Calisto
Calisto swept his thumb over the side of Emma’s hand, not wanting to let her go. She had changed out of that red dress, and back into her other clothes she had been wearing earlier. Sitting in a borrowed car, Calisto watched her from the side, taking in her features and how familiar she was to him.
“Emmy?”
“Yeah?” she asked, smiling slightly.
“I do love you.”
“I know—always, yeah?”
“Forever, dolcezza.”
“Then trust me,” she said softly, reaching up to pat his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “I have a number for you if something happens. I will go through the mall, get in my car, and go home with an excuse that the enforcer lost me, and I got sidetracked by shopping and didn’t realize time passed me by.”
Calisto opened his mouth to speak, but Emma’s fingers landed on his lips, quieting him.
“I will be fine, he has nothing to prove I did anything other than what I will say,” she continued. “I will take care of Cross until you have everything sorted. I will be careful, Calisto.”
He knew she would.
It still killed him.
But he wouldn’t force her away from their child.
Not if she didn’t want to go.
He loved her far too much to hurt her in that way.
“Kiss him for me … or something,” Calisto said, feeling a little lame.
Emma’s smile bloomed wider. “I always do—I always did. Even when you didn’t know it.”
“I loved him from the moment I knew, Emmy.”
“I didn’t doubt that you would.”
Calisto flipped open the middle console, and pulled a familiar pack of letters out. He picked out the first few off the top, having carefully chosen which ones he wanted to give to his uncle. Letters that his mother had written to Calisto over the years, detailing the truth of her attack—her rape—his birth, and the years of manipulation that followed. There was also the letter from Affonso to his mother where the man apologized for his attack, and was asking to be a part of the baby’s raising.
He wanted Affonso to know Calisto was coming for him.
He wanted the man to fear like his mother had—like even Emma had.
Affonso deserved that before he died.
“Here,” Calisto said, handing the letters over. Emma took them without question, and put them in her purse. “I was going to have Wolf leave them for Affonso, but you’re much closer. One at a time, drop them wherever he might find them. Be careful.”
Emma didn’t ask why, or what the letters were. “I will.”
He leaned over the middle console, and kissed his lover until she finally pulled away. Without another word, she got out of the car, and headed toward one of the many entrances for the large, multi-level mall.
It will be fine, he told himself. It has to be.
Calisto found peace in the backstreets of Hell’s Kitchen. Some might have thought it was too open of a place for a man who needed to stay out of sight, but he didn’t think so.
Hell’s Kitchen was a melting pot for all different kinds of cultures, and for people from all different walks of life. With a cap on, a hood pulled up, and regular clothes on, Calisto was just another face in the busy New York crowd as he walked along, needing space and time to think.
Days ago, when he’d allowed Emma to go back to Affonso for his son’s sake, he didn’t realize quite how hard it would be for him not to immediately rush in and take what he knew was rightfully his. It would do him no good to rush Affonso as if Calisto was a bull in a China shop.
Men like Affonso needed to be handled carefully.
Calisto needed to tread wisely.
That still didn’t help the way he felt.
Lonely.
Empty.
So fucking cold.
Pulling out his phone, Calisto kept his head down and turned the device on, weaving in and out of people. He barely noticed them at all, and he suspected they didn’t pay him any mind, either.
Bringing up the email he had pinned to the top, Calisto opened the folder inside, finding rows of pictures. Most were black and white, but a few were of color.
All of them, however, were of the same two people.
Emma.
His son.
He’d had a contact keep watch on Emma during his time away, just to make sure that she and his son were safe. He’d jumped the gun on taking them before everything was settled, and now he would have to handle that.
The pictures helped a bit to settle his frayed nerves.
But never for long.
The buzzing of his phone brought him out of his thoughts as a familiar number lit up the screen. Calisto picked up the call on the second ring, putting it to his head as he said, “What do we have, Connor?”
The Irish boss chuckled deeply on the other end of the line. “You’re not one for pleasantries, huh?”
“Not when we’ve got business to do.”
