The Unraveling of Julia

by Lisa Scottoline

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

#1 bestselling author Lisa Scottoline crafts a riveting psychological thriller in which a troubled young widow inherits a mysterious Tuscan estate, shrouded in secrets. Can she unravel the mystery before it unravels her? 

Lately, Julia Pritzker is beginning to think she’s cursed. She’s lost her adoptive parents, then her husband is murdered. When she realizes that her horoscope essentially foretold his death, she begins to spiral. She fears her fate is written in the stars, not held in her own hands.

Then a letter arrives out of the blue, informing her that she has inherited a Tuscan villa and vineyard - but her benefactor is a total stranger named Emilia Rossi. Julia has no information about her biological family, so she wonders if Rossi could be a blood relative. Bewildered, she heads to Tuscany for answers.

There, Julia is horrified to discover that Rossi was a paranoid recluse with delusions of grandeur, who believed herself to be a descendent of Duchess Caterina Sforza, a legendary Renaissance ruler. Julia is stunned by her uncanny resemblance to Rossi and even to Caterina, then she unearths eerie parallels between them, including an obsession with astrology.

Before long, Julia suspects she’s being followed, and strange things begin to happen. Not even a chance meeting with a handsome Florentine can ease her disturbed mind. When events turn deadly, she breaks with reality.

Julia’s harrowing struggle becomes a search for her identity, a race to save her sanity, and ultimately, a question of her very survival.
 
 

Release date: July 15, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) suspenseful (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1) dark (1) entertaining story (1) escapist/easy read (1) likable hero (1) realistic characters (1) rich setting(s) (1) strong heroine (1) terrific writing (1)

Sample

Julia knew something terrible was about to happen. Her knowing wasn’t conscious, but something she sensed and couldn’t acknowledge, even to herself. It felt like dread, but she’d never dreaded anything like this. Reflexively she tucked her arm under her husband’s as they walked down the street. It was dark and almost midnight, since they’d gone to dinner late.

Julia glanced over her shoulder, nervous even in the exclusive Rittenhouse Square neighborhood. No one was behind them. Twenty-First Street was lined with tall Victorian row houses converted to apartments, and TVs inside flickered like lightning strikes. Only a few people were out, hurrying home as they talked into earbuds, conversing with the night.

“You okay, babe?” Mike asked, leaning toward her. His hands were in the pockets of his overcoat, and he had on a suit since he’d been in court that day. His red hair caught a gust of cold wind, and freckles dotted his face like constellations.

“I’m fine, let’s go.” Julia couldn’t explain a feeling she didn’t understand. Their street was only steps away. Home was just around the corner.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, I feel… scared,” Julia answered, and as soon as the words escaped her lips, she knew the terrible thing was going to happen right now.

Suddenly a man came around the corner, blocking their path. A blue hoodie shadowed his face. He had on a black down jacket and jeans. In his hand was a large hunting knife, its blade lethally jagged.

Julia froze, terrified. The man grabbed her shoulder bag, but the motion yanked her toward him.

Mike lunged between them to protect her. The man thrust the knife into him. Mike groaned in agony as his head fell forward. The knife protruded from his chest, stuck gruesomely in his white shirt.

“No!” Julia screamed. Mike wobbled on his feet.

The man yanked the knife from Mike’s chest, and blood spurted from the wound. The man turned and ran.

Mike collapsed. Julia grabbed him and fell with him to the sidewalk. His blood sprayed them both, hideously warm.

Frantic, Julia covered his wound with her hands. Blood pulsed into her palms, then stopped abruptly. Mike looked up at her without seeing her, his gaze gone vacant. His blue eyes fixed like ice. His jaw eased open. He lay lifeless on her lap, leaking blood.

“Mike!” Julia shrieked, a primal wail echoing in the night, reverberating off the concrete.

Mike stared at the stars.

Seeing between them, forever.

Julia sighed, the only sound in the apartment. Mike’s funeral had come and gone, and her in-laws were back in Massachusetts. She wondered how often she’d see them now. There were no grandchildren to bind them, since Mike hadn’t wanted to try to get pregnant yet.

Babe, next year, I release the Kraken.

Today was the first day she’d made it to her desk. Every morning since his murder had been a unique sort of hell. She’d wake up, realize he wasn’t there, and remember why. He wasn’t at the office. He wasn’t playing basketball. He wasn’t in the kitchen making them both coffee, a kindness she was grateful for, every day.

