavio family staff I’d guess. “Hello, may I help you?”
My voice wavers. “Yes, I’m… I’m here because of this.”
I show her my letter clumsily. She squints at the page and reads it, her eyes widening as she does.
“Your name, Miss?”
“Vittoria DeSanto.” She nods, then gestures for me to stand inside the foyer. I’m uncharacteristically nervous. I’m usually a little more sure of myself, but after everything that’s happened…
“Come in, Miss.”
I move as if on instinct then realize I’m standing dumbly beside the door.
I’m glad she didn’t call me ma’am. I’m too young for such formalities. But a house like this seems to beckon ceremony and solemnity.
The chill gives way to a comfortable warmth, likely due at least in part to the fire burning in the fireplace in the sitting room. The elegant main entrance is enough to take my breath away—a cathedral ceiling, hardwood floors so shiny they nearly blind me, heavy, ornate furnishings that have stood the test of time. Sparkling chandeliers gleam above me like twinkling diamonds. I glance at everything quickly, even though I could stand here and take in every intricate detail, from the tapestry decorations to the embroidered drapes, for hours. It would be almost stifling if not for the bright open spaces and cheerful windows that let in light.
Who is the Montavio family? Why have they called me here?
Why?
I’ve never been one to balk in the face of something new, though, and I’m not going to start now.
The rich scent of coffee and baked goods wafts through the air, and my stomach growls. I had a foil-wrapped granola bar from a gas station hours ago.
“Come this way, please, Miss DeSanto,” the woman who greeted me says. She brings me to the reception room to the left of the main entrance. Beyond the room there looks to be a small closet with coats—a coat room?—and further beyond that, a massive hall filled with people. Laughter and voices echo in the huge house. But that’s not where she’s brought me.
She sees me looking and smiles. “The Family’s in the Great Hall, prepared for the reading of the will, Miss. But no one outside the Family’s allowed in until summoned by Mr. Rossi. Please, help yourself to something to eat or drink while you wait.”
Why does the phrase the Family seem to have so much weight in this context?
Wait.
I blink. I blink again.
The will?
Mr. Rossi? I thought this was a Montavio family home…
I have so many questions that need answers.
Before I can respond, the woman leaves. I turn toward the table laden with baked goods and large, steaming, chrome teakettles and carafes.
There’s a will?
I look around the room and see half a dozen or so others, but no one looks my way. They’re well-dressed and fairly normal-looking people. I surmise that if they’re here, they aren’t part of the Montavio family, but outsiders just like me.
When I approach the table, my mouth waters.
