“Hey. Did you run a marathon?” She sounded rough and looked the part, dressed in sweatpants and a washed out, oversized tee. Under normal circumstances I would have paid attention, but her face looked okay and her hair was its glossy self, so I figured it was nothing but post binge drinking depression or something. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t possibly beat my news.
“Guess what.” I kicked my high heels off and slumped onto the couch, minding her outstretched legs. She pushed them onto my lap and leaned back against the pillows with a bored sigh.
“You got sacked.”
“No.” Frowning, I shook my head. “Why would I be happy about that?”
Sylvie shrugged and let out another bored sigh. I made a mental note to help her find a job so she finally had some meaning in her life.
“I met with that lawyer today.” Of course that barely managed to spark a glint of recollection, as though it hadn’t been the subject of our obsessive compulsive speculation the night before. I stared at her, realizing even though she was sitting inches away from me, she wasn’t here mentally.
“Yeah?” She sounded about as interested as a five-year-old listening to a long and drawn out PhD thesis.
“Want me to switch on the TV instead?” I tickled her feet in mock annoyance, knowing she hated it.
She pulled her legs up to her chest and sat up. Her blue eyes glowered at me. “Sorry. I’m so tired and bored. This day’s been dragging on forever.” She had reached the unemployment slump. I nodded sympathetically. “I need something to do. Like—”
“Find a job?” I suggested. She returned my smile and I continued, “Or you could come with me to Italy. I know this magical place with mountains and lakes and the most amazing Tiramisu you’ve ever tasted.”
She eyed me carefully, not quite sharing my enthusiasm. “Another business trip?”
“Nope. I’m the sole heir of the Lucazzone estate.”
Her jaw dropped. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, and a frown creased her forehead. I could almost read her thoughts in her fast changing expressions, as she tried to make sense of my statement. Eventually, she said, “The Luzzone what? You don’t mean that place across the lake?”
Of course she was stunned. And in disbelief. I had been too, but speaking out the unspeakable helped me wrap my mind around the sheer incredulity of it.
“It’s Lucazzone,” I corrected her. “The attorney kept calling to arrange a meeting and discuss the will’s content. The old man, Alessandro Lucazzone, wants to meet me. Jake’s secretary’s booked two flight tickets for tomorrow night.” I jumped up and grabbed Sylvie in a hug. “We’re going to Bellagio. How about that?”
Her expression didn’t quite catch on to my enthusiasm. “Are you sure you’re not being scammed? You know, like getting an email telling you you’ve won or inherited a million, and then you’re supposed to enter your bank details.”
I shook my head, ignoring the urge to groan. “It’s a legitimate law firm. Jake never asked for my bank details. And may I remind you he knew my name, address and so forth prior to contacting me?”
From the glint in her eyes, I could she was having a hard time believing it. To be honest, so was I.
“You’re right,” Sylvie said. “But just to be on the safe side, let’s ask Doctor Google.”
She booted up her laptop, and I entered Clarkson & Miles in the search engine. After less than a second, a picture of Jake popped up along with his company’s details. A few minutes later, I found some mention of the Lucazzone Estate and that Clarkson & Miles had been the appointed law firm for the last five years. Everything looked legitimate.
“That’s him and that’s the estate,” I pointed at the screen and inched forward to regard the tiny picture of Alessandro Lucazzone and his deceased wife. Even though it was blurred, and probably old, I could make out a few details about her, like her stubborn jaw and the way her brows arched in a slight V shape, just like my father’s.
Maybe I was beginning to see similarities where there were none. Or maybe half of my family descended from Italy and no one ever bothered to tell me.
Sylvie leaned over me and sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus, Brooke. You’re rich!”
***
“Didn’t Jett take you to that place?” Sylvie asked.
“Bellagio?”
She nodded. Motioning her to wait, I poured two cups of café latte, grabbed the cookie box, and returned to the sofa, where Sylvie sat cross-legged, eagerly awaiting my full account. I placed the cups on the couch table and passed her a cookie dipped in milk chocolate—my absolute favorite.