The letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Not an email. Not a phone call. An actual letter, handwritten on expensive cream stationery, delivered by a private courier who refused to give his name.
I was in the kitchen at Sofia's restaurant I still called it that even though Jerome ran everything now testing a new pasta recipe when the courier appeared.
"Mrs. Moretti? This is for you personally. I was instructed to deliver it only to you."
He left before I could ask questions.
The handwriting on the envelope was elegant. European. The return address was a law firm in Milan, Italy.
Inside, a single page.
Dear Mrs. Isabella Moretti,
You don't know me. But I know everything about you.
My name is Gianluca Esposito. I am seventy-three years old, dying of heart failure, and I have carried a secret for thirty-five years that can no longer remain buried.
