Prodigy by Theft

Everyone called my sister Alessia a prodigy.I was the only one who knew she was a thief.From the day I moved back into the brownstone, she started taking from me. Quietly. Carefully.My designs. My sketches. My drafts.Everything I created would appear under her name before I even had time to finish it.The family stood behind her. Always.My father, Salvatore Lucchese, head of the family, his word law itself, said he believed Alessia.So I became the liar. The plagiarist. The disgrace.They threw me out of the outfit's front shop. Blacklisted me from the industry. Erased my name.Then one of her loyal admirers ran me down in the street.That was the end.Or it should have been.When I opened my eyes again, it was the day before the national jewelry competition.This time, I didn't draw a single line.Let's see what my darling sister delivers… when the well has run dry...."Viviana, you ready for this thing? Confidence level?"I blinked. The fluorescent lights above my workstation f

I worked on paper now. No screens. No files. Nothing that could be copied by whatever mechanism Alessia had weaponized against me.The design came together slowly at first, then all at once—the way real work does when you stop second-guessing yourself. A ring. The band was braided rose gold, thin as a whisper, wrapping around itself in a pattern that suggested something alive. The setting held a white gold orchid, petals cupped around a violet diamond so deep in color it looked like frozen wine.I called it Violet's Kiss.The paper was still warm from my hand when I heard someone gasp across the office."Did you see? Alessia just posted another piece. Absolutely stunning."My fingers went cold."It's incredible. How does she do it so fast?""Viviana, your sister's unreal. You must be so proud."I pulled out my phone. Alessia's Instagram stared back at me. Posted six minutes ago—a clean, professional photograph of a design that made my stomach drop.Violet's Kiss. New work. More to come

The bus took six hours. I watched the landscape shift from city steel to the tired sprawl of suburbs to the kind of open country where cell service gets unreliable and the air starts smelling like earth instead of exhaust.My grandmother was waiting at the station before I arrived. She must have been there a while—her silver hair had escaped its bun in places, and her coat was buttoned wrong, the way it always was when she dressed in a hurry. The sight of her, small and stubborn and already scanning the arriving buses with that particular intensity she brought to everything, made something crack open in my chest.I'd called her the night before. Hadn't said much. "I want to come home, Nonna," I'd managed, and then the silence had stretched long enough that I thought the call had dropped."Then come," she'd said finally. "I'll make the braciole. The one with the egg inside. You remember."I remembered. I remembered everything about her kitchen—the garlic smell that lived in the curtains

The brownstone looked the same. That was the first thing I noticed. Same brick facade. Same iron railing. Same light burning in the dining room window. As if the house itself was indifferent to everything that had happened inside it.I stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, the bracelet cool against my wrist, and let myself feel nothing.The door was unlocked. It always was—Salvatore considered locks a sign of weakness, a confession that you had something worth taking. The Lucchese household didn't lock doors. The Lucchese household was supposed to be untouchable.Inside, the three of them were mid-meal. Salvatore at the head of the table, Isabella at his right hand, Alessia across from her. The food was plated. The wine was poured. A family portrait that had never included me."Well." Salvatore set down his fork. "Look who remembered where she lives.""The prodigal daughter returns," Isabella said. Her tone was light, but her eyes had already done a full inventory of my appearance—t

The house emptied by nine. Salvatore's car pulled away first, then Isabella's, each departure a carefully timed exit designed to suggest importance. I watched from my window as the last taillight disappeared around the corner.Alessia's bedroom door was unlocked. She'd never needed to lock it—her possessions had always been protected by something more effective than a deadbolt. The family's favor. The family's blindness.The room was obscene. A canopy bed draped in pale silk. A vanity covered in products that cost more than my first car. Jewelry scattered across every surface like she'd been trying on pieces and couldn't be bothered to put anything away. The air smelled like roses and something else underneath—something sharp and medicinal.The bracelet on my wrist was warm.Not hot yet. Just warm. The way metal gets when it's been sitting in sunlight.I moved slowly, letting the bracelet guide me. Past the bed, past the closet, past the floor-length mirror that probably cost as much a