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“All I’m saying is, you work too hard, young lady. You waste more money on me than that crummy apartment of yours you barely live in.”

“Nonno! Who cares when I can just crash here whenever I like?”

I don’t tell him he’s absolutely right.

But I’d rather spend time with him than be alone in my apartment.

My grandfather only has so many more years left, and after I lost Dad to a heart attack, I’d be a fool to take a second for granted.

“I’m fine, piccolina,” he says with a pout. “You don’t need to worry night and day about this old goat. I’ve managed for eighty years, haven’t I? There’s nothing lost if I putz around on my own for a few days. You, though, you’re only young once. I wish you could see it.”

I give him a skeptical look.

Last week, I walked in while he was arguing with a scammer over the phone. Probably some AI-generated douchebag trying to trick him into giving up his credit card number.

Nonno isn’t fooled easily, but he doesn’t realize it’s not a real person on the other end. He won’t scare them into thinking he’ll find out where they live.

“You shouldn’t worry about me as much as you do.” He shakes his head of white hair.

“I know, I know. But you’re the only real family left,” I say gently. “Besides, it’s important, Nonno. I wouldn’t want to spend my time anywhere else.”

He groans, but he can’t argue back.

It’s true. Aside from the odd cousins scattered around the country, we’re the last family standing.

Even my last few years back in Seattle, it was hard watching friends hosting bustling Christmas celebrations with tons of extended family filling every room.

Meanwhile, I’d be lucky if I could fly out to Minnesota in time for the Feast of the Seven Fishes—well, four, since neither of us are fans of baccala or eel—with Nonno. We’d stuff our faces and watch Miracle on 34th Street.

Our favorite Christmas movie.

Dad’s too.

His absence with each passing year drives home how short and cruel life can be.

“I understand, and I appreciate you, my girl.” Kissing my forehead, he grabs my plate before disappearing into the other room.

He comes back with two glasses of his famous red port, each filled to the brim.

“Oh, Nonno, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“I’m trying to help you digest so you can have a good night’s sleep. One day, you’ll stop eating so late, girl.” He grins and holds up his glass. “Salud.”

Nonno loves his little after-dinner rituals, and so do I.

The strong dessert wine is definitely on the list of no-no’s I taped to the kitchen pantry door.

I’m about to scold him over doctor’s orders again when my own heart catches in my throat.

Dark burgundy.

The same color as the blood exploding down Dr. Grubert’s face.

I feel woozy.

The room swirls in my vision.

Sweet Jesus.