Page 59 of Iron Crown

Even under the influence of the Brunello di Montalcino, the gears in his head would keep churning, figuring out how to work this to his best advantage.

“Children, I mean.” He took the photos and began to lay them out in a semicircle in front of him, so that he could see them all at once. “They change things.”

“Aye, they do.” I agreed, because I knew Cillian had changed everything for me.

Were it not for him, I would never let Kira go. But what was best for my son was to have a happy mother. A mother who was healthy, not living under constant threat.

Peace was best for my family. Peace only existed if I was not in it.

“Do you think…” Morelli swallowed, and I wondered what calculations had gone through his mind.. “Could you grant me one last wish?”

“You’ve asked me to grant mercy to Cosima,” I said, reciting his first negotiation. “What else would you ask for?”

He loved as I loved. He cared for Cosima the way I did for my Kira. So in that, we were the same.

What was another favor among friends?

“I would ask two more wishes, if you would grant it, fair Irish genie,” he said, that slight humor coming back.

I would have liked him, I think, were it not for life and circumstance pitting us on two sides of a war.

“The first is that you extend that mercy to Giovanna,” he said.

“You don't even know for certain if she’s yours.” I wanted to sew doubt, not because I believed in it, but because I truly felt that heneededa bit of it to ease his passage.

But I was wrong.

“She’s mine,” Morelli said with certainty. “She is mine, and I have no doubt of it. Will you grant me this wish, enemy prince? The son of my old rival?”

I swallowed, feeling the heaviness of the pistol in my pocket. “Aye. Granted.”

He picked up a photo—a recent one—of Cosima with the child on her lap, the two smiling at the camera in what looked like Christmas clothes.

“May I write her a letter and be assured you will give it to her?” he asked.

It was an oddly phrased request. A specific one, if I had to guess.

I pulled a pen from my pocket and tapped it on his shoulder. He didn’t look as he took it and scrawled something on the back.

My beloved,

Do not let vengeance bring you to Hell with me. Find peace.

- Gio

He folded his note and gave it to me.

Christ, this man was going to make me weep before I could finish this sordid task.

“May I ask that you deliver it with the crucifix you took from my neck? It should be with my other personal effects. Deliver it yourself, if you can,” he asked, his head lifting, as he handed me the letter.

“That’s more than three wishes now,” I said, because I was still a monster, and a fucking prick. He was still my enemy. “I’m not a genie in a bottle, old man.”

“I think that you will grant it, after all that I have given in your service, Young King.”

I would.

Even if he had done nothing but survive, I would have granted a dying man—a dying father—the farewell he asked for.

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