Caroselli's Christmas Baby

“In a trust I have placed the sum of thirty million dollars to be split three ways when each of you marries and produces a male heir.”

Three jaws dropped in unison.

Nick was the first to recover. “You’re seriously going to give us each ten million dollars to get hitched and have a kid?”

“A son. And there are conditions.”

“If you’re going to try to force us into arranged marriages with nice Italian girls from the homeland, forget it,” Rob said.

If only he could be so lucky. And while he would love to see each of them marry a nice Italian girl, he was in no position to be picky. “You’re free to marry whomever you please.”

“So what’s the catch?” Tony asked.

“First, you cannot tell a soul about the arrangement. Not your parents or your siblings, not even your intended. If you do, you forfeit your third of the trust and it will be split between the other two.”

“And?” Nick said.

“If I should join your nonni, God rest her saintly soul, by the end of the second year and before a male heir is born to any one of you, the trust will be rolled back into my estate.”

“So the clock is ticking,” Nick said.

“Maybe. Of course, I could live to be one hundred. My doctor tells me that I’m in excellent health. But is that a chance any of you is willing to take? If you agree to my terms, that is.”

“What about Jessica?” Nick asked. “She has four children, yet I suspect you’ve not given her a dime.”

“I love your sister, Nick, and all my granddaughters, but their children will never carry the Caroselli name. I owe it to my parents, and my grandparents, and those who lived before them to keep the family name alive for future generations. But I also don’t want to see my granddaughters hurt, which is why this must always remain a secret.”

“Do you intend to have us sign some sort of contract?” Tony asked, turning to Marcus.

“That was my suggestion,” Marcus told him, “but your grandfather refuses.”

“No one will be signing anything,” Giuseppe said. “You’ll just have to trust that my word is good.”

“Of course we trust your word, Nonno,” Nick said, shooting the others a look. “You’ve never given us any reason not to.”

“I feel the same way about the three of you. Which is why I trust you to keep our arrangement private.”

Tony frowned. “What if you die? Won’t the family learn about it then?”

“They won’t suspect a thing. The money is already put aside, separate from the rest of my fortune, and as my attorney and executor to my will, Marcus and Marcus alone will have access to it. He will see that the money is distributed accordingly.”

“What if we aren’t ready to start families?” Rob asked.

Giuseppe shrugged. “Then you lose out on ten million dollars, and your third will go to your cousins.”

All three boys glanced at each other. Knowing how proud and independent they were, there was still the very real possibility that they might deny his request.

“Do you expect an answer today?” Nick asked.

“No, but I would at least like your word that each of you will give my offer serious thought.”

Another look was exchanged, then all three nodded.

“Of course we will, Nonno,” Rob said.

Had he been standing, Giuseppe may have crumpled with relief, and if not for gravity holding him to the earth, the heavy weight lifted from his stooped shoulders surely would have set him aloft. It wasn’t a guarantee, but they hadn’t outright rejected the idea, either, and that was a start. And given their competitive natures, he was quite positive that if one agreed, the other two would eventually follow suit.

After several minutes of talk about the business and family, Nick, Rob and Tony left.

“So,” Marcus asked, as the study door snapped closed behind them, “how do you suppose they’ll react when they learn there is no thirty million dollars set aside?”

Giuseppe shrugged. “I think they will be so blissfully happy, and so grateful for my timely intervention, that the money will mean nothing to them.”

“You have the money, Giuseppe. Have you considered actually giving it to them if they meet your terms?”

“And alienate my other grandchildren?” he scoffed. “What sort of man do you think I am?”

Marcus shook his head with exasperation. “And if you’re wrong? If they do want the money? If they’re angry that you lied to them?”

“They won’t be.” Besides, to carry on the Caroselli name—his legacy—that was a risk he was willing to take.

One

Late again.

Terri Phillips watched with a mix of irritation and amusement as her best friend, Nick Caroselli, walked briskly through the dining room of the bistro to their favorite booth near the bar, where they met every Thursday night for dinner.

With his jet-black hair, smoldering brown eyes, warm olive complexion and lean physique, heads swiveled and forks halted halfway to mouths as he passed. But Nick being Nick, he didn’t seem to notice. Not that he was unaware of his effect on women, nor was he innocent of using his charm to get his way when the need arose.

Not that it worked on her anymore.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said with that crooked grin he flashed when he was trying to get out of trouble. Fat snowflakes peppered the shoulders of his wool coat and dotted his hair, and his cheeks were rosy from the cold, meaning he’d walked the two blocks from the world headquarters of Caroselli Chocolate. “Work was crazy today.”

“I’ve only been here a few minutes,” she said, even though it had actually been more like twenty. Long enough to have downed two glasses of the champagne they were supposed to be toasting with.

He leaned in to brush a kiss across her cheek, the rasp of his evening stubble rough against her skin. She breathed in the whisper of his sandalwood soap—a birthday gift from her—combined with the sweet scent of chocolate that clung to him every time he spent the day in the company test kitchen.

“Still snowing?” she asked.

“It’s practically a blizzard out there.” Nick shrugged out of his coat, then stuck his scarf and leather gloves in the sleeve—a habit he’d developed when they were kids, after misplacing endless sets of mittens and scarves—then hung it on the hook behind their booth. “At this rate, we may actually get a white Christmas this year.”

“That would be nice.” Having spent the first nine years of her life in New Mexico, she’d never even seen snow until she’d moved to Chicago. To this day, she still loved it. Of course, having a home business meant no snowy commute, so she was biased.

“I ordered our usual,” she said as Nick slid into his seat.

He loosened his tie, and gestured to the champagne bottle. “Are we celebrating something?”

“You could say that.”