by Bethany-Kris
Right?
The high wail of a phone brought Calisto out of his head with a bang. He straightened even more in the chair and realized he’d been holding so tightly onto the arms that his fingernails had left scratches on the leather.
“Oh, damn it,” Marian muttered behind the dressing room door. “I have to get that. I’m going to shoot my new girl for not coming in today. Will you be okay for a minute, dear?”
“Sure,” Emma said.
Her quiet response caught Calisto’s attention instantly. Her sweet tone came off as unsure, confused, and weighed down. He didn’t have the chance to think on it for long.
Marian slipped out of the dressing room, closed the door behind her, and gave Calisto a pointed look that told him to stay where he was without even saying a word. She quickly hurried from the private sitting area, mumbling on about her missing employee.
Calisto fidgeted in the chair, waiting.
Then, Emma opened the dressing room door and poked her head out. His gaze founds hers right away, and he knew that he was right. The brightness of her eyes was dulled like she had something new on her mind.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
Emma dropped his stare. “Could you help me really quick?”
“Sure.” Calisto pushed up from the chair in a fluid motion. “What do you need?”
“Marian had most of the buttons done up in the back herself. There were just a couple left toward the top. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Calisto swallowed the words wanting to come out, the ones that would tell her that he minded a great deal. He still wasn’t going to feed into that nonsense, after all.
“Not a problem, Emmy.”
Stepping up on the raised platform, Calisto grabbed for the doorknob, and opened the door just enough to slip into the dressing room. Emma already had her back turned, but white lace surrounded his vision from all sides. Mirrors lined all four walls of the dressing room. It was impossible to ignore the beautiful, classic, A-line dress with capped sleeves she wore. From the top of the gown to the very bottom, intricate, off-white lace hugged Emma’s body and curves.
Calisto forced himself to focus on his task, instead of how amazing Emma looked in the dress. He quickly found the last four pearl buttons on the back, and did them up. It was a perfect fit. Not an inch too big or too small. The pearls made a pathway from the middle of Emma’s back to right above the swell of her ass. It left a peek of her shoulder blades and skin exposed.
Enough to be tasteful.
Just a promise of what was below.
It was both regal and sexy.
“You look wonderful,” Calisto said, trying to tamper down the huskiness in his voice.
Get a grip, man.
Emma sucked in a hard breath, eyeing the gown in the mirror. “She was right.”
Calisto found Emma’s stare in the mirror, and held it. “Pardon, dolcezza?”
“Marian. She was right about the dress. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful. It’s very me, I guess.”
“You love it,” he said, filling in her obvious blank.
Emma frowned and wet her lips as her hands rubbed together nervously. “Yes.”
“So why are there tears in your eyes, Emmy?”
Shouldn’t it be a good thing that she had found one thing in this awful mess of her arranged marriage that she could actually love? Even if it was something silly like a dress, couldn’t she take some sense of happiness from it?
“Why does it have to be so goddamn perfect?” Emma asked, her voice barely above a breath.
Calisto didn’t understand. “I—”
“Why does this have to be the dress, Cal?”
“You’ve lost me.”
“The dress. The one. Every girl has her one dress. She dreams about it; dreams about finding it and wearing it as she walks down the aisle to meet her groom. It’s a focal point for a bride. Why does this have to be the dress for me? Why?”
He didn’t have an answer for her.
Calisto put his hands on her shoulders and turned Emma around. Quickly and quietly, he wiped away the few tears that had escaped from the corners of her eyes. She shivered under his hands, but didn’t force him away.
Instead of letting her go like he knew he should, Calisto kept holding Emma’s face between his palms. He liked her heat, and the fire in her eyes that was sometimes hidden. He liked the softness of her skin, and how she seemed to lean into his touch, curious and hesitant.
It was dangerous to feed attraction.
It was stupid to indulge emotion.
Calisto was smarter than this—he was.
But his mother, Cam, had always taught him to treat women, no matter what kind of woman she was, with the utmost respect. She had told him never to make a woman cry, to apologize to a woman he had done wrong, and to wipe a woman’s tears away—no matter if he was the cause or not.
Calisto was not a good man. He’d taken lives before it was their time, he’d skipped church more than he went, and he’d rarely felt guilty over his actions and choices. He was unapologetic. Sometimes he would lie and cheat his way through something just to say he could do it, and he liked the smell of dirty money in his hands far more than clean, hard-earned cash. He had drug dealers on speed dial, a collection of illegal guns, a rap sheet a foot long and enough familiarity with police to be on a first name basis each time he got arrested just for being him.
Good was not a word to describe Calisto Donati.
But he wouldn’t let a woman cry.
Good, no.
Honorable where it counted, however … yes.
“Shh,” Calisto soothed, sweeping his thumbs over Emma’s high cheekbones again to remove the remaining tears. “Don’t cry, ragazza. You’ve got far too beautiful of a face for it to be covered in your tears.”
“Don’t say that, Calisto.”
“I prefer Cal, you know.”
Emma batted his hands away, but he held strong. “Stop it, I said.”
“You like the dress, don’t you?”
“I said that I did.”
“And you look great in it,” he pressed.
“That’s not the point.”
Calisto frowned. “It’s the dress. Yeah, I got that.”
