POV of Aiden Valgelsi.
I stood in the middle of my bedroom like an idiot trying to decide whether the navy cashmere jumper was worth the extra weight in the suitcase. Eighteen years old, freshly released from Harrow with A-levels that were respectable enough to keep the family crest from tarnishing, and here I was packing my own bloody bags. Most people in my position would have summoned a valet-or at least asked one of the staff to do it-but I'd always preferred doing some things myself. There's something grounding about folding your own shirts when the rest of your life is handled by people on payroll.
The townhouse was quiet tonight. Mum was at some charity gala in Mayfair-black-tie, good cause, endless champagne-and Dad was in Singapore closing a shipping deal that would probably add another zero to the family portfolio. They'd both kissed my forehead before leaving (Mum with her signature Chanel No. 5 cloud, Dad with the faint scent of Cuban cigar he still pretends he doesn't smoke), told me they were proud, and promised to video-call from wherever they were next week. They loved me-genuinely, fiercely-and I loved them back. But their worlds were so vast and separate: Dad's boardrooms and balance sheets, Mum's galas and good causes. I existed in the comfortable overlap, the cherished only child who never wanted for anything except, perhaps, their undivided attention for more than forty-eight consecutive hours.
Nonna Lucia-my paternal grandmother-had been the real mama bear for me. While Mum and Dad were off on being the glamourous faces of Valgelsi, Nonna had practically raised me. She was Tuscan to her core: warm, sharp-tongued, with hands that could knead dough or slap your wrist if you reached for a second biscotti before dinner. She'd married Grandpa Gennaro when she was twenty-two, bringing olive oil recipes, a laugh that filled rooms, and a stubborn refusal to let the Valgelsi name make anyone stuffy. Every morning before Harrow, she'd sit me down with espresso and teach me Latin conjugations, Italian history, and endless stories of Genoa-how our silk-merchant ancestors Marco and Teresa fled with little more than a child Luciano and a dream, how they wove themselves into British nobility one bolt of fabric at a time. "Blood remembers, caro," she'd say, pinching my cheek until it stung. "Even when the world tries to forget."
She died two years ago-quietly, in her sleep, the way she always said she wanted to go. I still keep her rosary in my pocket - sometimes I swear I can feel her watching me, rolling her eyes at my "modern nonsense" while secretly proud of her Piccolino.
So I packed alone. Jeans (dark, slim, nothing flashy), a few tailored shirts, the leather notebook Nonna gave me before she passed, my laptop, and the folder of printouts I'd been obsessively annotating for weeks. The DNA test results were folded at the top like a confession I still couldn't quite believe.
It had started as a lark. One of those mail-order kits everyone does for a laugh. "Trace your ancestry! Discover your Viking roots!" Except my results didn't show Vikings. They showed Genoa-expected-and then a very clear, very ancient thread to East Asia. Ming-era China, high-status markers. I'd stared at the screen for twenty minutes, half-convinced it was a glitch, before running the test again. Same result. The Valgelsis had always been proud of our silk-merchant origins, but *blood*? That was new. And it itched like a label left in the back of a shirt.
Then came the chest.
Down in the archive room, surrounded by the smell of old vellum and beeswax, Grandpa Gennaro and Great-Aunt Sofia had been overseeing the preparations for the big 500-year anniversary exhibition at the British Museum- a smooth way of bragging about our heritage starting from when Luciano Valgelsi was granted royal patronage in 1524. The British Archaeological Society team was there too-Dr. Hargrove with her glasses perpetually sliding down her nose, young Tom trying to look like he belonged among priceless artefacts. Cataloging of all artifacts of our family from last 500 years had been a huge deal that had been running for a month now. Finally they'd unearthed a chest buried under tapestries older than Shakespeare as part of a set of items originally brought by the first Valgelsi couple Marco and Teresa when they left Genoa. When we opened it, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
A writing brush, Ming Dynasty, horsehair bristles, carved with tiny Italian script along the side, "Per il mio amore eterno." A silver hairbrush in unmistakable Genoese style, its handle inscribed with the same verse but this time in Chinese script. And the pendant-jade and gold, lotus entwined with a lion rampant. Inside: two locks of hair. One jet-black, straight. The other dark honey, wavy.