Julia would remember things he said or did, having teary flashbacks. They’d met freshman year at Notre Dame, where he was a sports fanatic who took art history on a lark. He was clever and fun, and they clicked instantly. They married at the Basilica and moved to Philly, where she got an MFA in painting at Penn while he went to its law school. They became each other’s family and were blessedly happy, most of their fights over stupid things like March Madness, which she regretted now.

Mike, it’s only a basketball game. If we leave now, we’ll be back for the last quarter.

Babe, that’s the climax. Boys need foreplay, too.

Julia’s memories would keep her in bed, where she was the most miserable, and the more she remembered, the more miserable she’d be and the more stuck in bed. Getting up meant starting another day without him in a life that was Before and After. She lived an Afterlife.

Mike’s ashes were on the bookshelf in a brass urn, since he told her he wanted to be cremated in a conversation they both thought was hypothetical. Next to it sat a photo of him from his law school graduation, grinning in a mortarboard. It had been displayed at his funeral, but Julia thought no photo could capture Michael Aaron Shallette, who was so full of life, talk, and opinions.

He has the gift of gab, her father always said.

Her truest feeling was a deep sadness for him, not for herself. Mike got only thirty-two years and twenty-one days on the planet, and she raged at the injustice. Gone too soon and life cut tragically short were too generic for him. Mike set goals and announced them, always planning.

He wanted to be a father by thirty-four and he used to talk about their first child. He’d say, I’ll take a boy or a girl. Girls can hit three-pointers, too.

He used to talk about the BMW Z4 he configured online. Honey, I’m getting that car when I make partner. The website said so.

He used to talk about his lawyers league championship. Next year, Dechert goes down.

But Mike didn’t get next year. He didn’t even get next week, and that was what she mourned. Sorry for your loss, everyone told her, but he was the one who lost everything, and that killed her. She didn’t know if the word for that feeling was grief, or love.

Julia barely slept. She had nightmares that left her trembling. She’d see the man in the hoodie stepping from the darkness, the knife, Mike’s blood. Some days she’d get up, brush her teeth, and shower, but working seemed impossible. She had a small business designing and maintaining websites, but she could barely concentrate. Meanwhile, the financial pressure was on. She made $75,000 to Mike’s $250,000 a year, and his firm had already direct-deposited his last check. She had rent, student loans, credit card bills, and car payments. There was about $37,000 in savings, but $8,500 went for his funeral. Mike had only minimal life insurance because he was too young to die.

The police had no leads on his murder, and she routinely called the Homicide Division and the ADA. She’d given statements but didn’t have a good description of the killer because it had been too dark. His face had been shadowed by the hoodie, so she hadn’t seen his features and didn’t know his race or age. He hadn’t said anything, so she hadn’t even heard his voice. The ADA warned her to be vigilant when she went out, since she was an eyewitness, and it disturbed her that the killer knew what she looked like but she didn’t know what he looked like. She wouldn’t see him coming, so she stayed inside.

The guilt was a gut punch, and a loop of second-guessing ran through her mind several times a day. What if she hadn’t worn a designer bag? What if they hadn’t eaten so late? What if Mike hadn’t tried to protect her? Since the funeral, Julia had a constant stomachache. She thought it was something she ate until she realized it was pure, weapons-grade guilt, Catholic in origin. Mike had died for her.

A social worker had called, urging her to use Crime Victim Support. Julia ended up Zooming with a mother whose son was shot at a wedding, a man whose brother was stabbed in a bar, and a woman whose sister was strangled by a boyfriend. Julia listened to them in horror, crying with them. Her nightmares intensified, so she quit.

Her best friend Courtney made her see a therapist, Susanna Cobb. They had their first session, also on Zoom, and Susanna recommended a Zoom widow bereavement group, but that didn’t work, either. The other widows had decades with their husbands, and all Julia could think was how lucky they were. Plus the facilitator talked about “widow empowerment” and “interactive self-help tools,” when Julia felt neither empowered nor interactive. They told her to expect the occasional “griefburst,” but she lived in a griefburst. MOPING IS COPING read their slogan, but she coped way too much.

Since Mike’s death, Julia thought of her mother more and more. They’d been best friends, and Melanie Mortssen Pritzker was a warm and funny woman, a former NICU nurse devoted to Julia and filling her childhood with happy moments. Chasing foamy wavelets at the beach. Exploring the smelly darkness of the reptile house at the zoo. Nobody loved to bake more than her mother, and making a Funfetti cake was her birthday tradition.

