BITTERSWEET TASTE

CHAPTER 2:THE BOY WITH BLACK ROSES

BITTERSWEET TASTE

By Ambrosia Naidoo

I barely slept that night, and when morning finally arrived, I felt as though I had spent hours running from something I couldn't see. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photograph of the burning mansion, my grandmother standing beside a little girl who looked exactly like me, and the silver watch on the wrist of the mysterious figure hidden in the smoke. I kept replaying the stranger's message in my mind, especially the last sentence: Dante doesn't know yet that she's the one who survived. Survived what? The fire? Something that happened before it? And why did someone believe Dante had a right to know about me when I had spent nineteen years knowing almost nothing about him? Questions crowded my thoughts until even the smallest sounds in the apartment made me jump. By seven in the morning, I had abandoned any hope of getting more sleep and stood in front of my bedroom mirror, studying my reflection as though I might discover an answer written somewhere on my face. My dark hair fell in loose waves around my shoulders, and the shadows beneath my eyes made me look like someone who had spent the night investigating a murder instead of staring at old photographs. I washed my face, pulled on a pair of black jeans and a cream sweater, then returned to my desk and picked up the picture one more time. The little girl in the white ribbon stared back at me with the same dark eyes I saw every morning in the mirror. I tried to remember the garden, the mansion, or even the night of the fire, but my earliest memories were fragmented things: the smell of cinnamon in my grandmother's kitchen, the sound of Camila laughing in the garden, and a lullaby Nonna used to sing whenever thunderstorms frightened me. There was nothing about a fire. Nothing about the De Velantes. Nothing about a little girl who had apparently survived something so terrible that someone had spent years hiding the truth from her. I placed the photograph in a folder and slid it into the bottom of my bag just as Camila knocked on my bedroom door. "You're awake early," she said, leaning against the frame. Her eyes moved from my face to the bag on my bed. "Did you sleep at all?" "A little." "You're a terrible liar." "And you're annoyingly observant." Usually, she would have smiled at that, but this morning she looked worried. She crossed the room and sat beside me, taking my hand between hers. "I've been thinking about what happened yesterday," she said. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I know you're old enough to make your own decisions, but there are things about Nonna's past that frighten me, and I don't want you getting caught in something neither of us understands." Guilt settled heavily in my chest. I wanted to tell her about the photograph, the messages, and the invitation from Dante, but I knew she would try to stop me from going. "I understand," I said quietly. "I'm not going to do anything stupid." It was another lie, and somehow that one hurt more than the first. Camila studied me for a moment before pulling me into a hug. "Promise me you'll call if anything feels wrong." "I promise." She kissed the top of my head and left for work shortly afterward, reminding me to eat breakfast and lock the door behind me. I watched her disappear down the hallway, then waited until I heard the elevator before returning to my bedroom. The black box Dante had sent was still sitting on my desk. The black rose inside had begun to dry at the edges, its petals curling inward like tiny pieces of burned paper. I touched one gently, then folded Dante's note and placed it in my coat pocket. By eight that evening, I would either have answers or proof that I had made the worst decision of my life. Until then, I had an entire day to discover as much as I could about the man who had somehow become the center of a mystery that began before I was old enough to understand it. I spent the morning at the university library, searching newspaper archives for information about the fire at the De Velante estate. Most articles offered the same carefully worded explanation: a fire had damaged the property, Matteo De Velante had disappeared that evening, and the family had declined to comment further. One article mentioned that the authorities had investigated the incident but released no details about their findings. Another reported that Dante had been seventeen at the time and had been taken abroad shortly after the fire. That particular detail made me pause. Why would a seventeen-year-old boy leave the country immediately after his brother disappeared? I copied the date of the fire into my notebook and continued searching until I found an old photograph of the De Velante family at a charity event. Dante stood beside an elegant woman with silver-streaked dark hair, who was identified as Isabella De Velante, his aunt and the director of the family's charitable foundation. On his other side stood a younger man with an easy smile and a hand resting casually on Dante's shoulder. Adrian De Velante, his cousin. Matteo was in the center of the photograph, looking directly at the camera with a confidence that seemed almost careless. Dante, however, wasn't smiling. His gaze was fixed on something beyond the photographer, his expression distant and guarded. I stared at the picture for longer than I intended, wondering what could turn a boy into the man I had met in the rain. "Interesting family, aren't they?" a voice said behind me. I turned so quickly that my pen rolled off the table. A woman about my age stood beside the shelves, holding a stack of books against her