Calisto
The Donati home came alive when people filled it. Usually, the place came off as cold and intimidating because of its large stature and the Gothic-slash-Victorian style of the outside architecture. But when music echoed throughout the halls, guests filled the rooms, and laughter was shared, the place warmed and felt like it could actually be a home.
Calisto was not stupid enough to be lulled into a sense of comfort, simply by the feel of a place. He had lived over two and a half decades and spent more than enough time inside his uncle’s home to know that outside appearances lie.
The snakes were everywhere.
“Cal!”
Calisto opened his arms wide to greet his cousin. Michelle bolted in his direction with a beaming smile before barreling straight into his embrace. His cousins, Michelle and Cynthia, were the only things about Affonso Donati that Calisto cared to give a damn about.
Michelle had just turned fifteen a month before, while Cynthia was only a couple of weeks off from her seventeenth birthday. Both girls spent the majority of their time away at boarding school, at Affonso’s demand. Despite making children, the man had very little interest in raising them.
“Michelle, dolce ragazza,” Calisto said, hugging his cousin tight. “How were your final weeks of school?”
She stepped far enough away from him to look up with disinterest. “It’s school, Cal. It’s boring. But Summer is here, and that’s all that matters.”
Calisto chuckled, and ticked two fingers under his cousin’s chin. “Hey, school is good for you. How else are you going to get out of this place and make something of yourself, huh?”
“Do you really think Daddy is going to let me or Cynthia out of New York?”
Ouch.
The bite in Michelle’s tone couldn’t be hidden, not that the girl even tried to. She had a point, too.
Calisto didn’t want his cousins giving Affonso trouble. It wouldn’t lead to anything good. Affonso was more likely to marry his daughters off—just to get them out of his hair—if he thought they were a bother. Calisto didn’t want to see that happen, because he would be forced to stand by and watch it happen, without being able to do anything to help Michelle or Cynthia.
Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d done that exact thing to Emma? He’d watched the woman be taken from her home and life. He was the one who dragged her to New York and delivered her to her new husband, then stood by and did nothing as she was married off. If he could help it, Calisto wouldn’t allow the same thing to happen to his cousins.
“Coward”, “asshole”, and “stupid” were just a few words he used to describe himself. In the midst of it all, Calisto had somehow allowed himself to become attached to Emma.
“You make me proud when you focus on your studies,” Calisto said, trying a different tactic.
Michelle’s sneer melted into a small smile. “Yeah?”
“Of course. Someday, when you do find a man to marry, I’d like to know that you’re capable of standing up for yourself, kid. I want to know that he can’t use you, trick you, or dumb you down because you’re too smart for that shit. It’s important. And you make me very proud every time I see a letter on Affonso’s table about you making the honor roll, or winning another award. I wish I could be there more often for your ceremonies.”
“You call,” Michelle said quietly. “I like that.”
Calisto nodded. “I always will, huh?”
“Good.”
Beyond Michelle, guests milled about between the dining room and the large living room that also doubled as a spot for entertaining during parties. The maroon walls mixed in with the leather furniture gave the room a dark, but warm, quality. The bright, nickel-brushed fixtures hanging down from the vaulted, cathedral-style ceiling lit the space up. The old, female Italian singer that Affonso loved to listen to droned on in the background.
“What is your father planning tonight?” Calisto asked.
Michelle shrugged her shoulders. “Not sure.”
Her gaze was focused elsewhere. Calisto followed where his cousin was staring, only to find a young man watching Michelle from the corner of the room. He recognized the sixteen-year-old boy as the son of one of Affonso’s Capos.
The kid was good, if not a little rough around the edges. What boys weren’t a bit jagged and jaded after growing up in Cosa Nostra?
“A new friend?” Calisto asked, hiding the curiosity from his tone.
Barely.
Michelle’s head snapped to the side, and she found Calisto with a hint of concern lighting up her brown gaze. “No, I—”
“I’m not going to rat you out to your father, Michelle.”
“Well …”
“Hmm?”
“We talked a couple of times since I got home from school,” she said.
“And?” Calisto pressed.
“Maybe I like him.”
Calisto chuckled. “Then maybe you should be very careful so your father doesn’t have a fit about a would-be boyfriend.”
Michelle gave Calisto a conspiratorial grin. “Maybe I will.”
That was his girl. The Donati charm was a learned trait, and he was awfully happy that his cousins managed to pick it up in their gene pool as well. All it took was the proper smile, the right words, and a teasing shrug to deflect someone’s attention.
Michelle had hers down to a T.
Calisto couldn’t be prouder.
“Zio,” Calisto greeted, taking his uncle’s hand.
“Cal,” Affonso said with a smile.
The two shook hands before Calisto lifted his uncle’s and pressed a quick kiss to the large, ornate ring on his middle finger. It was a sign of respect, although Calisto despised the very action. His respect for Affonso was limited, if not barely there at all, but it was something his uncle demanded from his men.
And there were a lot of men watching.
