Emma
It had taken Emma a very short amount of time to learn exactly what Affonso Donati wanted in a wife. She quickly figured out the easiest way to placate the man, the best way to distract him, and the right way to please him.
Sometimes, it didn’t even have to be sexual.
A smile when he said her name would suffice. Her undivided attention when he was speaking. Her presence at his side when he was showing off for others.
As long as Affonso believed that he had Emma eating out of his palm, spoiled and pretty, then he was a happy man who was unlikely to turn on her. At least, that’s how it seemed. Emma had also learned that when it came to her new husband, what appeared on the surface was very different from intentions hiding below his charming smile and warm hand.
His cold eyes said it all.
Affonso always watched her. Emma couldn’t escape from it, no matter how hard she tried. In a room full of people, it was even worse. Affonso rarely left her side, his hand permanently attached to her lower back or his fingers intertwined with hers, grounding her to the floor.
Emma had slowly been trying to learn her new home and New York. But even when she stepped outside of the Donati home to do the simplest things—like her nails or a bit of shopping—her enforcer was waiting. Affonso’s number would light up her phone.
Be a good girl, he would say.
That was all.
Her husband had a set of rules that he expected Emma to follow at all times. She couldn’t sleep in past nine in the morning. She couldn’t come downstairs to greet him or be seen unless her hair and face were done and ready for the day. Her clothes were approved by him daily, and her cash was limited to credit cards that were closely monitored. She wasn’t allowed to drive herself around; she had a driver to do all that business. Affonso preferred her soft-spoken, smiling, and silent when he was speaking.
He never raised a hand to her. He treated her with respect in front of others. He was never nasty in an obvious way, and he didn’t speak badly of her or her position as his wife.
The control still suffocated Emma like Affonso had put his hands around her throat and was squeezing the very life out of her. It was almost like she couldn’t blink without his permission.
Emma vividly remembered the first time it became apparent to her just how much influence Affonso really had in her day-to-day life. She had gone shopping shortly after the wedding, right before Michelle and Cynthia were to be sent back to boarding school. She had hoped to soften her new step-daughters, and invited them out with her.
The girls had no women in their lives to help them with certain things. Their grandmothers were off playing the old, bitchy mob wives to their husbands, and too busy to pay their visiting granddaughters any mind. Michelle and Cynthia had no one to talk to about boys, clothes, what was on their minds, or even the boring things, like their favorite television shows.
No adult females, anyway.
After taking the girls to one of their favorite shops for clothes, Cynthia wanted to stop at a lingerie shop. Emma hadn’t seen the problem in going. She took the then fourteen-year-old Michelle and the sixteen-year-old Cynthia in to pick out whatever it was they needed. Emma picked up a few things herself.
By the time she got home with the girls, Affonso was waiting. He’d apparently gotten notifications for each and every purchase she had made with her shiny, black credit card. He wasn’t mad, exactly, but he didn’t approve, either. After agreeing that the girls hadn’t purchased anything that was above their age groups, he sent them upstairs.
Affonso then went through Emma’s purchases. One by one. And he made her model them one at a time until he was satisfied.
It was degrading on a whole new level for Emma. Sleeping with Affonso was one thing. She was his wife, and the best she could do was grit her teeth, do what he asked in the bedroom, and go on with her day. If she did that, then he left her alone.
But to be paraded in front of him like he owned her, for his amusement and pleasure, was something entirely different from having sex with the man. It made her feel far dirtier than even sucking his cock did.
It made her feel like a toy.
His toy.
“Where have you gone?” Affonso asked.
Emma fell out of her thoughts with a fake smile. “Right here with you.”
“You were staring at the clock, Emma.”
“Checking the time. I’m getting tired.”
Affonso’s palm rested against her flat stomach with a gentle touch as he murmured, “You can go up to bed, if you’d like.”
She wished his touch didn’t feel as heavy as it did. Like it was a weight resting on her stomach, reminding her of the duty and promises she had been given when he married her.
A child.
That’s what Affonso wanted.
A boy, specifically.
The pregnancy did little but make Emma anxious and sick all at the same time. She hadn’t wanted the dinner tonight, or the announcement. Affonso, without her agreement, decided to go ahead and tell his family and friends of the upcoming birth.
It was too soon.
Emma was sure of it.
After what happened the last time …
She stopped her thoughts by biting on her inner cheek, refusing to go there again. This was not the place or time for her to cry. Affonso hated emotions—he despised an emotional woman even more. It would do her no good to become overwhelmed at a party that was supposed to be a happy occasion for Affonso and her.
“Your eyes are even tired,” Affonso murmured, reaching up to stroke her cheek with two fingers. “I can see it. Go up to bed, hmm?”
Emma did all she could do not to cringe and move away from the man’s hand. She didn’t like it when he touched her as if he cared, or with any affection. None of it was real. Affonso’s fondness only went as far as her ability to behave and put on a good show.
She wasn’t stupid.
