Emma
Emma’s hands trembled, and she clasped them together in her lap in an attempt to hide her nervousness and shame. The taste of her recklessness rested heavily on the back of her tongue, reminding her of the mistakes she had made over the last couple of months.
Really, over the last year.
She should have been more careful.
This shouldn’t have happened at all.
Emma hadn’t wanted it to happen again.
“It’s very early,” the doctor said across the desk from her.
Emma felt smaller than she actually was, like a little bug hearing big words it couldn’t understand. She might as well have been a million miles away and not actually in the moment like she needed to be.
“The routine bloodwork brought it to our attention,” the doctor continued.
How was this real?
How was she supposed to fix this?
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said quietly.
Emma’s head snapped up at those words. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated. “You don’t seem happy about the news.”
“I don’t know how to feel,” Emma lied.
She did know.
Worried.
Terrified.
Ashamed.
Confused.
Happy …
It was one big jumble inside her body, the emotions crashing into one another over and over like waves in an ocean. The only problem was that Emma was the ocean, and she wasn’t very good at weathering the waves until they passed.
“If you’d like, I could set you up with an appointment to term—”
“No,” Emma rushed to say, cutting off the doctor before she could even finish.
After the mistakes her previous doctor had made—errors that cost Emma her child’s life—she had found a new doctor. Affonso hadn’t said much all those months ago when Emma told him she would be seeing a physician of her choosing. She was grateful for the change, now.
Affonso’s chosen doctor would not have treated her with as much kindness and respect as this one was. He would not have offered her what this one just had.
The doctor sighed, reached forward, and flipped open Emma’s file. She quickly scanned through the pages of Emma’s medical history, and focused in on the most recent months.
“I see you talked with a fertility specialist,” the doctor noted.
“I did,” Emma replied faintly.
“And what came of that?”
Emma struggled to remember her conversation with the fertility doctor. It had been such a difficult time for her—one she would rather forget entirely. All those months had been spent in a haze of dazed days and going through the motions. Her grief had been damn near unbearable.
“I believe there was a procedure that was mentioned, should another happen,” Emma replied.
The doctor glanced up. “I’m familiar with it.”
“It’s not a guarantee.”
“It’s better than what you’re looking at now. A lot better.”
Emma nodded, and stared down at her hands. “I went to eighteen weeks.”
“Good. Then we have a bit of time to plan.” The doctor reached for a pen and said, “I need some information, and then you can head on home and tell your husband the good news.”
Good news.
It was more like a horror story.
One that would end terribly for Emma.
“Last missed menstrual cycle?” the doctor asked.
Emma’s throat tightened around her words. “Tomorrow would be the first day for it. I should have gotten it tomorrow.”
The doctor hummed. “Early indeed. It was really just luck that we caught the pregnancy like this. If you hadn’t come in for bloodwork, you might not have known for another few weeks, maybe a little less.”
What did it matter now?
She was, regardless of the rest.
Pregnant.
Emma swallowed convulsively, her stomach churning. She was pregnant. Her own stupidity was going to cost her another child, or worse, her own life. After mentioning a couple of weeks ago to her doctor during a follow-up appointment that she was still quite tired and often exhausted after the beating, the doctor suggested a blood workup. It was possible, the doctor had said, that after losing so much blood, her body was struggling to regenerate as fast as it should, and her iron levels could be lower than normal.
She had finally gotten in yesterday to do the bloodwork.
Today, Emma had gotten a call.
“I see you’re on birth control,” the doctor said now.
“Yes,” Emma said.
“Stop taking it today. Do you have any idea why it failed?”
“Because I was an idiot,” Emma replied.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Emma flinched at the pity in the woman’s tone. “Don’t do that. What I said was true. I’m an idiot, and I wasn’t careful like I should have been. I had missed a few pills last month after my attack during my days in the hospital. And when I had to continue taking antibiotics after I got out, I knew I was supposed to use a backup.”
It was almost like she’d done this to herself, knowing what would come of it. It made Emma hate herself a little more.
