Chapter 4 - The Letters in the Attic
The following morning, the blizzard cleared, leaving the Westchester estate sparkling beneath a brilliant, blinding blanket of white.
Alessandro did not go to his office in Manhattan. Instead, he stayed in his study, staring out at the frozen rose gardens where Lily was already at work, clearing the heavy snow away from the southern stone wall with a wide plastic shovel. Her rhythmic movements were steady, unbothered by the sub-zero temperatures.
Around ten o'clock, Walter knocked hesitantly on his door and stepped inside, holding a small, dust-covered wooden box.
"Found this while clearing out the old service quarters near the east attic, Mr. Romano," Walter said, placing the box carefully on the edge of the desk. "It was tucked away behind the water heater. It's addressed to you, sir. In Mrs. Romano's handwriting."
Alessandro’s heart skipped a beat. He stared at the box as if it were a live explosive.
"Leave it," he commanded.
Walter nodded silently and slipped out of the room.
For a long time, Alessandro didn't move. The box was made of cedar, bound with brass clasps that had tarnished with age. He reached out slowly, his thick fingers unlatching the lid. Inside lay a neat stack of envelopes, tied together with a faded green ribbon, and a single folded sheet of paper resting on top.
He unfolded the top letter. Elena’s familiar, elegant handwriting stared up at him from the page.
Sandro,
If you are reading this, it means my heart finally kept its promise to break, and I am no longer here to hold the family together when the winter comes.
Don't look at Ethan with pity. Don't surround him with glass and gold to keep the world away. A boy cannot grow roots in a museum. If he is going to walk, he has to feel the earth beneath his feet—even when it hurts, even when it's cold.
I hired someone to help you remember this. Her name is Lily. She doesn't care about your money, your security guards, or your corporate empire. She knows how things grow when everything looks dead.
Trust her, Sandro. And more importantly, trust our son.
Forever yours, Elena
Alessandro let the paper slip from his fingers. It drifted down like a falling leaf onto the polished mahogany desk.
He sat back in his leather chair, closing his eyes as a heavy, long-overdue wave of grief finally broke over him. For three years, he had believed his strength lay in his control—in his ability to wall off the pain, to buy protection, to rule his world with an iron fist.
Now, reading his dead wife's words, he realized he had been building a prison for the only two people he had ever truly loved.
He stood up abruptly, walked to the French doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. The crisp winter air hit his face like a slap.
May you like
Down in the garden, Lily had stopped shoveling. She was standing near the greenhouse, looking up toward his balcony. She wasn't smiling, nor was she afraid. She simply looked at him with an expression of quiet expectation, as if waiting for him to finally make a choice.
Alessandro turned back inside, picked up his heavy wool coat from the rack, and walked down the grand staircase toward the garden.