The eyes were watching. People were surveying their quiet exchange at the front of the room, gauging the husband doting on his newly pregnant, and very young wife. Somehow, Emma managed another smile for Affonso.
It took everything she had to do it.
“I think I will,” she said quietly.
“They’ll all be gone soon enough. Get my child some rest, sweetheart.”
Emma responded with a nod, but she couldn’t get out of the room fast enough once Affonso turned his back to her.
Emma’s favorite room in the large, three-level Donati home was her own personal walk-in closet. Affonso had his own, located on the opposite side from hers that connected to their master bedroom. He rarely, if ever, entered her space. The marble floors, white walls, large mirrors, and pale leather furniture reminded her of the penthouse she had been forced to leave behind in Las Vegas when she married Affonso.
She could sit on the oversized, white leather stool, let her bare feet hit the cold marble, close her eyes, and pretend that she was somewhere else for the moment. When she opened her eyes back up and stared into the vanity mirror lit up with bright lights, all she could see staring back in the reflection was herself.
There was no Emma Donati there.
No mob boss’s wife.
No purchased bride.
Just Emma.
Emmy.
Bending down, Emma undid the clasp on the ankle of her kitten heels. After the spell she’d had four months ago shortly after the wedding, Affonso had demanded she put away the high heels if she became pregnant again. He did approve of the kitten heels, thankfully. She had been wearing a pair of her favorite Dolce & Gabbana heels when the white noise started to rush in her ears, everything went fuzzy in the corners of her vision, and she lost her breath with the first pain.
Then, after she had hit the floor in the middle of the kitchen, she felt the wetness on her wool dress. Red had smeared between her fingertips when she felt between her thighs to find where the blood was coming from.
Emma remembered very little after that.
She’d lost the baby. The doctors hadn’t given her a clear explanation as to why the pregnancy terminated itself, or what might be wrong. They simply said it was more frequent than most people knew for first pregnancies to end in miscarriage. The fact that she had been in the very early weeks of the pregnancy meant she would heal fast and probably conceive again without issue.
Emma was terrified it was going to happen again.
She remembered sitting on the toilet two weeks after her wedding and staring at the test in her hand. Two pinks lines had brightened a window almost immediately, confirming what she had believed for almost a week before she had gained up enough courage to take a pregnancy test. Her fingers had trembled as she did the math in her head, knowing that at that point, she had already been a week late for her period.
There was no possible way Affonso could have been the father.
So she hid it from him.
A week later, she took another test and brought it down to show her husband over breakfast. Affonso had been excited, joyful even. He’d tried to spoil her relentlessly for the week that followed, but Emma took his actions with a grain of salt and faked her own interest.
When she miscarried, Affonso barely looked twice at her. He didn’t say a word when she explained what the doctors said she should do, and how long the bleeding might last. It wasn’t until her husband thought she was back to normal that he came back to their bed at night, demanding and taking.
Emma participated, but barely.
She just wanted it to be over.
Unlike with her first pregnancy, Emma tried not to acknowledge this one as much as she could. She made a special effort not to touch her stomach or think about the little life inside her. It might seem cold to someone on the outside looking in, but Emma didn’t know how to treat the pregnancy any differently.
She was attached to the first. She wanted the baby because it had been nothing more than an innocent by-product of a single night and the morning after with someone who had made her feel alive. With someone who had cared.
Calisto.
And then she lost the child.
She didn’t want to lose this one, too. But if it happened, if the pain and blood came again when she wasn’t expecting it to, at least she wouldn’t be so emotionally dependent on an unborn child for her happiness.
It wouldn’t kill her.
At least … not as badly.
Well, Emma hoped so.
It was her piss-poor plan.
She felt useless.
Finding her reflection in the mirror of the vanity, Emma sighed. She grabbed a facial wipe from the glass top, and began removing the mask that had become a part of her morning routine. She hid her fear, all of the anxiety, the sleepless nights, and her sadness with concealer, foundation, blush, and bronzer. She covered up the puffy redness from lack of sleep and her silent tears with green and red tones, perfectly blended in just the right spots. She contoured away the weight loss in her face that was caused by her stress and lack of interest in food.
She thought the bright green of her irises was a lot duller than it had once been. Her hair didn’t wave like it used to, and her skin wasn’t as soft as before.
Or maybe she was just seeing things.
Something to make her less than perfect.
She was trying.
Surviving was good enough.
Wasn’t it?
Emma pulled back the thick duvet on the king-sized bed, and began tugging off her silk robe. She had just hung it over the bedpost when the bedroom door slammed open with enough force to send it barreling into the wall with a crash.
Sucking in a gasp, Emma spun on her bare feet. She faced a very drunk, and clearly angry Calisto Donati. He stalked forward, tossing his suit jacket to the side and loosening his tie. Emma stood stock still and frozen, unsure of what to do.
