Best Laid Plans (21 page)

“I feel it,” he replied, easing himself into a chair and trying to catch his breath. Every day he was feeling stronger, back to what his physical self used to be. He was fully aware how his emotional self had changed. Why else would he be working to make himself healthy? He needed to be able to travel to London. Alfieri understood from Giulia that Gianluca’s wife, Francesca, was fiercely protective of her husband and would apparently happily stab the hell out of anyone who upset her sweetheart. He only hoped that his epiphany had not come too late; he had to meet his son. Give his apologies to him in person. Make amends. Even if Gianluca never accepted them and he was never allowed a glimpse of the new Caristo twins, Alfieri knew he had to do so. Having never sought forgiveness in the entirety of his existence, his eagerness to better himself for the sake of his grandchildren perplexed his wife.

“Gianluca doesn’t want to know.”

“Let me tell him directly. What else happens from there will not matter. At least I will have made peace with that, and Gianluca will know how sorry I am. Maybe now he is a father, he may forgive me.”

His wife gave a snort. “You’re wasting your own breath.”

“Yes, it is mine to waste.”

She would come around. London in the summertime was apparently rather picturesque.

His carer passed him a glass of water. Alfieri drained the glass and handed it back. “By the way, I’ve got a reward for you. It’s from your son. Gianluca.”

Alfieri’s muscles seized in shock. For a moment, he thought he was having another stroke. “Really?”

“He doesn’t play around, does he!” The carer laughed, removing a cream-coloured envelope from his bag. “Yes, really. Here.”

With shaking hands that had nothing to do with his recovery from his illness and everything to do with the fear that his son was finally going to cut him off completely, he opened the rich papered envelope with the Royal Mail stamp in the corner. Inside was a short note.
Your grandsons, Sansone and Vincente Caristo.

The picture behind the note wavered with the tears in Alfieri’s eyes. His first grandchildren. The photograph was of Gianluca, his big body overcrowding a rocking chair, both hefty arms cradling two caramel-skinned bundles. Alfieri turned the photograph over.
Taken by Francesca Caristo. On my left arm is Sansone because he came first and he has more hair. On my right is Vincente—conquering because he was holding onto his brother’s ankle when he was born.

“They’re going to be very good-looking boys,” the carer said gently.

“Of course,” Alfieri said gruffly, hastily wiping his eyes. “They’re Caristos. Do me a favour and get me a frame for this. Something nice, expensive.”

The carer smiled. “I’ll take it with me.”

“No, no!” Alfieri clutched the picture as if it held the answers to life. “It’s a normal-sized photo, you’ll get a frame to fit it, I trust you.”

With a tip of his head, he got to his feet. “Let me make sure Mrs. Caristo is here, then I’ll go and see what I can find for your grandchildren.”

Alfieri looked at the photograph again. What could possibly be wrong in this world when miracles such as this happened?

BILLY

Thank you for reading. To read more stories in the Italian Knights series, check out the following:

Windows
(Nick and Gina)

On Caristo’s Watch
(Tony and Lydia)

The Claim
(Rocky and Anna)

Coming Soon

A Life Sublime
(Massimo and Belinda)

Ah, poor Billy. The only girl between two boys who each have nearly a foot on her. Didn't stop her from starting physical fights with them. She still thinks she can take them. So while she used to hide away in her wardrobe to read a book or four, she started to question why the heroines in those books would just lie there and take it. No, not just sex, but downright James-Bond-backhand-slapping, do-as-you're-told-woman, inappro-priate lie there and take it.

She couldn't understand it. These women were just playing that mental woman from
Coming to America
, Miss “Whatever You Like” who barked like a dog and hopped on one foot. Billy didn't want to do that. Definitely not because one empty-headed fool with different anatomy told her to. So she started to create characters and worlds where the women could own their sexuality, their intelligence, their right to turn around and say “jog on, mate” without apology.

The small problem was that other people wanted to read what she was had written. “Er...why?” didn't cut it as an answer. After years of prodding and pleading and come on and for goodness’ sake, what's the point otherwise, she closed her eyes and pressed “submit.” Actually, she had Prosecco, limencello and white wine, then pressed “submit.” Who would have thought people would actually enjoy reading about the crazy characters who live in her head? But they have done, and Billy feels rather proud of that connection with her fellow man.

Billy lives in London with the most patient family in the world and doesn't forget for a minute how lucky she is. Well, she wouldn't mind a BBC adaptation of one of her novels... Ooh, with Richard Armitage!