Italian Mavericks: Expecting The Italian's Baby. Andie Brock

shut out the grief. He refused to acknowledge the buffeting of a fresh wave of despair that no amount of brandy could numb.

      ‘You were missed at the wake.’ Sergio tilted his head to the spinning roulette wheel. ‘So, you have decided to follow in your father’s footsteps?’

      With a jerk Raoul’s head came up. ‘It is always an option, I suppose,’ he drawled. ‘And you know what they say...an addictive personality is hereditary.’

      Sergio responded to the remark with one of his inimitable shrugs. ‘I considered the possibility.’

      The frank admission wrenched a hard, cracked laugh from Raoul’s throat. ‘Of course you did.’

      ‘No, you both escaped the taint but you are an adrenaline junkie, just like Ja—’ The old man stopped and swallowed hard several times before continuing. ‘Your brother always said that— He... Jam...’

      Unable to watch his grandfather struggle for control, Raoul cut across him, throwing out harshly, ‘That if I didn’t kill myself climbing it would be behind the wheel of one of my cars.’

      For a moment his brother’s voice sounded so real that he almost turned expecting to see the familiar smiling face—you’re an adrenaline junkie, little brother, and one of these days you’ll kill yourself... The irony was like a punch to the gut.

      But Jamie had been the one to die young, not because he had taken a corner too fast but because life was just not fair.

      Raoul took a deep swallow of the brandy swirling in his glass as anger circled in his head. It took a few jaw-clenching seconds before he trusted his voice to continue.

      ‘I never expected to see you slumming it in a place like this, but I have to admit you do know how to make an entrance.’ It was true. Even in his eighties Sergio Di Vittorio made an imposing figure, dressed as always in black, the abundant silver-streaked, collar-length hair catching the light cast by the glittering chandeliers overhead.

      If his emotions hadn’t flatlined he might be curious about why his grandfather was here but Raoul continued to feel nothing. He took a swallow of brandy and checked—yes, nothing.

      This lying to himself was actually something he might be quite good at.

      ‘People were asking after you.’

      Raoul tipped his head down. Sergio was a tall man, six feet, deep chested and broad of shoulder, but Raoul had been four inches taller than his grandfather since he was fifteen. It still felt somehow not quite right, almost disrespectful, to look down on him.

      ‘Good party, was it?’ He slumped back against the column, the lazy posture giving him less height advantage. He raised his glass to his lips, the gesture going some way to hiding his expression as he thought, When did you get so damned old?

      There was nothing like a funeral to make a person aware of their own mortality and that of those they loved...precious few of whom were left.

      He pushed away the dark thought and took another slug of the brandy. It slid down his throat, settling in his stomach with a warmth that did nothing to alleviate the coldness that permeated his entire body, a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

      Sergio impatiently waved away a suited figure who started to approach, and his bodyguard made sure no more attempts were made.

      ‘We need to talk.’

      Raoul had never reacted well to orders. But this was his grandfather so he ignored how the command chafed, allowing his attention to be drawn by the cry of the middle-aged guy at the roulette wheel. It was hard to tell if it was jubilance or misery, but the distraction had served its purpose.

      ‘Raoul...!’

      Raoul gave himself a mental shake and turned back to his grandfather. ‘We are talking.’

      Sergio’s lips thinned in predictable annoyance. ‘In private.’ He made a sharp stabbing gesture with his leonine head indicating that Raoul should follow and walked off.

      After a pause Raoul levered himself off the cold surface, flexed his shoulder blades, and did so.

      Once the door of the panelled, private room was closed Sergio wasted no time.

      ‘Your brother is dead.’

      Any number of bitter, sarcastic responses occurred to Raoul but he clamped his lips tight on them. He had been the one who had discovered his brother’s lifeless body on the floor of his kitchen and the image still wouldn’t let go. An aneurysm the post mortem said. It seemed his brother had been walking around with a ticking time bomb in his chest for years and he hadn’t even known it was there.

      ‘You here to tell me life goes on?’ He’d read up on it and discovered that what had killed Jamie wasn’t that uncommon. Now he found himself walking down the street looking into faces of strangers and wondering who would be next.

      ‘Not for everyone. I’m dying.’

      Raoul, who had walked over to the velvet-draped window, spun back, fighting off the childish desire to cover his ears. After a moment’s silence he shrugged and dropped his long, lean length into one of the leather sofas.

      ‘We are all dying.’

      Or was it only the people he loved?

      He closed his eyes and did a silent body count...the mother he barely remembered, his father, his brother, his wife... No! She didn’t count. He hadn’t loved Lucy by the end. In fact, he had loathed her, but she was gone and they all had one thing in common: him.

      Perhaps I should come with a government health warning?

      The black humour of the thought drew a harsh laugh from his stiff lips while in his head the scornful voice retorted, Perhaps you should stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself?

      ‘It’s cancer,’ his grandfather said, at Raoul’s response. ‘Inoperable. Their best bet is that I have six months.’ The older man delivered the information without emotion. ‘Though I’ve never trusted quacks.’

      Raoul surged to his feet, denial in every muscle of his taut, powerful body. ‘That isn’t possible.’ Their eyes, both pairs dark and shot with silver flecks, connected and after a moment of contact Raoul swallowed.

      ‘Sorry.’ His teeth clenched at the laughable inadequacy of the word.

      But Sergio simply brushed away the comment with a gesture of his hand. ‘Continuity is important to me—you know what I’m talking about.’

      Raoul exhaled a long, slow, measured breath and thought, Hell, not this, not now!

      ‘Your brother was never going to provide an heir.’

      Raoul said nothing. This was the closest the older man had ever come to acknowledging his brother’s sexuality. He’d never called Jamie’s long-term partner, Roberto, anything other than his friend. Raoul felt a stab of guilt. He should have stayed for Rob at least—the man had been utterly devastated at the funeral service.

      ‘Jamie is barely cold...’ But his skin had been like marble when... Raoul cleared his throat. ‘Can’t this wait?’

      ‘Time is not a luxury I have.’ Sergio saw his grandson wince and took a step forward, adopting the stare that made powerful men sweat, and laid his hands on his grandson’s shoulders. ‘I made allowances for you after... Lucy died.’ Raoul’s hooded gaze dropped, a nerve along his jaw clenched. ‘But you have to move on.’

      ‘I have moved on.’

      A sound of distaste escaped the old man’s lips before he turned away. ‘I’m not talking about screwing around.’

      The uncharacteristic crudeness from his grandfather’s lips wiped the last shreds of alcohol-induced haze from Raoul’s brain. ‘There is no doubt about the diagnosis?’

      ‘None.’

      ‘Sorry,’