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      Benito Di Sione coming out of a casino, unshaven with the same straight black hair falling over the same navy eyes and clearly a little the worse for wear. On his arm the beautiful requisite blonde, who was not Matteo’s mother.

      Matteo doubted his father would have remembered who the woman was, whereas Matteo always remembered his lovers.

      On Saturday night her name had been Lacey and she had been gorgeous.

      He adored women.

      Skinny ones, big ones and anywhere in between. Matteo had a slight yen for the newly divorced—he had found that they were only too happy to rekindle that long-lost flame of desire.

      Matteo always made it perfectly clear that he was here for a good time not a long time and he was never with anyone long enough to cheat.

      The article had gone on to list the similarities between father and youngest son—the risk-taking, the decadent, debauched lifestyle—and had warned that Matteo was heading towards the same fate that had befallen his father—dead, his car wrapped around a lamppost and his wife deceased by his side.

      No, Matteo was not looking forward to speaking with his grandfather; after all, Giovanni often said the very same thing.

      He drove into the huge estate and looked ahead rather than taking in the luxurious surrounds, for they held few happy memories.

      Still, it was home and, as he parked his car and walked towards the mansion where the Di Sione children had been raised, he wondered as to his reception. Matteo stopped by fairly regularly and took Giovanni out to his club for lunch whenever he could.

      He knocked on the door simply to be polite but, as he did, he let himself in with his own key.

      ‘It’s Matteo,’ he called out as he opened the door and then smiled when he saw Alma, the housekeeper, up on a stepladder.

      ‘Master Matteo!’ Alma mustn’t have heard him knock because she jumped a little. She was working on a large flower display in the entrance hall and went to get down from the ladder but he gestured for her to carry on.

      ‘Where is he?’ Matteo asked.

      ‘In his study. Do you want me to let Signor Giovanni know that you are here?’

      ‘No, I’ll just go straight through.’ Matteo rolled his eyes. ‘I believe he’s expecting me.’

      Alma gave him a small smile and Matteo took it to be a sympathetic one. Of course she must have seen the newspaper when she had taken Giovanni his breakfast this morning.

      ‘How is he doing?’ Matteo asked as he often did.

      ‘He wants to speak with you himself,’ Alma said and Matteo frowned at the vague answer.

      He walked down a long hallway and then stood at the heavy mahogany door of his grandfather’s study and took a steadying breath, then knocked on the door. When his grandfather’s voice called for him to come in, he did so.

      ‘Hey!’ Matteo said as he opened the door.

      He looked not to his grandfather but to the folded newspaper that lay on Giovanni’s desk and, even as he closed the door behind him, Matteo set the tone. ‘I’ve already seen it and I really don’t need a lecture.’

      ‘Where does lecturing you get me, Matteo?’ Giovanni responded.

      Matteo looked up at the sound of his grandfather’s tired voice, and what he saw made his heart sink in dread. Giovanni looked not just pale, but so incredibly frail. His hair was as white as snow and his usually bright blue eyes seemed faded, and suddenly Matteo changed his mind—he wanted a lecture now! He wanted his grandfather to have brought him here to haul him over the proverbial coals, to tell Matteo that he must grow up, settle down and cease his hedonistic days. Anything other than what, Matteo had the terrible feeling, was about to come.

      ‘I’ve asked you to come here to tell you...’ Giovanni started but Matteo did not want to hear it. A master in diversion, he picked up the newspaper from his grandfather’s desk and unfolded it.

      ‘For all their comparisons they forget one vital piece of information,’ Matteo said. ‘He had responsibilities.’

      ‘I know that he did,’ Giovanni said, ‘but you have responsibility too. To yourself. Matteo, you are heading for trouble. The company you keep, the risks you take...’

      ‘Are mine to take,’ Matteo interrupted. ‘My father was married and had seven children when he died.’ He jabbed at the photo. ‘Well, seven that he had admitted to!’

      ‘Matteo!’ Giovanni said. This was not going as he intended. ‘Sit down.’

      ‘No!’ He argued not with his grandfather but himself. ‘For all they compare me to him they deliberately omit to mention that I don’t have a wife and children. I’d never put anyone through the hell he made.’

      He never would.

      It was a decision Matteo had made a long time ago.

      He was single and staying that way.

      Giovanni looked at his grandson and he worried for him.

      Fun-loving and charismatic, Matteo not only acted like his father at times, he looked like him too. They had the same navy eyes, the same straight nose and even their hair fell forwards in the same way.

      Giovanni, for his own private reasons, had never bonded with his son. He had never told anyone why; it was a secret he had intended to take to his grave.

      In the aftermath of Benito’s and Anna’s deaths, five-year-old Matteo, a carbon copy of his father, had been too much of a visual reminder of Benito for Giovanni and, rather than learning from his mistakes, he had repeated them, and Giovanni had kept his distance from his grandson.

      Matteo had run wild and that irrepressible personality had gone largely unchecked. When he had dropped out of college after just a year, a terrible row had ensued. Matteo had said that he didn’t need to be taught about the business world—playing the stock market was in his DNA and he wanted to set up a hedge fund rather than sit in lectures—and Giovanni had told his grandson that he was just like his father and that he feared he was heading the same way. Accusations that Matteo had not needed to hear and certainly not from his grandfather.

      It was too late to tame him. Giovanni had shouted at the young man, and Matteo had fought back.

      ‘You never once tried!’ It was the only glimpse Matteo had ever given to another of the pain he carried. ‘You never once fought for me,’ he had shouted. ‘You left me to roam this house and make my own way. Don’t act now as if you care.’ Yes, harsh words had been said and their relationship still bore the scars to this day.

      ‘Take a seat, Matteo,’ Giovanni said.

      Matteo didn’t do as asked.

      Troubled by his grandfather’s appearance and unsettled as to what was to come, instead of sitting down, he walked over to the window. He looked out to the vast estate that had once been his playground. Matteo’s grandmother had died before he had been born, so his younger sisters had been taken care of by his older sister, Allegra, while his older siblings had all headed off to boarding school.

      Matteo had pretty much been left to his own devices.

      ‘Do you remember when you used to visit me as children when your parents were still alive?’ Giovanni asked.

      ‘I don’t think about that time,’ Matteo answered.

      He did his best to never look back.

      ‘You were very young, of course. Maybe you can’t remember...’

      Oh, Matteo did.

      He remembered only too well life before the Di Sione children had come to live here. He could still recall, with painful clarity, the fights that could erupt at any given time and just the sheer chaos of their existence. Of course, he hadn’t understood

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