Instinctively, she put a hand over her stomach as the doctor continued talking about options and how they would proceed from here.
“I understand you’re frightened,” the doctor said quietly. “After all that you’ve been through this last year with your previous pregnancies, I can certainly understand why you would feel that way. I want to assure you that this pregnancy is much more likely to succeed, Emma, because we know what the problem is and we can fix it. Or rather, try our best to give you as much time to carry your baby as possible.”
Emma nodded, but she couldn’t make her lips move to respond.
Nothing would be fine.
Her husband was not the father of this child.
If he ever came back from wherever in the fuck he was, Affonso would know the truth. He hadn’t slept with his wife in months. Emma couldn’t stick her head in the sand. Her husband was not a stupid man. She wouldn’t be able to trick him like the first time.
Not that she wanted to.
The baby was Calisto’s child.
How was she supposed to tell him?
What would they do?
As the doctor continued talking, Emma was lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t know what to do.
“Forgive me, Father,” Emma whispered. “It has been two years since my last confession.”
Across the floor from her, Father Day sat with his ankle crossed over his knee and his hands in his lap. In his robe and collar, he was the very picture of patience and grace. Strangely, that helped Emma a great deal to see him sitting there like that, waiting and not judging her.
“Why so long?” the priest asked.
Emma cleared her throat, willing away her emotions. “I haven’t felt a need to confess.”
“Yet, you do today, child.”
“Maybe I was too caught up in my own selfishness to give it the thought and time it deserved.”
Father Day smiled. “That’s probably more likely. We all have those moments, however, so it’s understandable that you would have one yourself. It’s a human trait we all share.”
“Thank you.”
“Who was your last confessor?”
“A priest from my family’s church. I grew up listening to him every Sunday,” Emma said.
“So you trusted him,” Father Day replied.
“Of course.”
“I hope that I can offer you the same, Emma.”
Emma blew out a shaky breath, willing her nerves to leave. Above most people in her life, she would always trust a priest. His job was with God first, man second. His doctrine required him to keep her confessions between him and God only.
She just needed to talk.
“So what’s made you come now, after two years, to begin confessing again?” Father Day asked.
“It started fourteen months ago.”
Father Day’s head tipped to the side. “Right after you married Affonso?”
“Right before,” she corrected.
“Go on.”
“Everything changed, and not in the way I thought it would.”
“Why did it change?” he asked.
Emma stared beyond the priest to the cross hanging off the wall. “Because I met Calisto Donati.”
Father Day rested back in his chair with a nod. A nod that said her words weren’t a surprise, but one that said he had been waiting for her to finally come see him.
“I met him,” Emma continued, blinking away the sudden flood of tears and emotions, “and he changed everything, Father.”
A thump woke Emma from the slumber that had finally found her after hours of worrying and trying to fall asleep. She had waited up for Calisto to come back to the Donati home as he did every night since Affonso left, but he hadn’t showed up.
The day had been overwhelming, and sleep came late for Emma.
She pushed up from the bed, wiping at her face and running her hands through her hair. Another thump and low curse echoed outside of her bedroom. Confused, she got out of bed, grabbed the silk robe hanging off the bedpost, and wrapped it around her body. She padded over to the door, ignoring the cold hardwood chilling the soles of her feet. Opening the door, she peered out into an empty, dark hallway.
“Who’s there?” Emma called.
Silence answered her back.
She wasn’t worried that someone might have broken into the home. They would have been dead before they even got the front door open. The enforcers watching the house were on constant guard when Calisto wasn’t home.
It had to be Calisto.
Who else would it be?
A stream of light filtered out from beneath a door down at the end of the hallway. Emma knew for a fact that she had shut the bathroom light off before she finally climbed into bed. She quickly made her way down the hallway, and then knocked on the door.
“Cal?” Emma said loud enough for him to hear.
“Go to sleep,” she heard muttered behind the door.
Emma’s brow furrowed. “Open up.”
“Go back to bed, fuck.”
Clipped.
Angry.
Tense.
That wasn’t like Calisto at all.
Not the one she knew.
