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didn’t need to have them pointed out to him.

      Again.

      Summoned by his grandfather, Giovanni, it was with a sense of dread that Matteo drove towards the Di Sione estate—a magnificent, sprawling residence set in the Gold Coast of Long Island.

      On the death of Matteo’s parents, Giovanni had taken in the seven orphans that his son, Benito, and wife, Anna, had left behind. For Matteo, then only five years old, this place had become home.

      Now he had a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with glittering views of the skyline and the city that never slept at his feet.

      This was home though.

      For better or worse, this was where his fractured, scattered family met on occasion, or returned to at times.

      Now, Matteo assumed that he had been called here to be served a lecture.

      Another one.

      The previous weekend had been particularly wild, even by Matteo’s licentious standards. The press, who were eagerly awaiting his downfall, had been watching. They couldn’t wait for a Di Sione to hit skid row and so had taken delight in reporting Matteo’s million-dollar loss in Vegas on Saturday night. They had, of course, failed to mention that he had recouped the loss twice over by dawn. What hurt him the most, though, was that a prestigious paper had written a very scathing piece.

      Arriving in Manhattan this morning, he had gone from his jet to the waiting car and checked the news—the headline he had seen had been the one he had dreaded the most.

      History Repeats!

      There was a photo of him coming out of the casino, unshaven, with his hair falling over his eyes. He was clearly a little the worse for wear. On his arm was a blonde.

      Beside that image, there was another, taken some thirty years ago, in the very same year that he had been born.

      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

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