Piero thought he was going to throw up. The warm hand clasping his forearm was the one that had looked after him all his life, guided him on his first bike, taught him to fish. It felt as strong and vital as it always had. Surely his father couldn’t have received this sentence of death? Yet, here he was, right in front of them, sounding hoarse and unlike himself as he broke the news.

Then the office door flew open and Graziella stood on the threshold, her complexion waxy, eyes bulging in horror.

Maybe she does love him, Piero had time to think as he absorbed the shock stamped on her every feature.

But her next words dispelled that pleasant myth. ‘What? You’re leaving everything to them but I’m to nurse you?’ she cried. ‘Be your carer? While they inherit everything?’

Salvatore looked surprised. ‘Graziella … I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were nearby. I had meant to break this to you much more softly, cara.’ He heaved another of those long, sorrowful sighs. ‘At least we can afford medical people to help you. I know it’s not easy to care for a terminal patient—’

A harsh laugh tore itself from Graziella’s lips. ‘I’m not nursing anyone. Especially if there’s no—’ She halted.

Silence.

‘Nothing in it for you?’ Salvatore suggested quietly. Then he rose, straight and tall, with little sign of the regretful old man of seconds before. ‘Emiliano. Piero,’ he said. ‘I apologise for frightening you. I’m not ill, except maybe a little heartsick. And now I need to speak to Graziella.’

‘What?’ Graziella’s curls flew as she gazed wildly between the three men.

‘What?’ echoed Piero and Emiliano. ‘You’re not sick?’

Salvatore was already bearing her inexorably out of the door. ‘Only of being lied to. Come, Graziella.’

As the sounds of their departure echoed down the corridor Piero and Emiliano were left staring at each other in shock.

Piero swallowed. ‘The old bastard. He must have heard her out there or caught sight of her. He nearly gave me a fucking heart attack. I hate it when he goes his own way and leaves the rest of us to follow if we can.’

Emiliano, looking equally dumbfounded, fetched a bottle of Orvieto Classico and two glasses from his office and poured them each a measure. ‘Holy shit.’ For once he swigged his cherished wine like a teenager drinking supermarket plonk. ‘He did say it was a trap for her, didn’t he? He’s not really ill?’ His eyes appealed to Piero.

Piero emptied his glass, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘He said he wasn’t. He’s a hammy actor but, hell. He had me going.’

Emiliano topped up their glasses. ‘The old fox.’