as the guilt closed in on him, wrapping its wire tendrils around him like a cage.
He had barely begun to process this reversal of everything he had believed when his grandfather landed another shock.
‘The child—’
Ivo’s head whipped around. ‘What child?’
‘Your brother had a son, a baby, he’s...’ He stabbed the air in an impatient gesture. ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve called him... This is why I need you to go to Scotland, to the Isle of Skye—presumably you know that’s where your brother has been living in some shack...probably no electricity and running water. I want you to fetch back the child. He belongs here with us—the father may have been a fool and his mother...’ With a curl of his lip he dismissed Samantha. ‘But the child is a Greco—he has a heritage.’
‘How...?’ Ivo’s heavy lids half lowered as he swallowed to alleviate the emotional constriction in his throat. ‘How did they die?’ he finally managed to push out harshly.
‘A climbing accident, they were roped together apparently. A witness at the inquest said they heard him begging her to cut the line, but she didn’t—’ For the first time Ivo imagined he heard emotion in his grandfather’s voice as he added harshly, ‘Ivo always had a reckless streak.’ His grandfather’s eyes drifted closed.
‘Bruno always loved the mountains,’ Ivo said softly. The gentle emphasis he placed on his brother’s name seemed to pass over his grandfather’s head.
He opened his eyes. ‘That’s what I just said! And look where it led...’ he intoned bitterly. ‘If he hadn’t climbed he’d never have met that girl... A potter, living in a hovel.’
A slight exaggeration but Samantha had seemed a million miles from the perfectly groomed models and society women his brother had previously dated.
Love at first sight, Bruno had said.
As if he’d had no choice in the matter! Ivo hadn’t believed that then or now. It was the excuse of a weak man, the man he had no intention of ever being.
There was always a choice.
Suddenly the mantra he lived his life by had less conviction.
‘I have spoken to the lawyers but there is no way to break the will.’
‘So there’s a will—what does it say?’ Ivo struggled to express interest he did not feel. All he could think about was Bruno and the fact that he had not betrayed him out of choice. Bruno had fought for him, admittedly against stacked odds, but he had fought nonetheless.
‘Not relevant.’
It struck Ivo as very relevant but he said nothing. He was thinking about the son that Bruno had left behind; the child he could not desert. He had turned his back on his brother but he wouldn’t turn his back on his nephew!
‘They were young, the young never expect to die, and this Henderson woman...the sister...’
Ivo hadn’t known there was a sister, but then why should he? ‘Does she have a name?’
‘Something Scottish... Fiona or, no, Flora, I think.’
‘And she is the child’s legal guardian?’ Ivo found himself clinging to the knowledge that Bruno had a son; that a part of him lived on. Perhaps one day it would be a comfort, one day when the pain of loss was not so raw and his sense of guilt not so corrosive. What he needed to focus on now was not the guilt, but the fatherless child. It’s not about you, Ivo, he reminded himself with a humourless half-smile.
His grandfather brought his fist down onto the desk top with a force that made the wood vibrate and drew a wince from his lips. ‘It’s ludicrous. She has...is...nothing!’ he spat out contemptuously.
‘You want to be a part of this child’s life, maybe you should learn to say her name,’ Ivo suggested mildly.
‘I do not want her to be a part of this child’s life. That family is responsible for me losing my grandson.’
That was certainly one way of looking at it and it was the one way Ivo had been encouraged to look at it. A way he still found he was reluctant to relinquish.
‘Well, how is no compromise working for you so far, Grandfather? Maybe you should be realistic and settle for what you can get.’
Salvatore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that the lesson in life you have learnt? Settling?’ he snarled with withering contempt. ‘I made her a perfectly reasonable offer—generous! She refused.’
‘You offered to buy the child?’ Dio, this got worse. His grandfather seemed to have lost the subtlety and cunning he was famed for. ‘And you are surprised she refused?’
‘Oh, I know what this is about. She’s barren, can’t have a baby of her own, so she’s going to cling onto this one for dear life,’ Salvatore brooded darkly. ‘The letter she sent said it all...sentimental twaddle, inviting me to visit him there. I do not want that family in the child’s life. They took him from...’
The old man’s voice quivered; his eyes grew glassy and blank. The result of anger, or grief?
Or just the simple fact someone had thwarted him?
Whatever had put the quiver in his voice, it made the old man swallow and turn away. This rare visual evidence of vulnerability, the sudden appearance of frailty, struck deep, bringing the memory to the surface of the day when Salvatore had been strong. When he had rescued him from that room and the lifeless father Ivo had tried to awaken, even in his childish ignorance trying to push some of the pills that had spilled from one of the empty bottles past his father’s cold lips, believing that the medicine would make him better. Not understanding until much later that the pills had been his father’s weapon of choice.
Salvatore wanted to rescue this baby just as he had rescued Ivo. For Salvatore it was all about bloodlines!
Are you in any position to sneer? demanded the voice in Ivo’s head. For you, it’s all about assuaging your guilt.
His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug of acknowledgement; granted, neither motivation was particularly noble, but then the Grecos were not renowned for their nobility. His jaw stiffened—they were known for getting what they wanted, though.
Ivo stilled as the belated shocked recognition slid through him: he wanted to bring up this child, this part of Bruno who remained.
He gave them both a moment to recover before responding.
‘Should I ask if this information is out in the public domain, or have you accessed this woman’s private medical records?’
The older man responded to the dry question with a shrug and a sour look.
Ivo did not pursue it. He wasn’t that bothered about the red lines Salvatore had gleefully crossed. The fact was that, guilt aside, and with a determination to make up for rejecting his brother, there was a part of him that could identify with his motivation.
It was not something he felt the need to apologise for. Ivo possessed an Italian’s pride in his culture