Julia would never forget her tenth birthday, when the two of them huddled happily in the kitchen, sprinkling Funfetti into the batter. Her mother always mixed with a wooden spoon, old-school she said.

Her mother smiled. This is the happiest day of the year for me.

My birthday? Julia asked, surprised. She watched the red, green, and blue jimmies churn by in the batter.

Absolutely.

But you didn’t get me on my birthday. Julia had known she was adopted from when she was little. Her mother had told her with characteristic honesty, making it no secret.

True, but the world got you that day. Her mother’s hazel eyes twinkled. And I’m so happy you were born.

Julia still had questions. Do you ever wish I came out of your belly?

Her mother shook her head. No, not at all.

Julia wasn’t sure she believed her. Why not?

Other moms and dads don’t get to choose, but I got to choose you. I waited for you for a long time, and you’re very special. God wanted us to have you and He brought you to us.

Julia smiled, suffused with her own adopted specialness, but suddenly her mother frowned, her hand going to her forehead.

Ow, that hurts.

What, Mom? Mom?

Julia didn’t want to remember what happened next. Her mother collapsed to the floor, her eyes wide open. The wooden spoon lay where she’d dropped it, dripping cheery Funfetti batter. Julia had tried to shake her awake, but her mother was already gone, dead of an aneurysm that very moment, on Julia’s tenth birthday.

Her father died of a heart attack her junior year at college, but they were never close. Her mother was their family’s chirpy driver, and her father its taciturn passenger. A structural engineer, Martin James Pritzker shut down after his wife died. Julia stepped into her mother’s role, cleaning and making dinner, but she couldn’t make him happy. He was a Sigher, and she didn’t have to ask why. She knew he missed her mother.

Once a year, they endured the awful convergence of her birthday and the anniversary of her mother’s death. They would visit her mother’s grave, then go home and have lunch, talking neither about her mother nor her birthday. Her father would descend to his basement and watch TV with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which he permitted himself this day only.

Finally, when Julia turned fourteen, she found herself teary-eyed in the kitchen, making a Funfetti cake and mixing the batter by hand, then she took it downstairs.

Dad, look, I made—

What the hell is that? Her father turned in his leather recliner, a crystal tumbler in his hand. The TV showed a golf tournament on mute, its bright green fairway filling the screen.

It’s for her, Julia answered, instantly regretful.

Bullshit! It’s for you! Her father scowled, slurring his words. You made a cake, today? Your mother deserved better than you! Better than me!

No… Dad, Julia tried to say, stricken. I just thought—

You’re an ingrate! You should thank your lucky stars for her! All she wanted was a baby! And I couldn’t give it to her! She never shoulda married me!

Julia edged back to the staircase.

You wouldn’t be here but for her! You were her idea! The whole damn thing was her idea. I didn’t want you!

Julia’s heart broke that day. The Sigher had been sighing because he was stuck with her. She realized then that adoption gave you a family, but not necessarily a happy one.

Sitting at her desk, she realized how different her life was from other people her age. She was only thirty-two, but she’d already lost all the family she had. So far, her defining moments were marked by gravestones, not milestones. She wondered if grief acquired mass with loss after loss, like an avalanche rumbling down a mountain, gathering size and momentum, flattening everything in its path. Flattening her.

Julia came out of her reverie and glanced outside, since her desk sat against a window overlooking the street. Bundled-up men and women hurried to work laden with purses, messenger bags, and backpacks. Young mothers yakked on phones while they pushed strollers. Neighbors walked dogs, and runners ran by, checking watches.

Julia couldn’t imagine going Outside, among the people and the phones, the designer bags and the knives. She was afraid, but mostly she didn’t think she belonged there anymore. She belonged Inside, with her mourning and her memories, her voices and her ghosts.

But she had to get to work, today. She turned to her desktop, palmed her mouse, and opened her email account, which piled onto the screen. Her attention went to the oldest email, which came in on October 11, the day of Mike’s murder.

Julia shuddered, thinking back to that morning, which was like any other, then snapped out of it and made herself focus. The email was her daily horoscope from StrongSign, which she usually checked. She’d become interested in astrology after her mother died on her birthday, a fluke of fate if there ever was one, like a freak accident in a family. She often wondered if her own birth was an accident, too, given that she was put up for adoption. Sometimes she even wondered if she was cursed.

