Less than three months later he had been struck by an automobile. Several vertebrae in his neck had been crushed, and his sports career-and all the fame and endorsements that came with it-was over. Most athletes, so Domenico understood, put on weight when their athletic careers came to an end. But Franco had lost it. At thirty-three, with his neck now permanently askew, he was a wizened, bitter old man, all sinews and grinding tendons, and the smooth patter was a thing of the past. All that was left from before was the selfish, narrow lout that was, and had always been, the essential Franco Ungaretti. And still, Emma adored him. Love, the old proverb said, was like food or music; there was no accounting for taste.
“But adoption is of no interest to me,” Domenico continued. “What good is an heir without the splendid genes of our family? It isn’t only the de Grazia name that must go on, but the good de Grazia blood that runs through our veins and has made us what we are.”
“Good blood,” Franco echoed, looking interested. “That’s very important.” Beef-brained he might be, but there was a streak of cunning in him; even if he didn’t know what was going on, he could smell advantage to himself at five kilometers. Well, he was right enough about that.
“Therefore,” Domenico said, “I have a proposition to make to you.” This was the part that he had rehearsed again and again, but now he rushed clumsily through it, addressing neither of them in particular, with his eyes fixed on the coffee table.