Connor O’Neil was down for business—as long as that business meant taking Affonso Donati off the map. It’d taken a bit of convincing, but the Irish boss didn’t hesitate to offer help to Calisto after he’d explained what had been happening over the last several months, and his amnesia, not to mention Affonso’s manipulations.
Thankfully, though the street war between the two families had been ongoing for months, Connor’s daughter, and the child she had birthed that belonged to Affonso, were both okay.
Connor was willing to make sure that was permanent.
So was Calisto.
“Yes, business,” Connor said. “I have the package we talked about. It’s waiting for you at the Slaughterhouse.”
Calisto stepped up to the discrete entrance of a rather shoddy building in a quiet part of New Jersey that he only knew as the Slaughterhouse. The name gave off the impression of some kind of meat factory, but in fact, was nothing of the sort.
Sure, there were hooks hanging from the ceiling.
Bloodstains on the floor.
A man good with knives …
But no one he knew would be willing to buy the kind of meat the Irish boss liked to have cut up in the place.
The man on the other side of the Slaughterhouse’s door barely acknowledged Calisto when he stepped inside. He wasn’t stupid enough, however, to think the man didn’t take inventory of him as soon as he came inside, gauging whether or not he was dangerous and needing to be disposed of.
Connor likely would have warned the man someone was coming.
“The boss?” Calisto asked the silent man, choosing not to elaborate in case Connor hadn’t explained who was in one of the many backrooms.
Hopefully shackled to a wall already.
“Furthest room on the second level,” the man replied, sounding bored. “Just follow the stairs and the hallway, you can’t miss the red door.”
Calisto gave a nod in thanks, but didn’t bother explaining to the man that this wasn’t his first time at the Slaughterhouse. Twice, he’d met Connor in this godforsaken building because this was where the Irish boss found his peace.
In splitting skin.
Cut muscles.
Blood dripping to the floor.
Gasping screams …
Calisto chose not to judge how other men in his business handled … well, their business, so to speak. Whether being the hands on type when it came to managing issues, or if it was a way to handle his stress, Calisto didn’t ask the Irish boss.
But the man liked to cut.
So, he’d made himself a place to do just that.
The Slaughterhouse.
Ignoring the chill running down his spine, Calisto made his way through the dark, damp-smelling building. It didn’t take him long at all to find the one of many red doors he was looking for. All of the rooms that were used for … reasons … were painted with red doors. It stopped men from entering without hesitating first, wondering if the reason they had been called to the Slaughterhouse was a good one, or the end of their road.
Mind games.
Connor loved those, apparently.
Calisto had figured out after a while that he still had a lot of learning left to do where being a boss was concerned. After spending the past few years pushing against the idea of becoming the Don of his family, he no longer had that option—not if he wanted to take back what should be rightfully his.
Pushing open the red door, the smell hit him first.
Wet. Warm. Musty.
Then he heard it—air hissing through teeth, choking sobs, and breaths catching on the exhale.
Pain.
That’s what he heard—pain.
Quietly, Calisto let the door click shut and took a spot in the corner. That was what Connor always asked for someone to do if they interrupted his time and work. He asked for people to wait until he was ready to chat, or he was finished because the victim was dead.
Whichever came first.
No one seemed to notice his entrance—not Connor, standing across the room in his worn jeans and a blood-spattered T-shirt, or the man chained to a hook from the ceiling.
The man was damn near unrecognizable.
All of his clothes had been cut off, exposing split, raw, and bleeding flesh. It looked like Connor was literally taking strips of skin off the man’s body, but that was just the bloody mess making it hard to discern the very straight and precise cuts.
Connor began humming a tune that Calisto felt was familiar, as he spun a small knife against the pad of his thumb. Then, without anyway warning, he quieted and struck out with his hand, hitting the man just below his right collarbone with the knife, leaving it embedded in his body.
Calisto flinched when the man’s bloodshot, brown gaze flew wide, a scream echoing. Then, he started choking, followed by vomiting. Connor moved out of the way, chuckling loudly, and avoiding the vomit splashing on the floor.
The man deserved it, though. All of it.
Torture was hard to stomach, but this man deserved it.
With a flick of his wrist, Connor grabbed the hilt of the knife, pulled it from the man’s chest, and spun him around on the hook so that he rotated slowly.