In the chest there was also a folded babycloth with a small lock of hair with a note clearly indicating that this lock of hair belonged to Luciano Valgelsi. I could understand why the Valgelsi couple wanted to treasure these keepsakes- but what's with the Chinese scripts in there?
We sent everything for private testing and were then stunned by the results. Good thing Valgelsis have iron clad information leakage protections or this would be on air on BBC News now!
The black hair matched Ming-era East Asian nobility. The honey hair was Genoese, late 15th century. Then came the bombshell: both locks genetically linked to Luciano Valgelsi-the child our ancestors had brought from Genoa, the boy who'd grown into the man who built our trade empire in Britain, secured royal patronage from Henry VII, and laid the foundation for everything we were today. Luciano, whose portrait still hung in the drawing room, looking solemn in black velvet. Luciano, whose origins had been described under his large portrait as "the son of a Genoese merchant couple Marco and Teresa Valgelsi" Not once in five centuries had anyone mentioned an Oriental connection.
After reading up the results I had to go back and take another look at the portrait - great-great-great-whatever-ancestor-Luciano looks nothing like those Chinese guys I saw in all those fantasy dramas.
The room went quiet when the results came through. Grandpa stared at the report like it had personally insulted him. Great Aunt Sofia muttered something about "secrets better left buried." Great Aunt Sofia was an old snob, this discovery clearly meant that somewhere somehow the noble lineage of Valgelsis got something special from East added into it - looks like Luciano's papa may have been a poor sailor boy who got a Valgelsi girl in trouble- and Aunt wouldn't have liked that, she is big on bragging about 'unbroken noble lineages' for last hundreds of years.
Dr. Hargrove simply said, "Well. That's... unexpected." She started some research on discovering origins of the brush style but Aunt expressly forbade placing these controversial items on display.
"Leave it aside, Dr." She had turned to my grandpa and me and fiercely whispered (she thought she was whispering quietly but she wasn't!)
"Vuoi forse che si infanghi la nostra eredità? Già me li vedo, i titoli dei giornali: 'Persino i Valgelsi sono Made in China"
Do you want all kind of talks about our heritage? I can see the headlines, Even our Valgelsis are Made in China!
I am hoping Dr Hargrove doesn't get rapid fire Italian. Anyways, unexpected didn't cover it - our entire family narrative had just acquired an asterisk.
What I found also interesting was the faded baby linen, which had an embroidered script in old Italian: "In reverente memoria delle anime defunte - Lian e Isabella, che vegliate su Luciano." ('In reverent memory of the departed souls - Lian and Isabella, may you watch over Luciano.').
Luciano. Luciano Valgelsi, the architect of our fortune. Son of a Chinese man named Lian and an Italian woman named Isabella. So it looks like when the Valgelsi couple brought this baby to Britain they knew who his parents were and also respected their memories - this presented a different image of the story than what my Great Aunt Sophia had pictured. I'd heard her arguing fiercely with Grandpa and demanding to move these 'dangerous' items to somewhere secure where it will never find daylight again- she thinks Luciano was very likely bundled out of Genoa to cover the extreme shame of his birth. Even after some secret research, they couldn't find an Isabella Valgelsi in either Britain or Genoa, so Grandpa and Great Aunt had come to a conclusion- Isabella's name was erased, her connection with a poor Chinese sailor boy hidden. Since they couldn't do a genetic check of Isabella or Luciano with Teresa or Marco, currently we don't know how Luciano is linked really to the original Valgelsi couple - Marco and Teresa.
Was Isabella their daughter or Teresa's or Marco's sister? What happened to Isabella? Even if a Genoese girl met a Chinese sailor boy from a trading ship and somehow ended up with a kid, why didn't they follow one of the many options that nobility pursued for unwanted or shameful pregnancies like dumping baby at a monastery? Why did Marco and Teresa store keepsakes of this couple, even a respectful message if Luciano's birth was shrouded in shame? Was Luciano even a Valgelsi? What if Luciano had no blood connection to Marco or Teresa? In that case, God, am I a Valgelsi really?
