A family curse. A missing heirloom. A house full of secrets.
A descendant of a powerful Italian dynasty reckons with her family’s troubled legacy and her own fractured memories in this Gothic thriller from the author of The Forgotten Girl.
When aspiring artist Anna de’ Medici Rossi inherits her family’s opulent villa in Tuscany, she returns to a place steeped in tragedy and mystery. Living there as a child, Anna suffered from debilitating night terrors, frequently waking to find that she had wandered far from bed. During one such episode when Anna was twelve, her mother took a fatal tumble down the stairs. Vittoria’s death was officially ruled an accident, but an heirloom ruby-and-diamond necklace was missing from her bruised neck. Whispered suspicions suggest that Anna pushed her mother and stole the precious jewels. Anna, remembering little from that night, is afraid they’re right. But if that’s true, then what became of the necklace, which has long been associated with legends of a family curse?
Now back in Tuscany after sixteen years, Anna is shunned by the local townspeople as a killer who escaped justice, while only a few distant relatives and an old childhood friend offer solace. As she explores the sprawling villa, Anna uncovers hidden rooms and memories shrouded in fog, reigniting the violent night terrors of her youth. Plagued by unsettling visions and eerie occurrences, she questions her sanity and embarks on a harrowing journey to unravel the truth of her past. As her search deepens, she confronts shocking revelations that expose her to dangers she never anticipated.
Excerpt
I exit the Florence airport and start toward the Tuscan countryside and my family home, which I’ll see for the first time since I killed my mother. I was twelve years old at the time, experiencing an episode of night terrors. Her death garnered a lot of media attention, because my mother, Vittoria de’ Medici, was a well-known Italian opera star. I punch the accelerator on the Fiat 500 rental car and the engine roars to life.
The authorities ruled the death an accident. The official police report says she tripped and fell down the stairs after a night of drinking too much champagne.
For me, that night’s a blur. Pieces have resurfaced over the years but not enough to reconstruct even a partial picture of that night. I hope that my coming home will bring back the missing memories—for better or worse.
People say I coveted the Medici Falchion—a ruby-and-diamond heirloom that’s been in the de’ Medici family for hundreds of years. That I took it that night. But if that’s so, where is the necklace?
Exiting the highway, I race along the narrow country roads and come upon field after field of vibrant red poppies. It’s mid-May, and the flowers have burst into full bloom, adorning the landscape. The lovely the buds dance in the breeze as if welcoming me home. I lower the windows to take in the fresh air and am greeted by its velvety warmth.
On the outskirts of Poggibonsi, a village located several miles from the small town of Colle di Val d’Elsa and not far from my destination, an old farmhouse comes into view. Two old men sit on a porch in rocking chairs. An elderly woman sweeps around their feet. The men act as if the woman isn’t there. If I were her, I’d give those two a good swift sweep on their asses.
Behind me, an engine roars—a red motorcycle. Looks like a man, but his face is hidden by a helmet and black visor. I watch him in my rearview mirror. He speeds up, then brakes, weaving back and forth. The oncoming traffic is heavy, leaving no room for him to get by. I accelerate to almost eighty kilometers—about fifty miles per hour—to put distance between us.
Vehicles continue to whiz past from the opposite lane. The biker brakes, and I relax.
A moment later, he’s practically kissing my car’s rear bumper, playing his taunting game again. I grip the steering wheel hard.
“Che diavolo ti prende?” I shout. It feels so good to speak in my native tongue again, even if only to ask this asshole what the hell is wrong with him.
Tapping the brakes doesn’t warn the guy off. Doesn’t faze him in the slightest. My heartrate accelerates. Speed is exhilarating, but I’m not a fan of fatal car wrecks.
Fifty feet ahead of me, a large truck enters a narrow, one-lane stone tunnel that has cut slopes on both sides. A small roadside light blinks, indicating that I should stop.
When I slow down, the biker flashes his headlight. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
The biker shifts from one side of the lane to the other. Traffic is too heavy for him to pass and avoid oncoming cars.
I grit my teeth.
A split second later, the biker accelerates, gets only a hair’s-breadth distance ahead of my front bumper, and darts out ahead of my car.
Turning the steering wheel hard to the right, I barely miss hitting the man. The Fiat leaves the pavement, spinning 360 degrees as it slides down a steep dirt embankment. As soon as I work the brakes, the car fishtails, but luckily, it doesn’t roll over.
The jerk doesn’t bother to stop.
“Stronzo,” I shout, shaking a fist.
My adrenaline surges, but I gather myself enough to check out my body—no injuries. I call emergency services and next the rental car company.
A middle-aged man runs up to my car, panting for breath. “Are you hurt?”
“All good. Just pissed as hell at that motorcyclist. Any chance you got that guy’s license?”
“Sorry. Happened too fast.” He looks the car over, points out a flat tire, and offers to help. I tell him that I’ve just phoned the police and the rental car company, and that a tow truck is on the way.
He stares at me for a long moment and then a strange expression comes over his face.
“Anything wrong?” I ask.
“You look familiar.” He hesitates. “There used to be a singer who lived around here, but she died some years ago. Vittoria de’ Medici? Are you . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m her daughter, Anna.”
The man seems flustered. “You say the police are on their way?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re lucky you were wearing your seatbelt. Others have been crushed when . . . You could’ve . . .” He gives a quick shake of his head. “I’ll leave you to it.” He waves and hurries to his car.
“Hey, can I get your name and number? As a witness?”
He just drives away.
Sixteen years have passed since I left Italy as a child. Does this perfect stranger recognize me?
Forty-five minutes later, the police show up. The rental car agency delivers another vehicle. Two hours later, I’m behind the wheel of an older model Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce—the only car left at the agency in Siena. An unexpected benefit of this mess.
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