The master bedroom was on the second floor level of the home. No one probably heard the door crash into the wall, but she didn’t want to take the risk of being caught unsupervised with a man in her bedroom.
Especially not a man she had already fucked three times.
Calisto came toe-to-toe with Emma, his gaze burning into hers with enough heat to melt a fucking icecap. She could feel his anger radiating off him. His hands shook at his sides where he balled them into tight fists. His clenched jaw ticked, reminding her of what it felt like to have his three-day scruff scraping across her sensitive skin. His soul-black eyes held his pain, whatever it was, while the rest of him just shuddered with total rage.
She took another breath.
It didn’t help.
The ache started between her legs the same way it had months ago when she seduced him, invited him to her bed, and then let him fuck her raw for an entire night and then again the morning after. She couldn’t think clearly when Calisto was close.
She had been mad over his distance for the first little while when they returned to New York, but that quickly faded. She understood his reasons without him even needing to tell her. They had crossed a line—a very thin line.
He didn’t want to do it again.
“You,” he growled under his breath.
Emma tried to step back, but bumped into the bed instead. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“You know what,” he spat.
“You smell like whiskey, Cal.”
“I drank a bit.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Very,” he agreed. “It is the only way I can handle my own nonsense right now, not to mention the way he parades you around like you belong to him. You’re just another one of his pretty things, Emmy. He takes you out, shines you up, and shows you off. Drives me fucking crazy.”
Never once did he take his eyes off her.
Then, Calisto reached out and grabbed her. He tugged on her arm, forcing her away from the bed like he didn’t want her touching it or something. The force of his fingers biting into her skin was enough to make her whine.
“You’re hurting me,” Emma said, pulling on her arm. He didn’t let go. “Stop it, Cal.”
Calisto dropped Emma’s arm instantly, took a big step back, and threw his hands high. Pain and remorse washed over his features as he took yet another step away from her. Oddly, she wished he was closer.
“I’m sorry, Emmy. I would never hurt you. I didn’t mean to—”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, choking on the last word.
“About what?”
“The baby you lost after the wedding. The goddamn baby, Emma!”
Emma’s heart clenched painfully, and she shot a cautious look at the open doorway. “Would you lower your voice? It’s bad enough you’re in here, but you don’t get to barge in and demand answers at the same fucking time, Cal!”
“It was mine, wasn’t it?”
“Calisto, don’t.”
“Wasn’t it?”
Emma pressed her lips together, wanting to hide her frown and her own pain. “How did you know about the miscarriage?”
“Cynthia.”
“I don’t understand. How does Affonso’s daughter know anything about that? She wasn’t home when it happened.”
Calisto waved a hand like it didn’t matter. “She overheard something. She told me tonight. I figured it out myself. I’m not a fool, Emma. I can do math. It was mine. And you didn’t tell me.”
Emma wished the dull pain stabbing at her lungs and heart would go away. She didn’t like how Calisto’s grief was hurting her. She didn’t want to see that. It wouldn’t make her life or choices any easier.
“Go back downstairs. Get someone to drive you home,” she told him.
Calisto shook his head. “No. You answer me.”
“You’ll get me beaten black and blue if Affonso finds you in here with me.”
“He won’t hit you.”
“I don’t want to find out if he ever will,” she hissed. “Get out!”
“He won’t,” Calisto repeated, slurring slightly. His eyes were glassy, and he didn’t seem entirely focused as he stared at her. Emma couldn’t remember ever seeing Calisto drunk, and they had drank alcohol a few times in Vegas. “He did enough damage the first time that he knows I won’t stand for him to do it a second time. He’s a fucking coward, but he won’t do it again, I know.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell me the baby was mine.”
“What difference does it make?”
Calisto rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “You could have told me.”
“You weren’t around for me to tell you that I was pregnant,” Emma finally whispered.
It was the only thing she could give him.
It was the truth.
“You left me to fend for myself. You stayed away. I had to lie again. Where were you, Cal?” Emma scoffed, loud and hateful. “Now you care? Get out.”
“You’re right.” Calisto wet his lips, turned on his heel, and grabbed the suit jacket he had discarded when he first came in. “I fucked that one up, huh? I thought staying away would be better for you, or …”
“For you,” Emma said. “You stayed away for you. Not for me. Say it like it is, Calisto.”
“Yeah, for me. I’m a selfish bastard, Emmy. I never pretended to be anything different.”
“What does it matter? It doesn’t, Cal. What happened, happened. And now it’s over. Please get out of my bedroom. Don’t make me ask again.”
Thankfully, he listened.
Through the sting of fresh tears wanting to fall, Emma watched Calisto go. She held back from asking him to stay, from telling him more.
How she missed him.
How she thought of Vegas.
How she remembered …
At the doorway, Calisto glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Emmy.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah.”
She wished it made a difference.
But it didn’t.
All over again, her heart splintered and broke. It was a damned good thing she had quickly learned how to perfect her mask every morning.
Tomorrow would be no exception.