I already know Dad isn’t my biological father.
I found that out two years ago when Johnny Calabrese kidnapped me.
But Dad explained that sometimes these things happen.
That Sophia had been with someone else before they got married, and it didn’t matter because he’d chosen to raise me as his own.
I’d accepted that explanation because I wanted to, because it didn’t really change anything between us.
But staring at this portrait now, I’m starting to wonder if there’s more to the story than Dad told me.
Except sitting here staring at this portrait, I realize how little I actually know about her.
Dad doesn’t talk about Sophia much, and when he does it’s usually just basic facts.
She died when I was seven, but even then I didn’t see her much.
She was always going to parties or locked in her room with headaches, more interested in beautiful clothes and social events than spending time with me.
I reach out and trace the painted curve of her cheek with my finger.
The canvas is smooth and cool under my touch.
If I think really hard, I can almost remember her perfume.
It was something expensive and floral that used to linger in the hallways long after she’d left a room.
But that might just be my imagination filling in blanks.
When she died, I didn’t really grieve. How do you mourn someone you barely knew?
Someone who felt more like a beautiful stranger living in your house than an actual mother?
Dad grieved enough for both of us, and Bella’s felt more of a mother or older sister to me in the last two years, even though Bella is only five years older than me.
But what was she really like?
What did she think about, dream about?
Did she love Dad the way Bella loves him now, or was their marriage something else entirely?
What was her relationship like with my grandfather?
He must have liked her or approved of her on some level if he accepted her into the family, knowing she was pregnant with another man’s child.
The longer I stare at the painting, the more questions pile up in my head and the more frustrated I get with how few answers exist.
It’s like trying to solve a puzzle when half the pieces are missing.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I need answers, and clearly no one’s going to volunteer them.
I’m done being the good little princess who waits patiently for scraps of information.
If Dad won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll make him tell me.
Or bully it out of one of his captains.