Emma jiggled the doorknob, but found it was locked. Her heart thumped in her throat as the worry compounded hard in her chest. “Calisto, open the fucking door.”
He didn’t say a word back.
Emma smacked her palm hard on the door, and she barely felt the sting. Even so, she instantly began to cry. All of the emotions and the confusion that she had spent bottling up over the last day came pouring out of her in that moment, rushing out like lava from a volcano. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she sobbed, gasping for breath.
She just wanted to talk to Calisto.
She needed to get it all out.
Why wouldn’t he open the door for her?
“Calisto, open the goddamn d—”
The door swung open, and Emma was immediately engulfed in warm, strong arms. She buried her face into Calisto’s chest, and cried harder. She felt his hand stroke her back while his other tangled into her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she heard him murmur. “Please don’t cry, Emmy. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t mean to snap at you. God, stop crying. I didn’t mean to make you cry, bella.”
Emma sniffled, wishing she wasn’t so fucking hormonal and stupid. “It’s not you, not really.”
Calisto held her out away from him a bit, just enough that he could look her over. His dark eyes raked over her form, and he wiped the tears from her face with his bruised, cut hands.
Emma blinked.
“What happened to your hands?”
Calisto pulled them away from her face, dropping them down to his sides like he wanted to hide them. It was too late. Emma had already seen the swollen damage.
“Nothing,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
“Give me your hands,” she demanded.
When he didn’t do as she asked, Emma grabbed his right wrist and pulled his hand up to look at it in the light from the bathroom. She sucked in a hard breath at the sight of his injured hand. His knuckles were swollen, cut on each one, and an angry red. His pinky was slightly off to the side, and it didn’t look right.
“It’s broken, I think,” Calisto grumbled.
“Oh, my God.”
“Doesn’t hurt a lot.”
“How can it not hurt?” Emma asked, staring up at him.
“I took a Vicodin and washed it back with some vodka.”
Jesus.
Emma’s fingers ghosted over Calisto’s knuckles again. She dropped his hand, and grabbed his other. It was in the same condition, minus the broken pinky finger.
“Here, I’ll get you to hold onto this for me,” Calisto said.
Emma waited as he dug in his pants pocket and pulled out something that was hidden in his fist. Turning his hand over, Calisto opened his palm to showcase the golden ruby ring that he always wore on his pinky.
“I won’t be able to put it on for a while,” he explained. “And if they were to cut it off at the hospital when I go in, I would have a fucking fit.”
Emma plucked the ring from his hand, her palm closing tightly around it to keep it safe. “I’ll hold onto it. Now, tell me what happened.”
Calisto spun on his heel and stalked back into the bathroom. Emma followed right behind. She waited him out as he turned the water on and stuck his hands underneath with a hiss. The water turned pink when Calisto clenched his hands into fists, and his cuts opened up all over again. Blood washed down the drain.
In the light, she finally got a good look at him.
Blood was splattered up his white dress shirt. He had the same red dots all over his neck, jaw, and face. His arms were stained with blood right up to his elbows, and his hair looked like he had run a bloody hand through it.
On the counter, a cigarette burned and smoke curled upward in spirals.
Calisto plucked it up and stuck it between his bloody lips and took a drag.
Emma’s chest tightened.
He was bloodied, dark as hell, and quiet standing there.
It made her stomach twist—it wasn’t a bad thing.
What had happened to make him come home like this?
“Calisto?” Emma asked.
He pulled another item from his pocket, and handed it over. Emma unfurled the crumpled piece of paper, and pain sliced through her heart at the face on the page. Her attacker looked exactly the same in the picture, right down to the scar beneath his eye.
“That happened,” Calisto said, his tone coming out like a rumble.
Emma wet her lips. “How did you find out who it was?”
“I had a meeting this morning. I was given that.”
“And then what?”
Calisto laughed deeply, his soul-black gaze flashing as he turned it on her. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Cal”
“I fucking killed him. I went to the restaurant he manages, lured him into the back alley, and beat him like he did to you. I didn’t stop hitting him until he was seizing on the ground and choking on his own bloody vomit. Do you want to know what I did then?”
