Nothing Lasts Forever (The Montebellos Book 4)

by Clare Connelly

  Nothing Lasts Forever

  The Montebellos 5

  Clare Connelly

  Clare Connelly

  Contents

  Nothing Lasts Forever

  BONUS BOOK

  Nothing Lasts Forever

  Dear Reader

  This is the fourth instalment in The Montebellos series, and it is a book that carries within it my heart and my soul. I have loved writing Raf and Lauren’s story, and felt a particular affinity for Lauren’s journey.

  This is, however, a novel that deals with loss. Lauren’s vocation brings her into contact with those who have been given a terminal diagnosis, and it’s a job she feels compelled to undertake having experienced the death of a dearly loved friend. Her purpose in life, as the story begins, is to ease that journey in whatever way she can.

  It is also, at its heart, a story of hope and rebirth, and ultimately of second chances.

  I write this as a caution – if you are in a sensitive place, if your life has been touched by a circumstance such as this, you may find the themes of this book too heavy. I hope, however, you will discover joy in Lauren’s journey, as I did.

  Happy reading, and until next time, Clare. x

  Prologue

  YAYA HAD ALWAYS LOVED the afternoon sun best. Right here, in this small conservatory overlooking La montagna di Apollo. When she’d moved to Tuscany with Gianfelice, she’d chosen this room to be her space. A place away from his life, his magnetism, his enormous presence.

  She’d loved him – who wouldn’t have? – but in a way that was terrifying and all-consuming, in a way that had threatened to swallow her whole. Here in this small room at the very edge of the villa, Paula Montebello had found space to breathe, to calm her fluttering heart, to connect with the teenager she’d been before Gianfelice had swept in and changed everything.

  Here in this room with the warmth of the sun playing against the glass, the view one she’d been comforting herself with for over six decades, Yaya stared out at it all and felt herself slipping – away from the world, herself, her home, her life. It was as though a chord had been cut and she was suddenly untethered, sinking; all the griefs of her long life rushing towards her, demanding attention, seeking recognition and retribution.

  She fell to the ground in abject fear – not of death, but of the mistakes she’d made, mistakes she had no hope of fixing now. It was too late; she was slipping.

  IT SIMPLY WASN’T POSSIBLE. He wouldn’t allow it. Yaya wouldn’t – couldn’t – die.

  Rafaello Montebello’s stride was characteristically long and confident as he cut a path through the deserted hospital. Despite being one of the best in Europe, it bore signs of inattention – the sort of indicators he would never allow in a single one of the businesses he oversaw. Out-of-date posters on the walls, a fluorescent light bulb flickering with irritating irregularity, a rubbish bin that was overflowing. He scowled even as he admitted none of these things were responsible for his dark mood.

  Seeing Yaya like this was the equivalent to being buried alive. Vital, strong, funny Yaya now weak, crumpled against the pale linen of the hospital bed sheets, her perceptive eyes shut, her lips parted.

  “It was a stroke.” Alessia had broken the news to each of them, her gentle voice shaking only the slightest. She was a doctor and therefore the best person to translate the medical situation into terms they could easily understand, but she had also known Yaya a long time. She bore as much grief as they did. “The housekeeper was there; yaya was in an ambulance almost immediately. Believe it or not, the prognosis is positive.”

  Raf’s lips were a grim line in his chiselled, symmetrical face. He would trust his cousin’s wife with his life, but it was impossible to believe what she was saying was true. Not when Yaya looked so weak; so close to death.

  His heart skipped a beat as he emerged into the cool Italian evening.

  He wouldn’t allow her to die. Raf felt somewhat reassured by that resolution. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, even when that seemed impossible. This would be no different.

  Chapter One

  One month later

  LAUREN STIFLED A YAWN, lifting her wrist to consult the time on her slim gold wristwatch. It was late, but Paula – or Yaya as she’d insisted on being called – was energetic this evening, wanting to play cards well after bedtime. One of the nurses, a Swedish woman named Ellen, had disapproved, but Lauren had ignored her.

  Lauren knew what was coming, and the importance of indulging wishes outweighed that of making sound health choices now. It was Yaya’s choice as to how she spent the time she had left – no nurse should be allowed to interfere with that.

  “Don’t forget, the family will be here in the morning. You’ll get to meet my boys.”

  In the week since Lauren had arrived at Villa Fortune, Yaya had spoken of little else. Massimo, Fiero, Nico, Luca, Raf and Gabe – so that Lauren almost felt as though she knew them, as well as the women three of them had married – Elodie, Maddie and Alessia. It was Alessia – a doctor – who’d contacted Lauren, begging her to accept this job.

  “I know it’s different to the work you usually do,” Alessia had said down the phone line. “Yaya’s older and you work with children, but I’ve asked around – you’re the best.”

  Pride had puffed Lauren’s chest. At twenty eight, she’d been working as a sort of grief counsellor-come-companion for six years. Her own personal experiences had given her an ability to offer true insight, and out of necessity she’d developed a toughness that meant she was able to keep a professional distance when needed. That didn’t mean she was inured to feelings though; her job was one of the hardest things anyone could do, but it was also one of the most important. So much focus was put on living well, and not enough on easing and accepting the inevitable end.