Calisto ignored the other Mafiosi in the room, gauging and surveying the exchange between an uncle and his nephew—the Don and his consigliere. Some of Calisto’s grievances and disagreements with Affonso were known to the other men. Not every argument was held behind the protection of closed doors. It wasn’t a well-kept secret.
Nonetheless, Calisto put on the mask of a sheep when the time called for it. This was one of those moments, unfortunately.
It didn’t help that Emma stood at Affonso’s side with her head turned to the side, and her hand entangled with her husband’s. She wore a red dress, skin-tight, that was littered with sparking beads from the neckline to the hem. Each time she moved, the flared skirt would shimmer, sending bolts of colors cascading across her skin and the floor.
She looked beautiful. Still young and vibrant. Her painted red lips spoke of her silent defiance, a fire that had first drawn Calisto to Emma when they were in Las Vegas before the wedding. Affonso hated red lipstick. Emma was clearly still wearing hers.
Calisto was pleased that his uncle hadn’t somehow managed to take that away from the girl. A dangerous satisfaction swam through his bloodstream, just by knowing Emma hadn’t bowed to all of Affonso’s demands.
Hopefully, Affonso wasn’t giving the woman too much trouble for it all.
“Evening, Emma,” Calisto said quietly.
Emma’s gaze cut to Calisto at his acknowledgment. A spark of anger heated up her green eyes as she looked him over briefly, and then dropped her stare altogether.
“Cal,” Emma murmured. “How’s work? We don’t see you nearly enough.”
“Clubs are good.”
“I’ve been meaning to visit one.”
“Oh?” he asked.
Affonso chuckled deeply. “She likes to dance.”
Emma didn’t pay her husband any mind, and her gaze never once left Calisto. “Yes, but you’ve been everywhere but here. I didn’t know which one of your clubs was the best.”
“They’re all good, bella. I own them, after all.”
Affonso didn’t seem to notice Calisto’s affectionate use of “beautiful” in regards to his wife. That, or the man didn’t care.
Emma, on the other hand, softened a bit in her stance. “I’ll keep that in mind, Calisto.”
Her voice was still like honey, he noticed. Soft, smooth, and wickedly sweet. Calisto had spent the majority of the last four months avoiding his uncle and Emma for the sake of his own sanity. He had hoped that staying away from the woman would let him clear his head, get her out of his system, and allow him to move on.
It didn’t.
Instead, Calisto found himself thinking about creamy skin, expressive green eyes, and white sheets more than he cared to admit. His dreams often turned to clothes discarded on marble floors, the music of Emma’s pleas as Calisto fucked her from behind, and the way her bottom lip looked when her top teeth bit down into the pink flesh.
With just a few wayward thoughts, Calisto was right back to where he started with Emma. Walking on thin lines, and knowing he was a fucking fool for doing so.
The girl made it damn easy.
She probably didn’t even know.
Why couldn’t he just let it—her—go?
“Ah, there’s Ray,” Affonso said, taking Calisto’s attention off of Emma for a moment.
Ray Missotti strolled into the living room with a glass of brandy in each hand. “Why don’t you have your mouth full of liquor yet, boss?”
“I’m working on that, cafone,” Affonso replied. “I was waiting on you to correct the problem, and you finally have. It took you long enough.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Affonso muttered something in Emma’s ear, earning him a quick nod from his wife. Then, the Don was gone from Emma’s side without as much as a goodbye to Calisto.
It wasn’t like Calisto minded.
Emma fidgeted, twisting her fingers together as she watched her husband go. Her restless actions screamed of her nervousness, even if her expression was a blank slate. It bothered him in a way he couldn’t explain that Emma didn’t want to be near him, no matter her reasons.
“Well, I should—”
“Wait,” Calisto said, stopping her before she could make an excuse to leave him.
“Sì?”
Her jade gaze met his, unashamed. She stared at him like it didn’t bother her a bit that he was here, like maybe it didn’t hurt her. She didn’t seem like she was embarrassed at his presence or knowing that he had spent hours learning what her body looked like when she was wearing nothing but her skin. He wondered how well she remembered what it felt like to be wrapped up in him.
For the first time in months, Calisto felt better. Like maybe he could breathe again. He wondered all over again why he had been avoiding this woman when his only reasons for doing so were purely selfish.
Doing what you did with her the first time was selfish, too, his mind taunted.
Calisto pushed his inner thoughts away. “How are you doing?”
Emma lifted a single manicured brow high. “Fine, Cal.”
“Just fine?”
“Affonso treats me well, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It was.”
Emma smiled. “And it wasn’t at the same time, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she told him.
The words slipped from Calisto’s lips before he could stop them. “I don’t seem to have much of a choice on the matter. I tried not to, but it didn’t do me much good.”
Emma didn’t bat a lash. “That’s a problem you’ll have to deal with, isn’t it?”
Damn.
Her words had sliced right through his tough-as-steel exterior, and cut him deep. Calisto supposed, after everything that happened and all that he did, he didn’t deserve much else from Emma. She owed him nothing.
