Calisto
“Ever been here before?” Giovanni asked.
Calisto pressed the button for the floor they wanted to go to, and waited for the elevator doors to close. “No, but that’s only because this one managed to keep from getting pregnant, or she aborted whatever pregnancies she did have.”
Giovanni cocked a single brow high, eyeing Calisto from the side. “Care to explain?”
“The only mistresses I ever met of Affonso’s, were ones I needed to keep paid and compliant after they’d birthed him a kid that he didn’t want to take care of. Daughters, I mean.”
“How did Emma know about this one in particular?”
Calisto chuckled, the sound coming out dry and hollow. “Because that’s the kind of man Affonso is—he’s a dirty bastard through and through. He didn’t bother to hide the fact he was having affairs on his wives, and even went as far as letting them know which woman he would be with should they need him. Sandra is one of his long-time goomahs. And if he was going to go anywhere to hide out, he would go to someone he trusted.”
“Sure, it makes sense.”
“I’d say after two decades of fucking around with Sandra, he trusts her. Or he thinks he can. She’s never given him children he didn’t want, she fucks him whenever and however he demands it, she keeps a low profile, and she doesn’t cause him issues. That right there is a woman made in heaven to Affonso Donati.”
“So what about her?” Giovanni asked. “His mistress, I mean. What do you plan on doing with her after this is all said and done?”
Calisto’s fists tightened into hard balls at his sides. He hadn’t given much thought to all of that, but mostly because Sandra was nothing more than a means to an end for both Calisto and Affonso. He certainly didn’t think his uncle loved the woman—Affonso was incapable of loving women the way they deserved. His love was always determined by other factors surrounding the woman like her behavior and how well she could please him. It was a selfish love that wasn’t really love at all.
As for Calisto, he’d do what needed to be done.
“It’s a big building,” he noted more to himself than Giovanni.
“It is,” his friend agreed. “Thirteen floors of souls.”
Finally, the elevator came to a stop at the very top floor, letting the doors open wide. Calisto took a step forward, standing out in the hallway as he held an arm up to stop the doors from closing, but also blocking Giovanni from coming with him.
“You’re going to need help,” Giovanni said.
“Not for this,” Calisto assured smoothly.
He was lying—two guns would be better than one.
Still, there were some things Calisto wanted to keep secret at all costs, and he didn’t know what Affonso might do or say when Calisto went barreling into his mistress’s place with a gun blazing. He certainly didn’t want Affonso spilling more family secrets to outsiders—things like Calisto’s own paternity.
Cross was enough for now.
“Thirteen floors of souls,” Calisto said, looking down the hallway. At one end, an apartment door rested, waiting. It was the one he was looking for. At the other end, another penthouse suite was waiting, but the people inside were not anyone he cared to know. “Think you can get them out?”
Giovanni folded his arms over his chest. “How so?”
“I need ten minutes—fifteen at the most. I’ll be out by then. But he won’t, and neither will she, if she’s in there with him, and I suspect she is. I don’t want him to be found after today—not his body, anyway. Emma needs to be free, and safe. Cross, too.”
His friend didn’t even question him. “I’ll figure something out. Fifteen minutes at the most.”
“At the most,” Calisto echoed.
“You’re safe, right? Just in case?”
“Yeah, I’m good, Gio.”
“Good luck, man.”
Calisto responded to that with a nod, and nothing more. He let the door of the elevator go, watching it close Giovanni behind it. Checking his watch, Calisto noted it was well after one in the morning. Chances were, Affonso and most of the other people in the building were sleeping.
Or maybe Affonso wasn’t. Paranoia could keep a man up for days.
Either way, he wasn’t going to like the wakeup call that was coming for him.
Checking his inner pocket, Calisto found the paperwork he had asked Emma to get secretly drawn up weeks ago. At his back, his gun waited, holstered and safe, for now.
Time to play, he thought.
Affonso always did like his games.
Calisto seriously hoped this one would end in his favor.
Stepping to the side to keep from view of the peephole in the front door, Calisto reached out and slammed the side of his fist against the hard, polished wood.
Bang, bang, bang.
Whoever was inside would have to be deaf not to hear it.
He didn’t let up. Over and over, he hit the door until he could hear someone cussing behind it and accompanying footsteps.
When the muttering and walking stopped, Calisto made sure to stay still for fear whoever it was might see him standing there.