chest. She had auburn hair, green eyes, and a smile that suggested she found the world endlessly entertaining. "Sorry," she said, lifting one hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm Sofia. I work at the front desk." "Shayna." Her eyes dropped to the photograph on my screen, and her smile faded slightly. "De Velante research?" "Something like that." "Be careful with those people." I studied her face. "You know them?" "Not personally, thank goodness. But my father used to work at one of their hotels, and he always said that the De Velantes were very good at making problems disappear." She lowered her voice. "He also said that if you ever find yourself involved in one of their family secrets, the best thing you can do is pretend you never heard a thing." "Why does everyone say things like that about them?" Sofia gave a small shrug. "Because rich people have a way of making everyone else nervous." She glanced toward the library entrance before leaning closer. "If you're researching the fire, try looking at local newspapers from the year before it happened. There were rumors about a woman who worked at the estate. Her name might have been Elena, but I don't know much more than that." My pulse quickened. "What happened to her?" "I don't know. My father never explained. He just said the family had a habit of keeping the wrong people close and pushing the right people away." Before I could ask another question, someone called Sofia's name from the front desk. She smiled apologetically and left me alone with the photograph, but her words remained in my mind long after she disappeared. Elena. I wrote the name in my notebook, then searched the newspaper archives again. It took nearly an hour, but I eventually found a small article about a woman named Elena Alvarez who had worked as a housekeeper at the De Velante estate nearly twenty years earlier. The article was brief, tucked into the corner of a page about a charity gala, but the name hit me like a sudden blow. Alvarez. My surname. The article included no photograph and offered only a few details, but it mentioned that Elena had left the estate unexpectedly after an incident that the family declined to discuss. I read the article until the words blurred, then took a screenshot and sent it to my phone. My grandmother's name had been Elena Alvarez. I knew that much. But I had never known she had worked for the De Velantes. For nineteen years, she had been the warmest, safest presence in my life, the woman who taught me how to make pasta from scratch and how to recognize constellations from our garden. The idea that she had once lived among the people she had warned me to avoid made my chest ache. I wanted to believe there was a reasonable explanation, something ordinary that had become distorted through years of gossip and family silence. But then I remembered the photograph, the fire, and the little girl holding my grandmother's hand. Nothing about this felt ordinary. By late afternoon, the sky had darkened again, and I returned home to change before the meeting. I chose a simple black dress beneath my coat, tied my hair back, and put the photograph inside my bag. I hesitated before leaving a note for Camila, but I knew she would immediately guess where I was going. Instead, I sent her a message saying I was meeting a university friend to study. The guilt in my stomach grew with every step I took toward the door. The Belladonna Hotel stood near the oldest part of Bellarosa, a magnificent building with marble columns, enormous windows, and a chandelier that glittered like a frozen waterfall above the reception desk. The place looked as though it had been designed for people who wanted the world to know they had money without needing to mention it. I arrived ten minutes early and immediately regretted my decision to come alone. The staff wore perfectly pressed uniforms, the guests spoke in low voices, and everyone seemed to recognize everyone else. I felt painfully out of place as I crossed the lobby, my boots clicking against the polished floor. A receptionist looked up as I approached. "Good evening. How may I help you?" "I'm meeting someone on the rooftop terrace." "May I have the name?" I hesitated. "Dante De Velante." Recognition flickered across her face, followed by something resembling concern. She picked up a telephone, spoke quietly for several seconds, then replaced the receiver. "Mr. De Velante is expecting you. The elevator on your left will take you directly to the terrace." I thanked her and walked away before she could ask anything else. The elevator doors closed, and I watched the numbers climb while my reflection stared back at me from the mirrored walls. I looked calm, at least from a distance, but my fingers were cold, and my heart beat so quickly that I wondered whether Dante would hear it when I stepped out. When the doors opened, a soft wind swept across the terrace, carrying the scent of wet stone and roses. The city stretched beneath me, its streets shining with rain, its windows glowing warmly against the darkening sky. At the far end of the terrace, beside a table set for two, stood Dante De Velante. