Page 8 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

“Define that word, and then we’ll talk.”

Corrado was already leaving the office. Gian followed behind his grandfather, only separating at the stairs, where Corrado went up, and he went down to the bottom level of the wing. He expected to leave, as his visit was over, but he found his father waiting at the front door, and nursing another glass of whiskey.

Frederic didn’t see his oldest son approach, and for a moment, Gian was struck at how young his father looked in the dim light of the hallway. It was almost like looking into a mirror, although an older one.

All the men in his family shared the same dominant traits—a strong, squared jaw, brown eyes with gold flecks, a nose with a straight, sharp slope, and lips that, even when not smiling, almost seemed to be pulling into a grin of some sort, just from their shape alone. Even their hair was the same dark brown, from his youngest brother Domenic, to their grandfather. Gian wore his hair slightly longer, leaving a bit at the top to be styled if he wanted, while keeping the sides sheared short.

“He didn’t keep you up there long,” Frederic noted.

“You know how he is.”

“I do.”

Something in the lilt of his father’s tone caught his attention, and not in a good way.

“What is it?” Gian asked.

“Corrado needs to slow down, Gian.”

“I’m aware. Tell him that.”

“I have, and so have his doctors.”

Gian’s brow knotted together. “Pardon? He won’t go to his doctors for more than a checkup or a flu shot.”

Frederic glanced down the hall, behind Gian, as though he were looking for someone to be standing there. No one was. “He’s not going to tell you, if he didn’t tonight.”

“Tell me what?”

“That he’s not well. Some strange results showed up in his bloodwork. He went in a month ago to have another round of tests.”

“He didn’t tell me about any tests.”

His father sighed, tipping his glass higher for another sip. “I think he tells no one. I know because I’m the surviving son, I need to know.”

Gian didn’t like where this was going. “What is it, then? What’s wrong?”

“Colon cancer, it seems. Aggressive. He’s supposed to start treatment within the week, but you know how he is.”

Corrado wouldn’t put himself in any situation that would give another made man in the organization a chance to point at him and call him weak—unable. This would do that, entirely. But not getting aggressive treatment would mean certain death, wouldn’t it? If the cancer was already at an aggressive stage …

“Does it matter if he gets treatment?” Gian asked quietly.

Frederic’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’ll give him a bit more time.”

“Be specific.”

“A year or two, with treatment. Six months, maybe, without.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Gian grimaced as pain shot its way through his whole body all at once.

“I’m sorry, Gian,” Frederic murmured.

He loved his family. It was what Italians did.