  At this time of night, Villa Fortune was deserted, the usual hum of daytime activity muted to the faraway clicking of a grand hallway clock and the distant rolling of waves towards the shoreline. Though she was tired, Lauren was also restless and the waves called to her. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she changed direction, moving away from the generous sized bedroom she’d been allotted and moving downstairs instead, towards the kitchen. There had been no teabags in the house when she’d arrived but a day after expressing a preference for the drink, the housekeeper Vittoria had magicked some up, and a pot of tea was always sent up on Lauren’s breakfast tray in the mornings. It was a habit she now shared with Yaya, who’d transitioned from her usual coffee to sharing a pot with Lauren.

  She flicked the kettle to life, her eyes on the pool beyond the window and in the distance, the moonlit Tuscan hills rolling towards the sea.

  The stretchy hours of the middle of the night were always the hardest. It was at this time she thought of goodbyes – their inevitability and their wrenching pain. She also thought of Thom. His pain at the end, and her inability to do anything about it except be at his side, as though witnessing his hurt could somehow lessen it. Out of habit, she twisted her wedding ring, spinning the small diamond to the underside of her palm and tapping it against the marble countertop as the kettle thundered to a boil.

  The teabags were stored in a canister near the window; she lifted one out and placed it into a mug, watching as the colour seeped from it, staining the water. The milk swirled through it before being completely absorbed. A moment later, Lauren discarded the bag into the bin and cupped the mug in both hands, making her way towards sliding glass doors that led to the terrace. It was a beautiful space and Yaya’s stories had made it come to life in a vivid and wonderful way. Stories of birthdays and Christmasses and christenings and we
ddings, of laughter and food, long tables that stretched across the terracotta tiles and into the afternoon warmth, tables laden with pasta and fruit and cheese and meat, glasses of wine and each of the men Yaya had raised. She described so perfectly the noise and happiness, so that it was easy for Lauren to picture the sunlight streaming through the vine-covered pergola, faces happy, stories being shared.

  She moved to one of the deck chairs and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and staring out at the view without really seeing, her mind absorbed by thoughts of Yaya and Thom and what lay ahead.

  So the sound of splashing water followed by the sensation of a barrage of droplets across her front had her sitting up with a racing heart, her eyes scanning the water’s surface for who – or what! – had intruded on her space.

  Strong arms – so a who then, not a what – pulled through the water, muscular and confident and despite the fact Lauren was Lauren – cool and disconnected, she felt a blade of interest slice through her, surprising her with its strength. It only intensified when the man stopped swimming at the edge of the pool, apparently unaware of her presence. He stood at the shallower end of the pool, his torso above the water’s surface so she had a full view of his broadly muscled chest, devoid of hair except for an arrow of dark that ran down his centre towards the waistband of his pants. At least, she hoped he was wearing pants! Heat flooded her cheeks; she told herself she should look away but her eyes wouldn’t obey. Her mouth was dry and there was an unfamiliar tightness beneath her ribs.

  The moon shimmered from behind a cloud, casting the pool in silver light and as she watched he reached out a hand, his fingertips extending towards the luminescent blade as though to meet it mid-air. He splayed his fingers wide and her pulse kicked up a notch in a way that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. A moment later he dove beneath the surface.

  She should go; she was invading. Whoever he was, he had no idea he was being observed. Standing, cupping her tea, she was midway to turning when she heard more splashing. A quick, instinctive flick of her gaze showed he was stepping from the water, his body toned and clad in only a pair of briefs.

  It wasn’t conscious, but a gargled noise filled Lauren’s throat. Faint, yet just loud enough for him to hear and quickly turn his face towards her.

  “Cristo, I thought I was alone.” His smile was crooked and easy, charming like a Hollywood actor, his teeth white. In the moonlight, his features were cast into lines and shadows. She could tell that he was conventionally handsome, that his face was angular and strong, symmetrical with strong masculine traits. A straight nose, thick eyebrows, a full head of dark hair, and facial growth that didn’t look at all carefully cultivated – more so just left untouched.

  “I was just having a tea before bed,” she said, unnecessarily, lifting the cup aloft and taking a small step towards the door. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.” Because surely he must be one of the boys Yaya was so proud of?

  As if sensing her unspoken question, he moved closer, his stride long and confident as he closed the distance between them. She had only seconds to brace for his impending nearness and in those seconds she wondered at her strange reaction. She was twenty-eight years old and a widow; it wasn’t as though she’d never seen a near-naked man before!

  But Thom had been so pale, so weak, especially at the end when illness ravaged his body – it was totally disloyal to think in comparative terms but this man was all vitality and strength, his frame sculpted from gold and marble.

  She stilled, her lips parted, her eyes wide, waiting, preparing, uncertain.

  “I frightened you?”

  His English was ever so slightly accented, husky with his native Italian.