“Who is it?” a slightly muffled, feminine voice asked.
Calisto, knowing Affonso’s mistress wouldn’t know his tone, replied, “Building maintenance. We’ve got an issue and tenants need to be evacuated immediately.”
He only needed the bitch to open the door without causing a scene.
“What issue?”
“An is—”
Calisto didn’t get the chance to respond fully before alarms started wailing overhead. He glanced up to see the fire alarm going off as lights flickered.
Jesus, Gio, what did you do?
It didn’t matter.
Calisto didn’t have time to worry about all of that—fifteen minutes was what he asked for. So he started counting down time.
Thankfully, the alarm seemed to placate Sandra from within the penthouse into believing that whoever was outside her door was telling the truth. That, or she panicked at the sound. Calisto didn’t bother to think on it too much as the door was flung open.
Before Sandra could even take a step out of the penthouse, Calisto was in front of her, his gun drawn and pointed right at her face. Wide eyes stared down the barrel of Calisto’s gun, but he didn’t let the woman’s fear affect him in the least.
He didn’t particularly like killing women, unless he had to and there were no other options to choose.
This, unfortunately, was going to be one of those times.
He’d ask for forgiveness later.
He always did.
“Get back in there,” Calisto snarled, his hand coming up to shove her back into the apartment.
Sandra let out a scream as she stumbled backwards, but Calisto was already slamming the door shut behind him. The woman barely caught herself in the long, satiny robe she wore, watery eyes flickering between the gun in his hand and his face.
“Where is he?” Calisto asked lowly.
Sandra blinked again. “W-what? Who?”
“Affonso. Where is he? Better yet, my child—the baby—where is he?”
“I d-don’t know what—”
Something hit the floor in what sounded like the far end of the penthouse, but still up above Calisto’s head. It was likely the place had a second level.
The slight distraction had been a bad mistake for Calisto to make. His gaze was just swinging back to Sandra as she pulled something metal and shiny from within her robe.
Calisto didn’t even hesitate. He cocked back the hammer and pulled the trigger, not even flinching when the bullet tore through Sandra’s face, sending blood and brain spraying before she fell to the hardwood floor with a dull thump.
The gun she had been trying to pull on him clinked out of her slackened hand to the floor.
Calisto passed it by as he went in search of that noise.
Affonso was here.
He had to be.
“Affonso!” Calisto shouted loud enough for it to ring through the halls.
Calisto wasn’t here to hide. He wanted Affonso to know he was there, and coming for him.
Keeping his gun up high, Calisto aimed straight ahead, in case Affonso got any bright fucking ideas. Behind the thick apartment door he was leaving behind, he could still hear the fire alarms wailing, and it was an impossible sound to miss. People would be up and out of the building quickly.
It would also mask the sound of gunfire.
Calisto had a decent view of the penthouse ahead of him, given it was mostly an open concept space beyond that first hallway entrance. The bottom level looked empty of life except for the flickering television in the great room. His attention, however, was drawn to the man’s jacket and the two glasses of bourbon resting on the coffee table.
Another thump from up above Calisto’s head somewhere sent him moving a little faster toward the small, spiraling metal staircase. He took the steps two at a time, knowing he was making enough fucking noise to wake anybody up. The upstairs was not as open as the downstairs, he found. A hallway led straight down to what looked to be a bedroom at the very end. But in between, there were several other rooms.
All the doors were closed.
“Fuck,” Calisto hissed under his breath.
He highly suspected Affonso was not in that bedroom, but the asshole was probably hiding out in another one of the rooms with a gun aimed straight at a door, waiting for Calisto to open it up. He was not a fool, and neither was Affonso.
Calisto figured he had one of two options. He could carefully check a few doors, and play it like a game of Russian Roulette. Or, he could force a reaction out of Affonso and take another bullet out of his clip that should have been meant for the old Don.
He chose the second option.
Calisto raised his gun and fired right into the ceiling.
Sure enough, probably out of fear and nothing more, Affonso reacted with his own bullets. Two spit out of the third door down on the left, and then shattering glass followed.
“Merda cazzo,” he heard Affonso cuss.
Something else was in the man’s tone, too. His Italian words had come out slurred and sloppy.
Affonso was drunk.
This news didn’t surprise Calisto in the least. Affonso’s drinking had always been an issue, but one the man managed to keep under some kind of control. Although, over the last year or more, his drinking had dramatically increased depending on his stress level.