“I guess it is,” Calisto finally said.
“Have a good evening, Cal. Thanks for coming.”
Emma hadn’t even smiled when she said it. She just walked away, in the same direction that Affonso had gone earlier, without even looking over her shoulder.
Strangely, Calisto was grateful.
Emma’s resentment and rejection were easier to swallow than her kindness. He could take the girl’s anger and her distance. He’d earned those things when he forced her from her life, let her get too close, and then handed her off like she meant nothing to him. Her attention and kindness was a different matter altogether. They didn’t belong to him now that Emma was married.
They hadn’t belonged to him before.
She was just making it clear.
“Does everyone have a glass of wine or champagne ready?” Affonso asked, his voice traveling over the crowd of gathering guests.
Confirmative murmurs echoed back, answering Affonso’s question. Two servers handed out red wine in crystal glasses to the few people who didn’t have a drink in hand. Calisto happened to be one of them. He accepted the glass offered, but set it aside the moment the server turned around.
He didn’t want to drink tonight.
Calisto stayed at the back of the room, secluded in his own little corner. That was usually his way with functions like these, when the men of la famiglia and their wives were invited. It was better to observe the people than to mingle with them. He preferred to have his position and status recognized, and not have his kindness mistaken for weakness.
Trust was a beautiful myth in Cosa Nostra.
At the front of the room, Affonso held his hand out in Emma’s direction, waiting for her to take it with her own. She did, smiling falsely as her gaze turned to a spot on the wall where an elaborate painting of the New York skyline rested below a spotlight.
The heavy feeling was back on Calisto’s shoulders, pressing down into his stomach and making him wish the floor would open up. Something was off—something he wouldn’t like.
Cynthia settled in beside her cousin as Affonso raised his glass high. “Hey, Cal.”
“Cynthia,” he said, bumping her with his shoulder.
“You’re all alone.”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t bring a date?”
Calisto scoffed. “I don’t have time for women.”
They cause too many problems.
“Sure you don’t.” Cynthia eyed the glass of wine on the table beside Calisto. “Can I have that if you’re going not going to drink it?”
Calisto shrugged. “Go for it. Don’t let Affonso see it.”
“Daddy is too focused on his news tonight.”
“And Emma, it seems,” Calisto noted.
Cynthia didn’t seem to notice the hint of bitterness in Calisto’s words. “Her, too.”
She plucked up the glass and took a large gulp of red wine, earning quiet laughter from Calisto.
“Hey, slow down.”
“Not my first time drinking, Cal.”
“I would rather pretend it was,” he told her. “You’re only sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen.”
“For my sake, can you lie a little?”
Cynthia grinned wickedly. “Do you really want me to?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Didn’t think so.”
Affonso’s droning drawl brought Calisto back to the present. He gave his attention to his uncle, wishing this night could be over already. He tried not to focus on Emma at Affonso’s side, and instead listened to the words his uncle was saying.
“We were waiting a bit before sharing this news. We wanted everything to be good, healthy, and no sadness to share,” Affonso said.
Calisto’s brow furrowed. “He’s making quite a show, isn’t he?”
“I heard them talking a couple of weeks ago in his office,” Cynthia said.
“About what?”
“Emma said it was still too early, and she didn’t want it to end like the last one did.”
“What?” Calisto asked. “You’re not making any sense.”
“The baby,” Cynthia clarified.
Calisto’s heart stopped for a split second. “The baby?”
“That’s what I said. She didn’t want to tell people yet because she was scared it might happen again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you know?” Cynthia asked.
Calisto shook his head. Why couldn’t his younger cousin just spit whatever the fuck it was out? “No, tell me.”
“I thought for sure that Daddy told you, Cal.”
“Obviously not.”
“Emma miscarried like three weeks after the wedding. She didn’t want to tell people this time until she was further along.”
Calisto’s tongue was too thick to speak. He did the math in his head quickly. Emma would have been very early in her pregnancy if she miscarried only three weeks after her wedding. She likely would have just found out she was pregnant only days before miscarrying. Knowing a woman only had so many days in her cycle meant that conception would have been far more likely to occur closer to the wedding date …
Or just before.
That night in Emma’s penthouse, Calisto had used a condom the first time. The morning after, twice, he hadn’t used anything. He didn’t want to confirm what it might mean.
Jesus Christ.
Why hadn’t she told him?
Affonso was still speaking. “My beautiful wife is two months along in her pregnancy. We wanted to share this news with our family and friends first. Our first child is due in … Emma, sweetheart?”
“Early February,” Emma finished for her husband.
Calisto felt sick.
He snatched the glass from Cynthia, ignored her pout, and downed what was left of it in one go. The bitter sweetness of the alcohol did nothing to soothe his sudden frayed nerves, or the anger bubbling just below his surface. Calisto needed something far stronger to make the hell that was his life seem even a little bit better.
Fuck this whole night.
Fuck it.