The letter arrived on a Tuesday in June.
I was at the restaurant, going over inventory with our new sous chef, when Rosa called.
"Mama, you need to come to the house. Now."
"What's wrong? Is Sofia okay?"
"Sofia's fine. Everyone's fine. But there's there's something you need to see. Something that came in the mail."
I left immediately, anxiety crawling up my spine. Rosa's voice had that tone the one that meant something serious, something that couldn't be discussed over the phone.
When I arrived, the entire family was there. Rosa, Alessandro, Dante, Connor. Even Elena had come over.
"What's going on?"
Rosa handed me an envelope. Expensive stationery. Heavy paper. No return address.
Inside was a single letter, handwritten in elegant script.
Dear Mrs. Moretti,
You don't know me, but I know you. Or rather, I know of you. I know what was done to you twenty-nine years ago. I know about the auction. About how you were sold.