Calisto surely didn’t feel bad for the man. It would make things a hell of a lot easier. A drunk man was a man that was not on his game.
Quickly making his way down to the door, Calisto stepped to the side of it, out of range of being shot should Affonso pull that shit again, grabbed the door handle, and spun it fast, throwing the door wide.
“Fucking bastard!”
More bullets flew, embedding themselves into the wall opposite of the opened door, and not anywhere near Calisto.
Then, he heard it.
The telltale … click, click, click.
The distinctive snap a trigger made when pulled and a clip ran out of bullets.
Signed, sealed, and delivered.
Yeah, that was Affonso’s death warrant going through.
There was a very slight possibility that Affonso had another gun inside the room that he had access to, but Calisto doubted it considering he could still hear the clicking of the empty trigger.
Knowing he was probably safe, Calisto left the barrier the wall provided and stepped into the opened doorway of what was an office. Behind the desk, wide-eyed, messy-haired, and frantic, Affonso stood with shaking hands. Cursing heavily, and still slurring, the fool tossed the gun to the side when he pointed it directly at Calisto, pulled the trigger, and it didn’t fire.
“You took something of mine,” Calisto said, never moving from his spot at the door.
Affonso’s breaths came out heavy and ragged, his chest heaving under the nightshirt he wore. His fingers curled into claws against the wood top of the oak desk, and he glared at Calisto. “Mine, you mean.”
“I can smell the bourbon from here.”
“Don’t you—” Affonso stopped mid-sentence and grabbed the side of the desk as he swayed. “Don’t you say a thing about that—have some fucking respect.”
Calisto shook his head. “That left a long time ago, zio.”
“Papa,” Affonso shot back. “I am your fucking father! Won’t you just say it once for me, Calisto?”
“You donated the sperm, nothing more.”
“Oh, it was more, my boy. She would have taken more, too. Your mother wanted all of that and more, believe me.”
Calisto had all he could do not to react to that statement, but he had a feeling that was exactly what Affonso was trying to do. Bait him. But for what reason, he didn’t know. It wasn’t like Affonso had an acceptable weapon to use if Calisto charged him.
Affonso smiled in that way of his, cold and callous.
Calisto immediately felt on edge at the sight.
“But the boy—Cross—he makes up for all your failures,” Affonso said. “He’s a baby now, but he’s a boy. And you gave him to me, didn’t you? I forgive you, Cal, for everything you wouldn’t do because I am sure he will. He’s mine, everyone knows it.”
Over the years, Calisto had grown accustomed to brushing off comments about his mother for her memory’s sake where Affonso was concerned. Calisto had hardened himself to that sort of thing.
He was not prepared for Cross.
“The only thing the little whore was good for was spreading her legs, but Emma served her purpose, no matter how the end result came about,” Affonso finished darkly.
And Emma …
Calisto’s rage boiled over, and for a second, he forgot about the gun in his hand as he moved forward faster than he thought was possible. He just rounded the desk, ready to grab Affonso and beat the living shit out of him, making him bleed his apology all over that fucking desk, when his uncle struck back.
It was a thin, but sharp, letter opener.
Calisto just barely saw the flash of silver as Affonso raised it. He dodged it, but it still landed on his shoulder with enough force to puncture and hurt like a bitch.
It was a bitch move, after all.
Hissing through his teeth, Calisto’s fist came up, gun still firmly tucked in his grasp, and smashed Affonso in the side of the head and face. The crack of the gun hitting against Affonso’s skull reverberated through the room. Calisto didn’t give his uncle a chance to fight back before he was grabbing a fistful of Affonso’s hair and smashing his face down into the desk.
Blood, cartilage and saliva spilled in a mess of red liquid under Affonso’s face onto the desk. Affonso shouted, although it was muffled by his broken nose and bloodied mouth. He gagged when Calisto pulled his head up again, and brought him right back down into the desk with more force than before.
Affonso tried to fight back, but he was weak.
And drunk.
Calisto let those years of anger, frustration, and hatred build with every lift and shove of his uncle. He let the bones break, because it helped his heart to settle. He couldn’t make Affonso bleed enough, couldn’t hear the man begging loud enough, but it still felt fucking damn good.
“Where’s my son?” Calisto growled.
Affonso cursed at him, garbled and mumbled. “Go to hell.”
That just pissed Calisto off more.