His toes barely touched the floor, forcing him to almost dance to keep what pressure he could off his wrists, shoulders, and arms.
The only areas on his body it looked like Connor had left untouched.
No doubt, they were in pain just the same.
“How do you like my work?” Connor asked without turning around to face Calisto.
“Looks … painful,” Calisto settled on saying.
“It is. But to give him the dues he deserves, he managed to keep his arse from begging for the first two hours. That’s a feat, believe me.”
“I will take your word for it, Connor.”
Sometimes, monsters were hard to spot.
They weren’t shady people in an alley.
They weren’t disfigured so that their faces could be recognized.
Sometimes they were charming. Men who wore suits, kissed their wives every night, and shook your hand with a smile.
Sometimes, monsters were men like Connor O’Neil.
“What of it now, Calisto?” Connor asked, finally turning to greet his companion with a wide, warm smile.
A smile that spoke nothing of the torture he was currently inflicting on another soul.
That was probably the scariest part of it all.
Connor was so good at hiding his monsters.
At the sound of Calisto’s name, the man hanging from the chains seemed to wake from the stupor he was in. His eyes flew wide, jerking back and forth as he tried to focus and search for whatever it was he wanted to find.
Calisto stepped forward, taking the bloody knife from Connor when the Irish boss offered it.
Once Calisto was standing in front of the man, he didn’t meet his gaze right away. He let the man take him in as he looked over the bloody, sharp edge of the knife Connor favored. He had watched the Irish boss use this very one once before, so he figured the man liked it.
“Why?” Calisto asked.
It was all he said.
He figured it was all he needed to say.
“You bastard,” the man whispered, broken and bleeding.
Calisto didn’t react—that word didn’t hurt him.
“Affonso made me the bastard, remember?” Calisto smiled, knowing damn well it looked cruel. “I’ll ask one more time, and if you don’t give me an answer, one that satisfies me, I will let Connor continue his work. I think by now, you probably know he enjoys this … art.”
The man on the chains flinched, his gaze watery and pained. Spittle and vomit clung to his lips. He stunk of piss, sweat, and blood.
He wasn’t dead yet, though.
“Why?” Calisto repeated quieter. “What did I do for you to try and kill me all those months ago, Ray?”
Ray stared at him hard, defiant as ever. The man stayed quiet.
Calisto knew that he was going to have to rid his life of people like Ray. Men who were loyal to Affonso and would look twice at him when he stood in his uncle’s spot.
Men who clearly wanted him dead.
Ray, though, had asked for this.
After all he caused Calisto to lose with the accident that took away his memories, the man deserved this.
“Fine,” Calisto said with a sigh, taking a step away from Ray and handing the knife back to Connor. “I will see you in a few hours—”
“Because you didn’t deserve him,” Ray spat.
Calisto hesitated, his hand high to hand the knife over. He dropped his hand to his side, still holding the weapon tightly. “What did you say?”
“Affonso—you’re his boy, his blood. He loved you, no matter how awful you were to him. And you didn’t deserve even an ounce of what he was trying to give you, Calisto. You are, like you have always been, the spoiled little bastard of a whore. He needed to see you for what you were … nothing.”
Instead of reacting, Calisto took a breath to calm his inner rage. “And yet, he tried to kill me anyway—he didn’t need me once he had Cross, right? So the point you tried to make, Ray, was useless. Affonso never really loved me, not like you thought, obviously.”
Ray opened his mouth to speak, but Calisto was already turning away, done with the entire scene.
“One more question,” Calisto said as he handed the knife to Connor.
“What?” Ray spat out.
“Who killed Father Day? Which one of you killed my priest?”
Ray started laughing—bleak and weak. “Me. I killed the fucking fool. Affonso asked me to do it—I didn’t ask why.”
Good enough.
Calisto gave Connor a tight smile. “Make it hurt?”
Connor offered a pleased grin right back. “Every last second.”
Turning back to Ray with his knife in hand, Connor began humming again.
As Calisto reached for the door, Ray’s screams started to echo once more.
He finally recognized the tune Connor was humming, though.
London Bridge is falling down …