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark trousers, and a watch with a black face and silver band. The same watch I had noticed in the photograph. His hair was neatly styled, but a few strands had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger than he had in the street. A single black rose lay on the table beside two glasses of water. He turned when he heard my footsteps. For a moment, neither of us spoke. His eyes moved over my face, then paused on the bag hanging from my shoulder. "You came," he said. "Don't sound so surprised. You invited me." "I wasn't sure you would." "Neither was I." Something almost like amusement touched his expression, but it disappeared before I could decide whether I had imagined it. He pulled out a chair for me. I ignored it and remained standing. "Before we do anything else, I want answers." Dante lowered his hand. "I expected that." "Who sent me the photograph?" "I don't know." "What happened to your brother?" His jaw tightened. "I don't know." "You expect me to believe that?" "Believe whatever you like, Shayna. It won't change what happened." I stared at him, frustrated by the way he could make every answer sound like another locked door. "My grandmother was at the estate the night of the fire. I have a photograph proving it. She was standing beside me, and I was a little girl. Why was she there?" For the first time since I had arrived, Dante looked genuinely shaken. His gaze sharpened, and the hand resting on the back of the chair tightened until his knuckles turned pale. "Show me." I opened my bag and handed him the photograph. He studied it without speaking. The wind moved through his hair, and for a moment, the carefully controlled expression on his face seemed to fracture. He looked at the burning mansion, at Matteo standing beside him, and finally at my grandmother. When he reached the corner where the little girl stood, his breathing changed. "Where did you get this?" he asked quietly. "It was delivered to my apartment." "By whom?" "I don't know. That's why I'm here." He looked up at me. "Does your sister know?" "No." "Good." Anger flashed through me. "Don't tell me what to do." "Then don't make the mistake of assuming you understand what you're dealing with." "I understand that my grandmother knew your family, that your brother disappeared, and that someone is sending me threats disguised as photographs. What I don't understand is why you seem more frightened by my grandmother than by the fact that someone is following me." Dante fell silent. For several seconds, he studied my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. Then he placed the photograph carefully on the table. "Because your grandmother wasn't supposed to be there," he said. "And because if she was, then everything my family told me about that night was a lie." A chill moved through me. "What did they tell you?" He looked toward the city, where the last daylight was fading between the rooftops. "That Matteo started the fire. That he had been involved in something dangerous and that he disappeared because he wanted to escape the consequences. My aunt said the family had done everything possible to find him, but there was nothing left to investigate." "And you believed her?" "I was seventeen, Shayna. My brother was gone, my family was falling apart, and every adult I trusted told me the same story. I believed what I needed to believe in order to survive." There was no self-pity in his voice, only a quiet exhaustion that made him seem older than twenty. For the first time, I wondered whether his coldness was something he had chosen or something the world had slowly taught him. "Why did you send me the rose?" I asked. His gaze returned to mine. "Because I needed to know whether you were brave enough to come here." "That's a terrible reason to send a stranger a mysterious box." "I never said I was good at making introductions." Despite myself, I almost smiled. Almost. "You could have simply asked to meet me." "Would you have come?" I didn't answer. He nodded as if my silence had confirmed something. "Exactly." He moved toward the table and opened a leather folder I hadn't noticed before. Inside were several photographs, old letters, and a newspaper clipping. He slid one of the photographs toward me. It showed a young woman standing in the garden of the De Velante estate, her arm around a little boy with dark hair. The woman was my grandmother. The boy was Matteo. They were both smiling, and the sight of that happiness made something twist painfully inside my chest. On the back, in faded handwriting, were the words: Family is not always the blood you are born with. "Matteo was close to your grandmother," Dante explained. "Closer than he was to most people in our family. She worked at the estate for years, but no one would tell me why she left or why she stopped visiting after the fire." I looked up. "Did she leave before or after the fire?" "The official records say before. My own memories say otherwise." "What does that mean?" He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time, he looked uncertain. "I remember seeing her that night. I remember her standing in the hallway, arguing with my aunt. Then the lights went out, and someone pulled me away from the stairs. When I came to, I was outside, the house was burning, and Matteo was gone." I stared at him, trying to fit his words together with the photograph in my bag. "Why didn't you tell the police?" "I did. They questioned everyone. My aunt said I was confused, that the shock had affected my memory. Eventually, I started believing her." "But you don't anymore." "No." He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "Three weeks ago, I received an envelope containing a photograph of Matteo taken after the fire. He was alive. The photograph was dated two days after the official report said he had disappeared." My breath caught. "You have proof he's alive?" "I have proof someone wanted me to believe he was." "That's not the same thing." "No, it isn't." He looked at me for a long moment. "That's why I need your help." I almost laughed. "You have an entire family empire, private investigators, and enough money to buy this hotel. Why would you need me?" "Because