The Solitary Solitaire

I couldn’t take her anymore. She asked stupid questions. Selfish questions. Inappropriate questions, like; “Why are you still single? Are those real? When are you having kids? You look horrible, are you okay? How much money do you make? Where are you actually from? Why don't you drink? Did you plan It? Isn't that a little expensive for you? You are so quiet, why don't you talk?”

As much as I wanted nothing to do with her, I couldn’t shake her. There seemed to be no getting rid of her. She knew my secret. She knew she had one over on me. The fact that I had been able to hide my past decision, my issue, for as long as I did, I was grateful. Even thankful? But to whom? To myself? To fate? To God? She thought it was her, I should have thanked her. Like she was owed, like I owed HER something. The fare must be paid. “Oh, mere mortals, bow down to the false idol” I would not curtsy or bow. I didn’t want to pay. I already had. Oh, how I paid. I didn’t want to go anywhere with her again. I didn’t want to get on her train; it was a dead end. I had already said goodbye once to my own flesh and blood and saying goodbye to her was long overdue. It sounded easy to do, but it wasn’t. That someone was Sofia Kline, my "friend" from our college days.

I had met Sofia in Italy in May, the birthplace of my ancestors, at a café called Laverna in the Travestere neighborhood of Rome. We quickly became friends, she was another Bostonian vacationing overseas, with her easy laughter and supposed non-judgmental ear, she became my sole repository of my truth. I had poured out my story one wine-softened night, and Sofia had held me, calling it a tragic secret to be buried. Sofia, with her sharp smile and sharper eyes, had always been the one who knew too much.

I had carried the weight of “IT” since I was twenty-two, on that trip to Italy that ended in a blur of hospital white and foreign voices. The baby, they said, did not survive. They gave me a diamond, a blue-white solitaire, “A token from the father," a nurse had whispered—and a photograph slipped into my bag without explanation.

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Carmela Scarcella had built her life like a fortress—impenetrable, and utterly alone. At 42, she had lived in the shadows of life. She had very few friends and lived in the quiet suburb of Boston called Bedford, working as an archivist at a small museum, cataloging forgotten relics of the past. Her days were filled with dust and silence, a deliberate choice to bury the chaos of her young adulthood. She fled, constructing a life of quiet order, far from the Mediterranean light. She couldn’t mask the smell of the secret family recipes of Rome with the old, archived documents and worm ridden parchment that surrounded her. But secrets have a way of illuminating themselves, especially when someone else holds the candle.

They’d meet for coffee every few months, a ritual she dreaded but couldn't avoid. Sofia's questions were always probing, laced with that knowing glint:

"How's life treating you, Carmela? Any ghosts from the old days? Relax, we’re the only ones who know, Carm” Sofia soothed, her hand steady on Carmela’s trembling one.

Carmela would force a laugh, but inside, her stomach was knotted and twisted. That secret had bound them together for over 22 years, a chain forged in the shadow of a warm rainy night in Rome.

It all resurfaced with a package, delivered anonymously to Carmela’s doorstep on another warm rainy evening in Bedford. Inside was another old photograph, yellowed and creased. The backdrop was unmistakably Italian—a sun-drenched piazza, a sliver of a terracotta roof. In it, a woman with eyes like dark honey her smile tentative, almost fearful holding a newborn swaddled in white linen, tiny fists clenched in sleep. The baby's face was a blur of innocence, but she recognized it instantly—the child she had never named, the one she had left behind. The one they all said, died. Around her neck was a diamond, the blue-white solitaire, the one they said was from the father. Scrawled in faded ink on the back was a single word: Rosaria and an Italian signature, worn and barely legible: Dottore. Marco Morabito, Ostetrico. A midwife's endorsement, from a clinic long since shuttered. Carmela’s hands trembled as she held it. This wasn't just a reminder; it was a threat.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Sofia: Missed our chat last week. Coffee tomorrow? We have so much to catch up on.