No.
“Yes,” she said instead.
“I put my hands around his throat,” Calisto said, lifting his hands high for her to see. “And I held on, watching his eyes until there was nothing left. I was so angry because he’d touched you—he hurt you. He left marks all over you, and he made you cry. I had to see him go, watch that leave his eyes and make sure he knew why, and it was worth it.”
Oh, God.
Emma closed her eyes for a brief second, but opened them back up just as fast.
“Do you hate me now?” Calisto asked when she stayed quiet.
“Never,” Emma whispered. “I love you too much to hate you, Cal.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Emma stepped closer to him. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you just shouldn’t. This is never going to be—we’re never going to be more than we are right now. If anything, we’ll be together a hell of a lot less very soon.”
Her heart clenched painfully.
“Calisto, don’t say that,” she mumbled, wrapping an arm around her lower stomach. “I need you.”
“That’s a problem, Emmy.”
“Cal!”
Calisto ignored her shout, and stared into the mirror, his eyes seemingly deader than ever. “Do you want to know what I did after the meeting this morning?”
Emma didn’t understand how that mattered. “No, I want to know why you would say something like that to me, after everything.”
“I met with the Irish boss this morning, and found out about all of Affonso’s double dealings and his bullshit. Thankfully, the meeting went well, and we shouldn’t have any more issues with the Irish family. It was just another one of Affonso’s messes that I had to clean. Just like he wanted me to. Right after, I got in my car and drove across town to meet with the men again. He’s been gone since the first week of February. It’s April, now. His men want to know where he is—why he isn’t here. They’re angry that he left, angry with him.”
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“He wanted them like that; he wanted them looking to me, and partial to me,” Calisto muttered.
“So?”
“So,” Calisto drawled, dragging a bloody, wet hand down over his face, “… I sat there with them today, and did nothing as they gave Affonso exactly what he wanted, and everything that I refused him. I had no say. He forced me into it just like he promised to do.”
“The boss’s seat,” she said, finally putting his mumbled pieces together.
Calisto nodded, staring into the mirror again. “He’s got everything he wants from me.”
“Oh, Cal.”
“Do you know what that means?”
Emma reached out and snagged his wrist in her hand, holding tight. “No, but it’ll be okay.”
“It won’t.” Calisto shook his head, sucking in a shuddering breath. “It won’t be okay, because now he can come back and do what I said he would. Stand in the shadows and watch me run his family. Take you from me. Kill me without even raising a finger. I didn’t want this, but I had to protect you, right the wrongs that had been done to you; I needed to protect la famiglia, too.”
“It’s okay,” she repeated.
Emma didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s not, because now I’m in an even worse position. People will expect things from me—a wife, for one.”
Agony slipped through Emma’s veins.
“But—”
“That’s just how it is,” Calisto interjected softly. “And you weren’t mine to begin with, Emmy.”
Emma wrapped her midsection even tighter with her arm. “Can’t we do something?”
“Like what?”
“Run,” she offered. “Something, Cal.”
“What good would running do? We’ll always be running. We’ll never stop. I can’t keep pretending like this is going to go anywhere, because it won’t.” Calisto pulled out of her grasp and his hand slapped against the countertop, and his rage spilled out in an angry shout that hurt Emma from the inside out. “I am so fucked up now—you fucked me up, and I wanted it. I don’t know how to handle this, Emmy.”
“Calisto …” She reached for him again, but he just jerked away.
“I gave him everything he wanted,” Calisto said again. “But I did it for you, and now I don’t even get you.”
She wanted to tell him. The pregnancy news was right on the tip of her tongue. Calisto didn’t give her the chance. He pushed on past her in the bathroom, and flew out into the hallway. Emma followed behind, confused and hurting even more.
“Cal, wait,” she whispered.
He threw a hand high. “I need to breathe, or to think. Something. Just … I’ll be back, Emmy.”
“Wait, please.”
Calisto didn’t wait.
Emma watched him go, and her heart cracked all over with every step he took.