whoever is sending these photographs knows your family, and because my aunt has spent three years making sure I never get close to the truth. She doesn't know about you yet, at least not officially. If I investigate the Alvarez connection, she'll notice. But if you ask questions, she might underestimate you." "And what do I get in return?" I asked. "The truth about your grandmother. Whatever I find, you see it too. No secrets between us." I stared at him, remembering the warning on the back of the photograph. Especially if he tells you he loves you. It seemed absurd to think about love when I barely knew this man, yet the words had lodged themselves in my mind like a splinter. "I have conditions," I said. Dante raised an eyebrow. "Of course you do." "You don't follow me, you don't send people to my apartment, and you don't keep information from me simply because you think I can't handle it." "Agreed." "And if I discover that you're lying to me, I'm done." He extended his hand across the table. "Then we have an agreement." I looked at his hand before taking it. His palm was warm, his grip firm but not forceful. The moment our hands touched, I felt an unexpected awareness of how close we were standing, how his eyes held mine without the slightest hint of amusement, and how the city seemed to grow quieter around us. It wasn't love. It wasn't even trust. It was something far more inconvenient: curiosity sharpened by suspicion, attraction tangled with fear, and the unsettling sense that I had stepped into a story whose ending had already been written by someone else. Dante released my hand first. "There's one more thing you should know," he said. "My aunt is hosting a memorial dinner tomorrow evening. Every year, she gathers the family to remember Matteo, even though she refuses to discuss what happened to him. If your grandmother was connected to our family, there may be records in the estate that could explain why." "You want me to attend?" "I want you to help me find out what she's hiding." I shook my head. "Absolutely not. You cannot seriously expect me to walk into your family's home after everything you've told me." "I expect you to decide for yourself." He reached into his pocket and placed a small card on the table. It contained an address and a time. "If you change your mind, come at seven. If you don't, I'll find another way to investigate." I picked up the card, unsure whether I wanted to throw it back at him or keep it hidden somewhere no one would find it. Then I remembered the unknown sender's warning, the little girl in the photograph, and the fact that someone had already decided my future was connected to Dante's. "I'll think about it," I said. "That's all I can ask." As I turned to leave, Dante called my name. I stopped at the elevator entrance and looked back. He stood beside the table, the black rose lying between us like a small, dark secret. "Shayna, if anyone asks you about Matteo, don't mention the photograph taken after the fire." "Why?" His expression hardened. "Because the person who sent it to me is dead." Before I could ask another question, the elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside, and as the doors closed, I saw Dante turn toward the city, his face once again unreadable. I left the hotel with more questions than answers, carrying the photograph and the invitation to the memorial dinner in my bag. The rain had stopped, but the streets were slick beneath the streetlights, and the city looked strangely unfamiliar. I had barely reached the corner when my phone vibrated. A message from the unknown number. You met him. I stopped walking. Another message appeared. Now he will tell you whatever he needs to keep you close. I typed furiously. Who are you? What do you want from me? The reply arrived seconds later. Look inside the frame of your grandmother's portrait. My heart began to pound. I called Camila, but she didn't answer. I sent her a message telling her I was on my way home, then hurried through the rain-soaked streets, desperate to reach the apartment before another secret found me. When I finally arrived, I went straight to the living room and lifted the old portrait from above the fireplace. It was heavier than I remembered. I turned it over and examined the wooden frame, running my fingers along the edges until I found a small loose panel near the bottom. With trembling hands, I pried it open. Inside was a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. My grandmother's handwriting covered the page, and the first line made my blood run cold. If Shayna ever discovers what happened on the night of the fire, tell her the truth about her father before the De Velantes do. I read the sentence again, unable to understand what I was seeing. My father had died when I was too young to remember him. At least, that was what my grandmother had always told me. But beneath the first line was another sentence, written more heavily, as though the person holding the pen had been shaking. Her father did not die in the fire. He was the one who started it. I dropped the letter. Somewhere behind me, the apartment door opened. Camila's voice called my name. I turned toward her, unable to speak, the photograph of the burning mansion still lying on the table beside me. She saw the letter on the floor, and all the color drained from her face. "Shayna," she whispered, "where did you find that?" Before I could answer, someone knocked three times on the front door. We both froze. Then a man's voice came from the other side, low and calm, with a familiarity that made my skin turn cold. "Miss Alvarez," he called. "My name is Adrian De Velante. I believe we need to talk about Dante.