I left Italy to give you a chance to live. I left Italy because I didn’t want anyone to use you as a pawn to further their agenda of seeking wealth and power.
I’m so sorry, la mia bellissima figlia. I’m so sorry to leave you with such a bitter truth. I chose love when I married your father, and now I’m afraid that following my heart has changed the course of your life.
I love you more than you can possibly know. I wish I could’ve given you more. A father. A family. A home.
I never told you his name, but that never stopped you from wanting to know about him. Your father’s name was Gianni Russo, and he would’ve loved you more than anything in this world. He was a good man, Sterling. The blood of him is within you, but so is that of a Moretti.
I have left you all that I have—twenty thousand dollars in cash to help you disappear. I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.
Be safe, be smart, and above all, survive.
All my love,
Your mother
* * *
I crumbled the note in my hand so I wouldn’t see the streaky ink of her words, smeared from the tears she’d shed while writing the letter, and smeared once again from my own.
When I was done crying, I flattened the paper and read it over and over. Names from the letter stared angrily back at me. Moretti. Foscari. Russo. Compagnia Bianca del Falco.
Guilt and shame over ignoring her phone calls and attempted overtures over the years clawed at me. I finally understood why she’d been relentless in trying to get my attention, but anger from my childhood had clouded everything that had to do with her.
My mind whirled in an attempt to process the truth. How was I supposed to reconcile her sacrifices? Everything she’d done had been to make sure I lived. She’d protected me at every turn. But because of her secrets, our relationship had been tainted. At eighteen, I’d left the house and never looked back, tired of the excuses and nonsensical nature of our lives. Nothing had made sense.
It made sense now.
I cried for the loss of her, not just for her death, but for the years of misunderstandings. Why hadn’t she told me earlier? Why hadn’t she told me the truth? Why had she waited until there was six years of silence between us before coming clean? Would I have been brave enough at eighteen to even hear the truth?
I’d never know.
All I knew was that she’d taken her own life to protect me.
Flopping back onto the bed, emotions washed over me. I stared at the nicotine stained white popcorn ceiling of the motel room, hating that I couldn’t stop the tears from leaking down my cheeks.
My heart lurched in my chest. She’d loved me. More than she should have. I was undeserving of it.
Be safe, be smart, and above all, survive.
Terror bloomed in the midst of grief.
The fear of the Foscari finding me had motivated her to take her own life. I would not let my mother’s death be in vain.
But how the hell was I supposed to get a new identity? She’d said it in the letter like it was easy enough to go to the store and grab a new one off the shelf.
A thread of resolution curled through me and I reminded myself that I still breathed air into my lungs, that it wasn’t too late for me yet. The Foscari might’ve been looking for her all these years, but they’d never found her. If she could run for so long, I could too. They knew less about me than they knew of her. She’d found a way to disappear, to create a new life. And I had to do the same. I wouldn’t risk staying out in the open. Not after reading the letter and understanding the direness of the situation.
I had twenty thousand dollars to start a new life. Twenty thousand dollars and my mother’s blood in my veins.
Something in my brain snapped into place, and as fast as emotions had come pouring out of me, it was like the faucet had suddenly been shut off. My tears dried on my cheeks as I moved around the motel room, throwing my toiletries into my suitcase and zipping it closed.
I put the letter and the money back into the manila envelope and then rolled it shut and secured it with a hair tie.