“Where is my boy?”
“Dead,” Affonso spat out. “Like I should have done to you.”
For a breath’s time, Calisto hesitated. His heart ached, but he didn’t believe Affonso.
He couldn’t.
Cross would have been Affonso’s last hope. He wouldn’t hurt that boy.
“He’s somewhere in this fucking place, isn’t he?” Calisto asked as he brought Affonso’s battered face down into the wood again. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll—”
“Fuck you, Calisto.”
Not caring that his time was running out—he’d still been counting down—Calisto forced Affonso to his back, and brought the barrel of his gun right in between the man’s eyes. “I will watch your brain paint this fucking desk, Affonso, so help me God.”
“You would kill your father?”
“I had no father—you are no one. You never were.”
The briefest flicker of pain and resignation flashed in Affonso’s eyes. “I have loved you all your life, Calisto.”
“You loved what you made, not me. It isn’t the same thing.”
Calisto knew that, now.
And it made all the difference.
He was done wasting time with Affonso, because in the background of the screaming fire alarm, he could hear another kind of wailing. Faint as it was, it was there.
A baby’s cry.
Pulling the manila envelope from his pocket, Calisto yanked the papers out and flipped to the final page, slamming it down over the side of the desk where Affonso’s blood hadn’t managed to stain.
“Sign it,” Calisto demanded.
Affonso’s gaze cut to the side, glancing at the paperwork and then back to Calisto. “I’ll sign nothing.”
Frustrated, but unwilling to show it, Calisto snatched a pen, forced it into Affonso’s shaking hand, turned the man over, and grabbed his fist in his own. He forced Affonso’s signature, as messy as it was and with a little stain of blood at the end, across the dotted line. Then, he slammed the folder closed.
“She’ll file these in a month, when you don’t come back home, and they magically appear on the doorstep one day,” Calisto murmured in Affonso’s ear. “Divorce papers, you know. After all you’ve done to her, she deserves this.”
Grabbing for his gun again, Calisto rolled Affonso back over again, aimed, and cocked back the hammer.
Affonso didn’t look away.
Neither did Calisto.
He wanted to see his eyes.
Emma deserved one thing.
Calisto deserved another.
He pulled that trigger—blood and brain matter sprayed across the front of the desk and against the opened door and wall—and it was the easiest fucking thing he had ever done.
Calisto dropped Affonso’s limp body without another thought—he barely even looked at the man as he snatched up the signed divorce papers that essentially freed Emma and gave her any and all access to Affonso’s trusts, accounts, and assets.
He’d thank the lawyer again for that one when he could.
Following the sound of the faint cry of an infant, Calisto moved out of the office and all the way down the hallway to the only door that had been opened. The bedroom.
He found little Cross—swaddled but angry—in a pile of blankets in a closed closet.
With trembling hands, Calisto scooped his son up, and held him tight. He cradled Cross’s tiny head in his much larger palm, kissed the baby’s soft, sweet smelling skin, and told him how much he loved him and that he was sorry.
“Daddy’s here, little man,” Calisto whispered.
Cross stopped crying, but his sniffling continued. He rooted against his father’s cheek, looking for something to suck on, Calisto believed. He couldn’t get out of the penthouse fast enough, and he didn’t spare a glance at the bloody, dead woman on the way out, either.
The moment Calisto stepped out of the penthouse and closed the door, he knew something was wrong.
He could smell it.
Fire.
“Jesus, Gio,” Calisto grumbled.
The elevator wouldn’t work when he tried it. Cross fussed in his father’s arms as Calisto jogged to the exit where the stairs were. He took them three at a time, practically flying down level after level. At the middle, firefighters were coming up.
“Hurry, hurry,” one barked at him.
Calisto nodded, and kept going.
“Too much,” another one said. “Floors are looking empty from the eighth down. We gotta go back.”
One man offered to take the baby from Calisto’s arms, but he refused. With an entourage of escorts, he was taken down the rest of the way until he was shoved out into the cold, dark night air.
Someone shouted out a head count.
Another responded positively.
The firefighters’ coms went off, confirming they were out, too.
Looking up, Calisto found the building bright and burning right in the middle and just above. The flames kept going higher, licking at windows and promising to hide what he’d done.
Just across the street, he found his old friend waiting.
Giovanni waved two fingers.
Calisto nodded back.
He couldn’t do much else.
He had a baby to bring home to his mother.