Julia opened the email and read the horoscope:

You’re a Cancer Sun, Sagittarius Moon, and Virgo Rising, and you love your home and family. Do not be alarmed but do be aware today. You or a loved one may be in jeopardy. Trust yourself today, and every day.

Her mouth went dry. The horoscope predicted Mike’s murder before it happened. Dumbfounded, she read it again and again, then the guilt, second-guessing, and self-recrimination started. If only she’d read the horoscope that morning. If only she’d trusted herself that night. Could she have prevented Mike’s murder? Would he be alive today? Was it her fault? Was it his fate? Was it hers?

Julia needed somebody to talk to, and she knew just who to call.

Every woman did.

Julia FaceTimed her best friend, and just the sight of Courtney Horan made her feel better. They’d met in drama club at their small Pennsylvania high school, where Julia felt weird being adopted and Courtney felt weird being biracial. They were on stage crew together, while Julia painted sets at a level of detail an amateur production of Annie didn’t require, and Courtney came into her own as stage manager, even standing up for Julia when a mean girl in the cast called her Little Orphan Julie. On the show’s opening night, Julia didn’t cry during “Maybe” because everyone was watching her, but she lived that song.

Their one mistake was giving up me.

After graduation, she and Courtney went to Notre Dame together, helping each other through bad boyfriends and Statistics I, and they got married around the same time, serving as each other’s maid of honor in real Jimmy Choos.

No knockoffs for us!

Julia’s phone screen showed Courtney in aviator glasses that emphasized her striking green eyes and prominent cheekbones. Her skin was a poreless light brown, her thick black hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She wore almost no makeup, naturally pretty in a navy Patagonia fleece and white cotton turtleneck and jeans. She was sales manager for an office equipment company, on the road constantly, a creature of the airport lounge, where Julia found her today.

“Courtney, do you have time to talk?”

“Totally, I’m on another delay.” Courtney smiled. “How’s my girl?”

“I have something to tell you. My horoscope predicted Mike’s murder.”

“What?” Courtney’s eyes widened. “That’s not possible.”

“Listen to this, from October eleventh.” Julia read her the horoscope. “Well? I’m not crazy, am I? It says what I think, doesn’t it?”

Courtney blinked. “It really says ‘be aware’? A ‘loved one in jeopardy’?”

“Yes, and I told you, right before it happened, I knew something was wrong.” Julia remembered the feeling, the dreadful knowing. “I had a premonition, straight-up, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t trust it. The horoscope says I have to trust myself and—”

“Stop, hold on. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Why not? I should’ve said something when I had that feeling. If I’d trusted myself—”

“No, Jules, that’s wrong.”

“—I could’ve warned him.” Julia was upset all over again. It felt like a confession, but she was already guilty.

“What difference would it have made?”

“He could’ve moved aside. I could’ve screamed sooner. People could’ve come.” Julia’s gut twisted. “Anything could have happened. Anything else.”

Courtney scoffed, shaking her head.

“Plus if I’d read the horoscope, I would’ve made different choices. Not go out to dinner. Order in. Cook. He’d be alive today.”

“Mike didn’t die because of a stupid horoscope.”

“Don’t you believe in astrology? I thought you did.”

“Not like this.” Courtney’s expression softened. “Look, I believe there’s a lot of things we don’t understand. I believe in God, and He does work in mysterious ways. I know it’s a cliché, but I believe it.”

Julia had gone to church when her mother was alive, but not since. She’d lost her religion on her tenth birthday.

“Everything happens for a reason. Another cliché, but it’s true.”

Julia couldn’t imagine the reason God would take Mike in such a horrible way.

Courtney frowned. “Jules, you look tired. How are you sleeping?”

“I’m okay.” Julia glanced at herself on the screen. She used to be cute, but she’d lost weight and her face was too thin. Her blue eyes had dark circles underneath, and there was a reason her dirty blonde hair looked dirty.

“You’re out of pajamas. Good for you.”

“Right?” Julia had on a house sweater and yoga pants that could use a laundering, but the washer-dryer was in the basement, which creeped her out these days.

“Anything new on Mike’s case?”

“Not yet.”

“You can’t be okay in the apartment with all his stuff.”