  She swallowed, forcing moisture back to her mouth. “Not at all.” Her voice emerged stiff and formal, the words dripping in ice; she was glad.

  “You’re one of her nurses?”

  A team of nurses had been hired to provide round-the-clock care for Yaya. There was also a doctor making regular house calls and an occupational therapist consulting several times a week.

  “I’m more of a companion.”

  The man’s brow lifted. “A companion?”

  Lauren nodded, wondering at her instinct to defend herself. “Alessia hired me.”

  “Ah.” His eyes scanned her face. “To do what?”

  Lauren considered that. “To be with Yaya.”

  “She has us.”

  “And you are?” she prompted, certain though that he was one of the grandsons. Not Gabe – she knew he had tattoos and a permanent scowl. No wedding ring, so probably not Nico, Massimo or Fiero.

  “Raf.” He extended a hand. She hesitated before allowing her own to be captured by it, then immediately wished she hadn’t when a spark of heat seemed to fly from him to her. Her fingertips tingled as though she had pins and needles. She jerked her hand away, cupping the teacup in both palms once more.

  If he noticed her strange reaction, he didn’t show it.

  “How is she?”

  Relieved to be moving back onto more familiar terrain, she adopted a well-worn expression, a mask of sympathy she always used when dealing with the families of her patients. “Her voice is a little slurred still, and movement down the left side is uneasy.”

  A muscle jerked low in his jaw and for a moment, he turned away, as though grappling with a reality that was impossible for him. “The same as last week?”

  Lauren knew from experience that sugar-coating the truth wasn’t ever helpful. “She’s unlikely to improve.” The words emerged cooler than Lauren had intended. She forced a small smile to her face in a gesture of understanding.

  She waited to hear what he would say, wondering at how he was feeling. His expression gave little away.

  “And her mood?”

  “Her mood?” Lauren was surprised by the question; she couldn’t have said why. “Robust, up-beat. At times reflective, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Is it?”

  There was speculation in his voice and Lauren’s gaze shifted to his then away again. There was speculation in his eyes as well, a speculation that terrified her and which she instinctively shied away from. Lauren hadn’t been interested in men for a long time and she’d definitely not welcomed their interest either.

  “Anyway,” she murmured dismissively. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “There’s no need to rush off. Honestly, I’d appreciate the company.”

  Lauren’s stomach tightened. Instinctive panic flooded her. “No. It’s late and I’ll be joining your grandmother for breakfast tomorrow.” Even to her own ears she sounded so formal, so much older than her twenty-eight years. Life had done that to her; she accepted that now. Life, and her career choice. She made an effort to lighten her tone but her smile was uneasy. “I’m sure you know how early she wakes.”

  “With the sun,” he grinned easily. “Yaya’s never had time for laziness. When we were boys she hammered that into us. I’m sure she’s the reason I can only sleep four or so hours a night.”

  Lauren’s medical training asserted itself. “Four hours a night isn’t enough to sustain healthy functioning.”

  He lifted a brow, a sardonic challenge in his look. “Do I appear unhealthy to you?”

  Her mouth went dry and she was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. What answer could she offer? He was a paragon of physical strength. It had been the first thought she’d had as he’d pulled through the water, muscles rippling, showcasing a body that was tanned and virile.

  “It’s only my medical opinion,” she murmured, ice and flint in the crisply offered syllables. “Good night, Mr Montebello.”

  He watched her leave with a small frown on his face, the air cool against his wet skin.

  When was the last time a woman had run away from him?

  Okay, the stunning blonde hadn’t exactly run but she’d made it clear that she didn’t welcome his presence – at all.

  And that had irked him. Made him want to challenge her,
to tease her, to tempt her. Yes, to tempt her.

  For a moment, he’d forgotten that she was here in the capacity of staff, that she was working with Yaya. Heaviness weighed down on him.

  Yaya.

  With a muffled oath he moved to the sun lounger the woman had occupied only a few moments earlier, sitting on the edge of it and staring at the water of the pool. It continued to ripple long after he’d pulled himself out, the surface dancing in small rings towards the edge.

  It took Raf that long to notice that it was raining – just a little, but enough to vibrate the water’s surface, each droplet causing a domino effect, so that no single droplet existed as its own reaction. Each affected the other.

  Like family.

  Like the Montebellos.

  They were all connected. His brothers and cousins, Gianfelice and Yaya. Now the wives and children. One tapestry, Yaya had described them a few months earlier, as she’d studied them with a look of unmistakable pride, each person bringing their own threads, but knotting together in a way that was valuable and important. Without one thread, the tapestry would never be whole.

  And without Yaya?

  His lips formed a grim line in his face.

  Without Yaya, the world would be a vastly different space. He wasn’t so much of a fantasist to think that she would never die. He knew that wasn’t possible. But it was too soon, wasn’t it?

  What had the woman said? He hadn’t even asked her name. She’d described Yaya as unlikely to improve, and she’d said it in a way that was clinical and certain, a way that lacked any degree of emotionalism. She’d said it as though it were an incontrovertible fact, like day following night.