Carmela’s heart raced. Sofia knew everything and everyone—or at least, Carmela had always believed she did. After graduation and her father’s passing, Carmela backpacked through Europe finally arriving in Rome. On those hot summer nights, with the sweat of carnality, Carmela and Sofia would party into the wee hours of the Bacchanalian Roman night. Carmela in her modest and demure American attire and Sofia in her high-fashioned Milanese outfits. Sofia would introduce her to friends and acquaintances she had already met. She would dance, as if she was the center of the world. One of those acquaintances was an olive-skinned young man with coarse black hair named Vittorio, whose name sounded like a song itself. Carmela had fallen into a whirlwind affair with this charming art dealer named Vittorio Caciocavallo. He would breathe and purr the song “Volare” in her ear. She fell for him hard, like in some “Three Coins in a Fountain” Movie. He promised the world but delivered only heartbreak—and an unexpected pregnancy. Panicked, with no money and no future, Carmela confided in Sofia. Together, they found a discreet clinic on the outskirts of Rome, run by Dr. Morabito, who specialized in "arrangements" for desperate women.

But it wasn't an adoption. Not really. At least not in the way she, as an American would understand it. Vittorio had been involved in smuggling antiquities, and among his hidden treasures was a cache of uncut diamonds from a heist in Milan. In her desperation, Carmela had taken one—a single stone, worth enough to start over. She left the baby at the clinic with Morabito, who promised to find a good home. Sofia had witnessed it all, even helped forge the paperwork. The signature was Morabito's, but the name on the birth record? Rosaria. A name Carmela had whispered once, in a moment of fleeting tenderness. Before leaving, returning to America, she was informed that the baby had died.

For years, Carmela convinced herself that the child – Rosaria, was safe, raised by strangers. The stolen diamond funded her new life when she returned to America, cut and sold piecemeal through black-market channels. Sofia, ever the opportunist, had taken a cut for herself, for her silence.... Who else knew?

The next day, they met for coffee at Macchiato’s the neighborhood coffee café that reminded Sofia of Italy. Sofia slid into the booth with her usual arrogant poise. "You look tired and wornout, Carm. Bad dreams?"

Carmela gripped her cappuccino, the steam rising like a veil. "Cut the crap, Sofia. Did you send it?"

Sofia's rodentine eyes caked with mascara widened in mock surprise. "Send what? Oh, come on. If I wanted to stir things up, I'd do it face-to-face."

But Carmela saw the flicker -- the lie. As they talked, Carmela’s mind raced. The photo was from Morabito's files; she remembered posing for it as "proof of handover." In the photo was the diamond, the singular blue-white solitaire, the keepsake for the daughter she never knew.

Carmela had already decided she was going to end this poisoned relationship. First, she would finally have to uncover the truth that Sofia had helped her bury, no matter what the cost.

That night, Carmela dug through her attic, unearthing a hidden locked lacquer box of mementos. Among them, a faded letter from Morabito, confirming the "placement." But as she reread it, a chill set in. The signature matched the photo, but the wording was off. Rosaria non è persa. Rosaria is not lost.

For over twenty years, this photo had lived in that locked lacquer box alongside the blue-white solitaire diamond. The objects were loose and cold, with a slip of paper bearing the worn signature: Marco Morabito and the message.

The only other person who knew the box existed was Sophia.

Paranoia gripped her. She started noticing shadows: cars lingering outside her house, anonymous calls with heavy breathing. Then, another package—a newspaper clipping from an Italian tabloid, dated a month earlier. Mistero della Figlia Scomparsa: Rosaria Morabito, Erede di un Impero di Diamanti, Svanita? Rosaria Morabito, “Heir to a diamond empire, missing?” Deceased, survived by a daughter. His obituary photo showed a man with a familiar, hawk-like profile. Marco Morabito. It was him.

Marco wasn't just a midwife. He was Marco Morabito, the son of a notorious gem smuggler. The clinic was a front. Carmela's baby hadn't been adopted; she'd been kept, raised as Rosaria Morabito, groomed in the family business. The diamond Carmela stole was a marker, a blood debt. She stared at the other diamond gifted to her, the rare blue-white solitaire and placed it back in the lacquered box.

Three nights later, she went to retrieve the photograph and found the blue-white diamond solitaire gone from the box. Only the photograph remained. And beside it, a new note, in handwriting, she knew intimately from a thousand grocery lists and birthday cards: Payment is overdue.

Sofia called that evening, her voice laced with urgency. "We need to meet. Now…. It’s about Rosaria."

Carmela agreed but not for coffee or espresso at Machiatto’s. “I’ll meet you at church like we used to in Italy”

As she headed out on that warm September rainy night, she armed herself with a kitchen knife, hidden in her coat. She headed to the old stone church, St. Margaret Mary on the outskirts of town, as rain pounded on the roof like accusations.

When Carmela arrived, the sacred smell of myrrh assaulted her senses. Gathering her senses a figured Emerged from beyond the long shadows of the flickered candles. It was Sofia.