“I like his stuff.” Julia loved Mike’s stuff. His headset and gaming console sat beside the monitor. His puffy coat and backpack hung by the door. His ChapStick tubes rolled on the kitchen counter. Most of their kisses had been Classic Spearmint. Last Thanksgiving, she bought him Pumpkin Pie flavor, which he didn’t like.

What, no turkey flavor?

Courtney was saying, “Let me help you pack it up. I can make a quick trip to Philly. We can put it in storage.”

“No, thanks.” Julia couldn’t bear the thought of storing Mike. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, but I worry about you.” Courtney cocked her head. “Did you think about moving to Chicago? You could be near me. There’s nothing keeping you in Philly.”

Julia knew it was true. Most of their friends were Mike’s. He was the extrovert, not her. “I live here. We picked this apartment together.”

“Come on, we’d love to have you. We could hang like we used to.”

Julia cringed. They’d been a foursome at school, not a threesome. “You’re never home anyway.”

“What are you going to do for Christmas?”

Julia didn’t want to go there. “Could we get back to the horoscope? I mean, it predicted his murder.”

“Let me see for myself.” Courtney started typing on her laptop. “Okay, I’m on StrongSign. Oh look, a pop-up. It says I can ask the stars a free question.”

“So, ask.”

“Okay. When’s my fucking flight?”

The morning sun slipped through the blinds, waking Julia up, and she groped for her phone to check her horoscope. In the past six months, she’d gone full astrology girlie. She always read her StrongSign horoscope, then checked three other astrology sites. She’d become Queen of In-App Purchases and she asked the stars ten questions a week. She did natal charts for herself, Mike, Courtney, Paul, Jennifer Aniston, and other random celebrities. She memorized her customized annual reading. She learned words like sextile and trine like they were SAT vocab.

Julia opened StrongSign and read today’s horoscope:

Your luck is going to change today. You are stronger than you know. Trust yourself. It is only the beginning.

Whoa. Julia sat up, astonished. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was an amazing horoscope, and so specific. The last horoscope she’d gotten like that was on the day of Mike’s murder. Too often they were generic affirmations, like integrate past lessons and determine what belongs to you and don’t be self-critical.

Julia blinked, her mind racing. If her luck was going to change, then something really good was going to happen today. She wondered what, and her first thought was that the police would catch Mike’s killer.

Yes! Her heart lifted with hope. So far there hadn’t been any leads, and she’d been worrying they’d never find him, as if Mike didn’t matter at all.

Maybe today was the day.

Julia believed.

Julia gulped breakfast, avocado on Ezekiel toast, and read her horoscope again and again, her brain afire. She could barely wait until nine o’clock, when she called her contacts on Mike’s case to see if there was any news. Neither answered, so she left messages.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and tried to start the day. She had to get the mail because she was expecting a check for eight hundred dollars. Then she crossed to the door, got her key from the woven bowl, and undid the deadbolt. She stalled, nervous whenever she left the apartment. She’d barely gone out since Mike passed. She bought everything online, even groceries. She ordered takeout on Seamless so she didn’t have to talk to anybody.

She braced herself, opened the door, and peeked into the hallway. No one was there. She stepped out and locked the door behind her. She hurried down the stairs, reached the ground floor, and opened the door to the entrance hall, propping it ajar with her foot. On the left was a panel of stainless-steel mailboxes, and their mailbox was the third; APT 2 PRITZKER/SHALLETTE, read the label in Mike’s neat printing.

Babe, I put your name first. Happy wife, happy life.

Julia unlocked the box and pulled out the mail. The check hadn’t come in. There was only a bill from PECO and a yellow plastic envelope from DHL. Weird, she never got international mail.

She closed the mailbox, locked it, then slipped back through the door, making sure it locked. She hurried upstairs, reached her apartment, unlocked the door, and went inside, locking it again.

She crossed to the table and sat down with the DHL envelope. The return address was Massimiliano Lombardi, Studio Legale, Via Santa Maria alla Porta, 5, 20123, Milan MI, Italia. She didn’t know anybody in Italy. She opened the envelope and inside was a sheet of old-school embossed stationery, which read:

Ms. Julia Pritzker:

I am an attorney representing the estate of Signora Emilia Rossi. Client Rossi has left a significant monetary bequest to you, in addition to a property located at Via Venerai 282, Chianti, Italia, including a villa, vineyard, and land.

