Chapter 3 - THE SILVER THIMBLE
The silence in the dining room shattered as Dante turned to his security detail standing by the doors. “Clear the room. The dinner is over. Julian, stay.”
Guests scrambled to their feet, murmuring in shocked whispers as they hurried toward the foyer. Bianca stood frozen, staring at the tarnished silver thimble resting on the rug.
I didn’t wait for permission. I dropped to my knees and snatched it up. The cool metal was dented on the side, exactly where my mother had dropped it on our kitchen tile ten years ago.
“How do you have this?” I demanded, standing up. “My mother hasn’t taken this off her shelf in weeks.”
Bianca’s eyes darted to Dante, pleading. “Dante, you have to understand. I was doing research. Authenticity requires immersion.”
“Immersion?” Dante’s voice was lethal. “Did you break into her home?”
“I didn’t break in!” Bianca shouted, losing her polish. “I used the spare key under the welcome mat. I just wanted to see where she worked. Where she painted. I needed the backstory for the press tour!”
I felt sick. The thought of this woman, in her designer shoes, walking through our tiny, cramped apartment, touching my mother’s things, watching our lives like we were animals in a zoo.
“The signature,” Julian interrupted, holding up the forged contract. “If you broke into her house, Bianca, where did you get this signature?”
Bianca lifted her chin. “She signed a receipt when I paid her for extra cleaning hours. I traced it.”
“That’s fraud,” Julian said, his hands shaking. “That’s a federal crime. I’m calling the police.”
“If you do that, your publishing house goes bankrupt,” Bianca snapped, turning on him. “The scandal will tank the book before it hits shelves. Retailers will pull it. But if we keep quiet? If we say Rose was a ghost-illustrator? The controversy will drive sales. You need this, Julian. You’re two months behind on your commercial lease. I saw the emails.”
Julian flinched, taking a step back. He looked at me, torn. He was a good man, but he was a desperate one.
“You hacked his emails too?” Dante asked, disgust radiating from him. He took off his engagement ring and placed it gently on the dining table. “We’re done, Bianca. Pack your things. Be out of my penthouse by morning.”
Bianca stared at the ring, the fight draining from her. “Dante, please. I did this for us. You come from a dynasty. I come from nothing. I needed a legacy. I needed to be someone worthy of the Romano name.”
“You are nothing but a thief,” Dante said. He turned to me. “Rose, I am so deeply sorry. Let me drive you home.”
An hour later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Dante’s town car. The framed portrait of my mother rested on my lap. Dante was quiet, respectful of my shock, but his presence was a steady, grounding force.
When we pulled up to the faded brick apartment building in Queens, I hesitated. “You don’t have to walk me up.”
“I want to,” he said simply.
We climbed the three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of bleach and old cooking oil. I unlocked the door, my hands trembling.
“Mom?” I called out.
The apartment was dark, except for the small lamp by the sewing machine. My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked tired, her graying hair pulled into a messy bun.
“Rosie? You’re home early.” She stopped when she saw Dante stepping in behind me in his tailored suit. “Oh. Hello.”
“Mom, this is Dante Romano,” I said gently. “I need to tell you something. About my drawings.”
We sat at the small laminate kitchen table. I told her everything. About the book, the stolen thimble, the forged signature. Through it all, my mother just stared at the portrait resting against the wall.
When I finished, I placed the silver thimble on the table.
My mother reached out and touched it. But she didn’t look angry. She looked utterly heartbroken.
“She didn’t trace your signature, Rose,” Mom whispered.
“What do you mean? I never signed that paper.”
Mom slowly opened the top drawer of the kitchen table and pulled out an old, faded photograph. She slid it across the table toward me and Dante.
May you like
It was a picture of my mother, thirty years younger, holding a toddler in her arms. But it wasn’t me. The little girl had bright, piercing green eyes. Bianca’s eyes.
“She didn’t trace your signature,” Mom repeated, her voice cracking. “Because her real name is Beatrice. And she’s your older sister.”
