“I suppose it is. At least for now.”

While Maria tidied up, I opened a few more drawers and rifled through an old shoebox on the top shelf inside the wardrobe. It contained store receipts.

“Sloane said that Anton was a hoarder,” I mentioned. “But this room doesn’t seem that bad.”

Maria responded with a dismissive scoff. “Sloane was exaggerating. I’ll admit, Anton’s study could be a catchall for books and papers. It was always a challenge to dust in there, and his studio hasn’t been cleaned out in decades, but for the most part, he was fairly organized.”

“His studio?” I asked. “What sort of studio?”

I jumped as my cell phone rang in my back pocket. Quickly, I pulled it out. “It’s a local number. Hello?”

“Is this Fiona Bell?”

“Sì.” I wandered to the window and gazed out at the pristine Italian gardens below and the rolling hills and mountains in the distance.

“Ah, bene. I’m calling from the Mancini Bank in Montepulciano. We just received a copy of your father’s will. I’m very sorry for your loss. We understand that you arrived in Italy yesterday?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

The gentleman paused. “Just to be clear, we’re not the bank he used for his financial accounts, so that’s not what this is about. I am calling because he kept a safety-deposit box here with us, and we have instructions to contact you about the contents in the event of his death.”

A spark of adrenaline lit in my veins. “Do you know what’s inside the box?” Is it the letters?

“No, I don’t have that information,” he replied. “It was a private box, but I do have the key, which I’ve been instructed to turn over to you. When do you think you might be able to come by?”

I checked my watch. “How about this afternoon? Where are you, and what time do you close?”

“We’ve just closed for lunch,” he explained, “but we reopen at three. We’re in Montepulciano, not far from Piazza Grande.” The gentleman provided the street address, which I repeated to Maria.

“It’s not far,” she said. “Marco can drive you.”

“Perfect.” I made an appointment for three o’clock, then Maria insisted that I come down to the kitchen for something to eat before I left.

“Cars aren’t allowed into the town,” Marco said, “so I’ll drop you off here.” He pulled over in front of a restaurant with an outdoor patio. “If you walk straight ahead, you’ll reach the piazza. Turn right and go down the hill next to Contucci Palace. You have your map?”

“Yes, thank you. I should be able to find it.” I opened the car door and got out.

“Take your time,” Marco said. “I’ll wait right here.”

I thanked Marco again and started walking, careful not to stumble across the cobblestones while I gaped in awe at the magnificent stone architecture on either side of the narrow lane.

When I reached Piazza Grande, I stopped and wanted to pinch myself, for I stood before the Palazzo Comunale, an impressive town hall with an imposing clock tower, and Santa Maria Assunta, an ancient cathedral to my right. Children played games in the center of the square, and sidewalk cafés were busy with tourists.

“Is this even real?” I said to myself as I crossed the sunlit square.

Beyond Contucci Palace, the cobblestone streets were narrow, steep, and winding. It was easy to lose my sense of direction, but I soon found my way to the little bank and ventured inside.

It wasn’t anything like the banks back home. The tellers stood behind an ornately carved walnut counter, and the floors were stone. I felt as if I’d stepped into another century.

“Hello,” I said to the first teller who looked up and smiled at me. “I’m Fiona Bell. I’m here about a safety-deposit box.”

The young woman perked up. “Ah, sì. You’re Anton Clark’s daughter. I’ll tell the manager you’re here.”

She disappeared into a back office, then reappeared with an older gentleman wearing a suit and tie. “Ms. Bell. What an honor. Thank you for coming at such a difficult time.” He laid a hand over his heart. “Your father entrusted me personally with the task of guarding the key to the box and handing it over to you.” He passed me a small envelope. “If you will follow me, I’ll take you to the vault.”

Other than the letters, I hadn’t considered what else might be inside the box. The fact that I’d received the phone call from the bank so quickly after my arrival in Italy made me wonder if Anton had predicted Connor’s and Sloane’s combative reactions and had taken the necessary steps to ensure that the letters didn’t fall into their hands. With such a tremendous amount of money at stake, he must have known they would make every effort to repeal his wishes. But who knew what else might be inside the box?

I followed the bank manager down a set of steep stone steps to a vault on the lower level. He removed the steel container from a locked cubbyhole and placed it on a table. “I will leave you alone,” he said, amiably. “When you’re finished, you can lock the box again and leave it here on the table. I will wait just outside.”

“Grazie,” I replied.

He walked out and closed the door behind him.

For a moment, I stared at the box. It was rectangular, long, and flat. Not very large but certainly big enough to hold a stack of letters.

Burning with curiosity, I reached into the envelope for the key and unlocked the box. I raised the lid on squeaky hinges but found it to be empty.

I spoke in a low voice. “Anton. Maybe you’re getting back at me as well—for ignoring you all these years.”

Lifting the box to carry outside to the manager—to let him know that it was empty and to ask if anyone else had a key—I noticed that something went clank at the back. My heart did a flip, and I reached deep inside to feel around. Right away, my fingers touched upon a cold, hard object. I pulled it out.

It was another key—a wrought iron, medieval-looking work of art.

I shook the box to make sure there wasn’t anything else I had missed, but this was it.

“You couldn’t have included a note with this?” I whispered to the ghost of my late father and wondered what keyhole it belonged to.

A short while later, I returned to Piazza Grande and found Marco waiting for me in the shiny black Mercedes.

“How did it go?” he asked as I got into the passenger seat and shut the door.

“Fine,” I replied. “He left me this.” I pulled the key out of my purse and passed it to him. “Do you have any idea what it’s for? Maybe an old chest? A secret room?”

Marco held it in his hands and examined it closely. “This is a very old key, Fiona. Too big for a chest, I think. It does not look familiar, but I was just Anton’s driver.” He handed it back. “Maybe Maria will know. Or her husband. Or Connor or Sloane.”

I slipped the key back into my purse. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not mention it to Connor or Sloane. We’re not exactly playing on the same team right now, if you get my drift.”

Marco started the engine. “I do. They’re not happy about the will. I won’t say a word.”