Please contact my office as regards this inheritance. I have been trying to contact you via email.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Very kindly yours,

Massimiliano Lombardi

What? Julia read the letter again. It sounded like one of those scams from Ethiopian princes. She didn’t know who Emilia Rossi was. It had to be a scam. She rose with the letter, crossed to her desktop, and searched her email for Massimiliano Lombardi or Emilia Rossi. No emails from either.

She navigated to her spam folder, and two emails popped up from Massimiliano Lombardi. She opened the most recent, and it was the letter verbatim. So Lombardi had been trying to reach her. She opened his earlier email. It was a copy of the letter, too.

Huh? Julia racked her brain but didn’t know any Emilia Rossi. She picked up her phone to call Lombardi, then realized she didn’t know how to call internationally. It was a different time zone, too. She googled both answers.

Julia pressed in Lombardi’s number, then remembered:

Your luck is going to change today.

Mr. Lombardi? My name is Julia Pritzker. I’m calling about Emilia Rossi.”

“I’m delighted to hear from you. I have been trying to reach you, Ms. Pritzker.”

Miz Preet-zker? Julia thought Lombardi’s accent sounded Italian, but she couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. “Are you really a lawyer?”

“Of course, yes. I am one of the most well-respected estates attorneys in Milan. I wrote to inform you that you are a beneficiary of my client Emilia Rossi.”

Yeah, right. “So this is real?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“I don’t know Emilia Rossi.”

“Pardon me?”

“I have no idea who Emilia Rossi is. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Lombardi fell silent a moment. “She has bequeathed you a very considerable sum, a villa, and property.”

“She can’t have, I don’t know her.”

“A distant relative, perhaps?”

“No, it must be a mistake.”

“Ms. Pritzker, there is no mistake.”

This has to be a scam. “What do you want from me? Money?”

“No. On the contrary, I’m obligated to send you a distribution after probate is complete.”

This guy is good. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Ms. Pritzker.” Lombardi’s tone stiffened. “If you wish to review my bona fides, please consult our website, Lombardi & Palumbo, Studio Legale.”

Julia typed it into her laptop, and a website popped onto the screen, showing two older lawyers in a modern office in front of a cityscape. Still, she made websites for a living, so she knew it could be fake. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“Ms. Pritzker, I assure you, I am genuine.”

“But I don’t know any Emilia Rossi.”

“There must be someone in your family you can ask.”

Julia blinked. “My parents have passed, and I’m adopted. I don’t know anything about my biological family.”

“So you cannot say you are not related to Emilia Rossi.”

“Well, no,” Julia said, realizing it was theoretically possible. “But in Italy? How could I be related to someone in Italy?”

“In any event, I intend to see that distribution is made to you as soon as possible. Probate will take several months under Italian law, due to taxation and such. In total, your bequest amounts to three million, two hundred thousand euros.”

Wait, what? Julia gasped, stunned. She must’ve heard him wrong. “How much?”

“Your bequest is three million two hundred thousand euros, which is roughly the same in dollars.”

“Are you serious?” Julia’s mouth dropped open. Her mind reeled. It was like she won the lottery if it was true, which it couldn’t be. “That’s impossible!”

“Ms. Pritzker, I have a meeting and I cannot be late.” Lombardi cleared his throat. “You may take possession of the villa immediately, and I will draft the necessary papers. If you wish, I will have my assistant fly you to Milan and book you at a hotel near my office. You could sign the papers, then travel to your property. I could arrange a car.”

Oh my God. Julia’s head was spinning. “Where’s the house again?”

“The villa is in Chianti, and the property is twenty hectares, about forty acres.”

“Forty acres?” Julia asked, trying to get a grip. “Plus I thought Chianti was a wine.”

“Chianti is a province in Tuscany, outside Florence. Sangiovese grapes are grown in Chianti province. Authentic Chianti can be made only there. My wife is Tuscan.” Lombardi’s voice warmed. “Tuscany is very beautiful, and we go often.”

“I can’t believe this.” Julia shook her head, unable to process it fast enough.

“Should you wish to sell the villa, I can engage a realtor for you. He can ascertain the value of the property better than I.”

“And I get a house on top of the money?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Holy shit!” Julia blurted out, dumbfounded. It was an enormous inheritance, if a total mystery. “But I don’t know Emilia Rossi.”

“I could also assist you to investigate your familial connection to her. I have a family investigator I use. I can include him in our meeting, if you wish.”

“I wish!” Julia felt a surge of excitement. The prospect of learning about her biological parents made her heart race. She’d wondered about them her wh. . .