Chapter 9 – The Missing Photograph

Two weeks passed.

The autumn leaves outside the Santoro estate turned a brilliant, fiery red.

The mansion, once a cold fortress of duty and fear under Victoria’s influence, had transformed into a home.

My father had officially moved into the guest wing. He spent his mornings playing chess with Mr. Santoro on the back patio, the two men bonding over old memories and shared survival.

Rosa was happily tending to her rose bushes at the cottage, humming Spanish lullabies to the soil.

I had been officially promoted from housemaid to Estate Manager.

I now had an office, a salary that made my jaw drop, and the respect of every staff member who remembered how I had stood up for Mr. Santoro.

It was a Tuesday afternoon.

I was in my new office, sorting through a box of old estate records that Victoria had shoved into the attic.

I wanted to make sure she hadn’t hidden any other nasty surprises.

At the bottom of the dusty cardboard box, beneath old catering receipts, I found a small, locked wooden cedar box.

It had no key.

I frowned, tracing the smooth wood.

I carried it down the hall to Nico’s private study.

The heavy mahogany doors were open. Nico was sitting behind his massive desk, reviewing shipping manifests.

He looked up and smiled when I walked in.

“Sophie. Everything alright?”

“I found this in the attic records,” I said, setting the cedar box on his desk. “It was buried under Victoria’s old files.”

Nico’s smile faded.

He inspected the box. “This was my mother’s. She kept old photographs in it.”

He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a small steel letter opener, and expertly popped the brass hinges off the back of the box.

He lifted the lid.

Inside were dozens of old Polaroids.

Pictures of Nico as a baby. Pictures of Mr. Santoro smiling on a boat.

But right on top, face up, was a photograph that made Nico freeze completely.

I leaned over to look.

It was a picture of a young woman standing in front of the estate gates.

She had dark hair, bright eyes, and she was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket.

But it wasn’t Nico’s mother.

“Who is that?” I asked softly.

Nico picked up the photograph. His hands were shaking.

He flipped the picture over.

Written in faded blue ink on the back were two words:

My sister.

Nico stared at the ink.

“My mother was an only child,” Nico whispered. “She didn’t have a sister.”

I looked closer at the photograph.

The young woman was wearing a very distinct piece of jewelry.

A silver locket. Oval-shaped.

My heart skipped a beat.

“Nico,” I said, pointing at the picture. “That locket… I’ve seen it before.”

Nico looked at me sharply. “Where?”

I swallowed hard.

“The night of the engagement party. When Rosa was crying in the kitchen. She… she was holding a locket exactly like that one.”

Nico stood up so fast his leather chair slammed into the wall behind him.

“Rosa?” he asked.

“Yes. She said she was cleaning it. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

Nico didn’t wait.

He grabbed the photograph, marched past me, and headed straight for the back doors leading to the gardens.

We were going to the cottage.

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