& One-Night Heirs
BASTIANO CONTI HAD been born hungry.
And born a problem.
His mother had died giving birth to him and had never disclosed who his father was. All she had owned had been left to him—a ring.
It was Italian gold with a small emerald in its centre and some seed pearls dotted around it.
Bastiano’s uncle, who had four children of his own, had first suggested that the nuns raise the orphaned baby who’d lain crying in the small maternity ward in the Valley of Casta. There was a convent that overlooked the Sicilian Strait and orphans had usually been sent there.
But the convent was on its last legs.
The nurses were busy but occasionally one would take pity and hold Bastiano a little longer than it took to feed him.
Occasionally.
‘Familia,’ the priest had said to his uncle. ‘Everyone knows that the Contis look after their own.’
The Contis ruled the valley to the west and the Di Savos held the east.
Loyalty to their own was paramount, the priest told him.
And so, after a stern talk from the priest, Bastiano’s zio and his reluctant wife had taken the little bastard to their house but it had never, for Bastiano, been a home.
Always Bastiano had been considered an outsider. If something had gone wrong, then he’d been the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
If there had been four brioches for lunch, they had not been split to make five.
Bastiano had done without.
Sitting in school next to Raul Di Savo, Bastiano had started to understand why.
‘What would your parents save in a fire?’ Sister Francesca had asked her class. ‘Raul?’
Raul had shrugged.
‘Your father,’ she prompted, ‘what would be the first thing that Gino reached for?’
‘His wine.’
The class had laughed and Sister Francesca, growing more exasperated with each passing moment, had turned her attention from Raul.
‘Bastiano,’ she snapped. ‘Who would your zia save?’
His serious grey eyes had lifted to hers and Bastiano had frowned even as he’d given his response. ‘Her children.’
‘Correct.’
She had turned back to the board and Bastiano had sat there, still frowning, for indeed it was the correct answer—his zia would save her children. But not him.
He would never be first.
However, aged seven, Bastiano was sent to collect the brioches and the baker’s wife ruffled his hair and so unused to affection was he that his face lit up and she said that he had a cute smile.
‘You do too,’ Bastiano told her, and she laughed.
‘Here.’ She gave him a sweet cannoli just for brightening her morning and Bastiano and Raul sat on the hill and ate the gooey treat.
The boys should have been sworn enemies—for generations the Contis and the Di Savos had fought over the vines and properties in the valley—yet