"You knew," Carmela’s voice echoed in the old church. "All this time, you knew she didn’t die and wasn't adopted either. You helped Morabito keep her."

Sofia laughed, a cold, brittle sound. A sacrilegious cackle considering the surroundings. "Morabito paid me to bring him desperate girls. Your baby was perfect—his 'heir' after his wife died childless. The diamond was bait, Carmela. And you took it, and now Rosaria's come looking for her real mother... and her inheritance."

Standing all alone in this church only lit by votive candles, Carmela understood the true thriller was not in her past, but in the present. Her so-called friend held the key to Rosaria’s fate, and she had just stolen the only leverage Carmela possessed. The note wasn’t a threat from the past. It was a bill, presented by the person she had trusted with her secret. The payment, Carmela knew with icy certainty, would be demanded in more than stones. It would be demanded in silence, in continued lies, or in blood.

As Sofia’s laughter reverberated, two figures stepped out from the darkness: a young woman, in her early-20s, with Carmela's eyes and another older man who looked vaguely familiar.

"Mamma," she whispered, her Italian accent thick. "I’m Rosaria and I've waited so long to meet you. Where is the diamond? It was my father's, my father, Vittorio”

“Vittorio?” Carmela shockingly asked, looking at Vittorio for just a moment, remembering his beguiling smile.

“Hello Carmela after all these years we finally meet again. I’d hoped it would be under different circumstances” he said with his Sing Songy voice.

“Your friend, this traitor Sofia, has been playing both sides, blackmailing you while feeding me information. But what she didn’t know was that I found my real father"

“Is that what you think this is about, your father?” The diamond glistening from her neck.

“You greedy selfish woman. That diamond is mine, not yours!” Carmela finally cracked.

Rosaria lunged, struggling with Sofia for the diamond. Wrestling on the altar and screaming, Sofia pulled out a gun, a small Sterling .22 she fired once, the shot echoing down the pews, hitting Rosaria in the shoulder, she crumpled, blood pooling.

Carmela backed away, horror-struck. “Sofia you evil selfish bitch! How could you? You murderer”

“Back off Carmela” Sofia’s voice shrieked like a crow.

I’m sorry I didn't know Rosaria... I didn’t know you had survived” Carmela whispered.

“Put the gun down Sofia” Victorio demanded.

“This is my diamond” Sofia said interrupting the family reunion while raising the gun again.

“Your diamond? How dare you, you shot my daughter! Sei una bestia!” Vittorio yelled as his fury reverberated in the church.

In a flash, Carmela threw the knife, catching Sofia in the hand. The gun fell and clattered. Victorio grabbed the gun and kept Sofia at bay, like a rat in a corner. Carmela, her heart pounding, grabbed the diamond clutching it in her fist and ran to comfort Rosaria.

Rosaria smiled, chillingly serene. "I’m ok. It’s all good now. I finally found you; my mother and you have your blue-white diamond back. The loose ends are getting tied up. Tutto a Posto."

Sofia wasn’t Carmela’s friend or even her sanctuary. She was a collector and a predator who had sniffed out a young girl with a secret and waited, patiently, for the right moment to cash in. Rosaria had always looked for her mother Carmela. And Carmela believed down deep that the baby was adopted and hadn’t died. Vittorio tried to right a wrong with the young American girl many years ago. All the while Sofia had been the spider at the center of the web. Carmela had delivered herself into that web, mistaking compassion for greed.

As the police came and handcuffed Sofia, Rosaria was taken to the hospital by ambulance. Carmela reflected that she would have to start over once more. Learning that secrets never die—secrets they fester and before bursting with infection, must be cauterized. This time, an old faded Italian signature told its secret. And Rosaria? She would heal, as mother and daughter would mend lost years and hopefully get to know each other more intimately. Carmela possessed the blue-white diamond again. She’d always thought Vittorio had given it to her as a “token.” But it was Morabito who had given it to her, possibly as an act of penance for the theft of a life he procured. Now she possessed something more precious, a daughter long thought lost. The thriller was far from over.

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“I have carried this weight since I was twenty-two. They said that you didn’t survive. I was given a photograph and a diamond, a blue-white solitaire, as a “token, not some relic from the past but real living breathing hope. Now we finally have each other. You have found me and now I have found you. The poor choices I made, and the stolen years have now come to an end. Look! It has finally stopped raining! The sun has come out. I feel free, free like I can fly...Volare.”