No answers.
I am sure Grandpa also thought through these lines and decided that answers maybe best not sought.
But it was different for me. Maybe because I had nothing else to do, maybe cos I haven't dated in a while or hung out much with friends and had been too much into movies lately, but I felt like when I'd touched the locks of hair while they were still on the table something happened-I was gloved, of course, but still.
That night the dreams came.
Not vague flashes. Full, vivid, merciless scenes.
A lemon grove under Ligurian sun, the air thick with citrus and sea salt. A tall handsome man in black silk, jade-green eyes, laughing as a woman with honey hair tossed a lemon at his head. Their fingers brushing as they walked, the kind of touch that carried five centuries of longing even in memory.
Rain-lashed shutters, a cabin in woods and a couple kissing in love and desperation.
A pistol shot and a man's furious shout. Blood blooming on silk. A woman's scream.A birth in shadows. A golden-skinned infant, dark hair, quiet eyes. A couple who carried the infant and waved to someone on the shores as they slowly sailed away.
And the most disturbing one - A woman alone in a room, wearing beautiful clothes, wrists opened, a serene smile on her lips, clutching a lock of black hair as life ebbed.
I woke gasping, chest aching as if the bullet had hit me instead. The visions returned every night after that-variations, sharper details. Their moments under stars. Him quietly going over ledgers, while she peeked and watched him nearby. Her joyful laughs and his serious smiles . A love that defied family, faith, and empire. The price they paid.
I didn't tell anyone. They'd have sent me to a discreet clinic in Harley Street. Instead I booked a flight to Genoa.
Grandpa wasn't thrilled.
"You're meant to be starting at Oxford next year," he said, pouring himself a finger of Macallan in his study. "Not chasing fairy tales across the Continent."
"It's not a fairy tale, Nonno. It's our history. Luciano-our ancestor- may not have been a true Valgelsi, don't you want to know more? The DNA doesn't lie."
He studied me for a long moment. "And you think you'll find what? A lost branch of the family? A hidden fortune? Or a story none wants to hear? We have been Valgelsis for last 500 years, Ragazzo Mio, and we will remain so. I see no point to your journey unless you're considering this a suitable break instead of a trip with your friends to our castello in Portofino. Mind you, when one year is one, I will be dragging you to your studies and to work with me - whether you find yourself related to a Chinese Emperor or a sailor"
"I get it Nonno, but think I want to find the truth. And maybe some answers about why I've been dreaming about them since I touched those hairs."
He sighed-the long-suffering sigh of a man who'd spent decades managing eccentric heirs. "Fine. One year. You'll have security-discreet, two men. They'll stay out of your way unless needed. And you will report to me, frequently. And if you require support-funds, contacts, anything-you call me. Not your father. Not your mother. You have my direct line."
I nodded and bowed slightly. "Grazie di tutto, Nonno,"
He raised his glass. "Don't get yourself killed chasing ghosts, nipote."
I smiled. "I'll try not to."
Now, at Heathrow, I settled into seat 1A on the British Airways flight to Genoa. Commercial, yes-because flying private is what we usually do and this time I wanted to feel adventurous and ordinary for once. Just another passenger with a laptop and a mystery.
As the plane taxied, rain streaking the window, I pulled up the photos on my phone: the brushes, the pendant, the embroidered cloth. The names burned in my mind.
Lian. Isabella. Luciano.
I leaned back, closing my eyes. *What the hell am I doing?* I could be sipping cocktails in Mykonos, charming heiresses at yacht parties. Instead, I was flying to Italy because my ancestors apparently had a secret Chinese-Italian love story that ended in murder and a baby smuggled across the sea.
The engines roared. The plane lifted.
A faint whisper brushed my mind-not quite my own.
*Find us.*
I opened my eyes, heart kicking. *Right. No pressure.*
I laughed under my breath. *If this turns out to be nothing, I'm blaming you, Nonna. You're the one who taught me blood remembers.*
But as London shrank beneath the clouds, I couldn't shake the feeling that something-someone-had been waiting centuries for me to finally listen.