“I don’t want to wear the perfect dress, the one that’s perfect for me, on a day when I have to marry a man I will never love. How is that even okay?”
It wasn’t.
She was right.
“I’m sorry,” Calisto murmured.
His words didn’t help Emma much, if her fresh round of tears was any indication. Knowing wiping them away wasn’t going to help that time, Calisto pulled her into his embrace without a word and wrapped her in a tight hug so that Emma could hide her pain for as long as she needed.
In his arms, he hoped he could help her.
Somehow.
It also felt good to hold her—intimate even.
Too intimate.
“I want the dress,” he heard Emma mumble.
“You can have it.”
“I don’t want to wear it for him. Someone else, but not him. This isn’t fair.”
Calisto didn’t know what to say. He’d already crossed a dozen lines where this woman was concerned.
A knock on the dressing room door made Emma and Calisto break apart quickly.
“Emma?” Marian asked.
“Just a second. Calisto helped me fix the dress.”
Shit.
Calisto’s mind ran a million miles a minute. It only took one person’s misguided and half-truths being whispered for word to spread. Just the wrong person talking would cause him and Emma a hell of a lot of trouble.
It didn’t matter if nothing was going on.
“I’ll be outside,” Calisto said.
Outside of the damn dress shop.
Emma blinked up at him, confused. “Okay.”
“Get the dress.”
“But—”
“Get it. The rest doesn’t matter. This
is still going through, whether you want it to or not, whether you are happy or angry at the world. The least you can do for yourself is have one thing for you when they force you into it. Get the dress, Emmy.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Without another word, Calisto left the dressing room. He moved past Marian without so much as looking at her.
Behind him, Calisto heard Emma call out his name.
“Yeah?”
“Is your deal still on for tonight?” she asked.
No.
No way.
Nope.
Calisto wasn’t an idiot. He knew where to draw the lines.
“Yeah, Emma, we’re still on.”
But apparently he was saying fuck all the lines tonight.
Calisto tossed back another shot of rum, needing the burn in his throat and the distraction for his overwhelmed mind. The sounds of the club behind him were only a dull roar to his senses. He barely heard it at all.
Stupidly, Calisto had thought that coming to a club, having a few drinks, and watching women dance would be enough to clear his head before he had to meet up with Emma after she had dinner. He wasn’t supposed to leave her alone at all, but he figured she was safe enough with her parents.
She didn’t even know he left.
Turning slightly, Calisto rested his arm on the bar and surveyed the crowd. Beautiful, young women moved throughout the people, their hips swaying in their tight, short dresses. Skin-tight. Short as hell. All a man needed to do was pull their dresses up a bit, bend them over, and pull their panties to the side.
Easy fucking access.
Yet, none of them interested Calisto.
Not a damn drop.
He wanted a distraction. Something to take his mind off the experience he’d had earlier with Emma, or the way he was still thinking about it—her—and her naked skin under his palms.
“You’re looking awfully lonely here by yourself,” said a sultry voice from his side.
Calisto met a brown-eyed girl’s stare, unaffected. She, like most of the other women in the joint, was dressed for the occasion and looked good. He just wasn’t … there. Not for her or any other female.
His dick had apparently settled on someone else.
Someone impossible.
“I enjoy my own company,” Calisto said.
Take the hint.
The woman didn’t.
“Why don’t you buy me a drink?” she asked. Calisto pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it over to the woman. She looked down at the bill, her brow furrowing. “What—”
“Buy yourself a drink, sweetheart.”
With that, he pushed away from the bar and strolled out into the dancing crowd. Calisto made a beeline for the front of the club, more stressed than he had been when he entered. He just wanted to get his mind off things, and somehow, he’d made it worse. He was still thinking about Emma, her body and curves, and his interest only seemed to climb higher.
Why did Emma have to catch his attention?
Why her?
Calisto walked past the bouncers and out to the street. He made his way toward the lot where he had parked his car, each step he took was a little rawer than the last.
His cock was hard.
It had been painfully fucking hard since he touched Emma.
This was ridiculous.
Calisto was ridiculous.
Once he was inside the rental Mercedes, Calisto placed his hands on the steering wheel and leaned over it, letting out a heavy breath of air. He thought about whatever he could to get his erection down. Nothing worked.
The zipper of his pants bit into his tender cock through his boxer-briefs, irritating Calisto further. Readjusting his length did nothing but make his dick jump in his own hand. More frustrated than ever, he checked the time and noted it was close to when Emma was supposed to be finishing her dinner with her parents.
He couldn’t do this shit.
He needed to get that girl out of his fucking head.
Biting hard on his lower lip, Calisto hoped the pain would be enough to distract him from his thoughts of Emma for long enough to handle his little problem. He undid his pants and slipped his hands under his boxer-briefs. As long as he could get the damned hard-on to go away, he’d be fine for the evening.
Surely.
The very second his hand wrapped around his length and tugged with a firm grip, relief flooded his bloodstream. Unfortunately, his thoughts shot right back to Emma. Her pretty lips, inviting, red, and needing to be filled.
He stroked harder, faster. His cock throbbed in his hand.
Groaning, Calisto clenched his teeth, letting his thumb roll over the head of his cock with every pull. He was still focused on her.
Perfect curves, the kind a man would kill for. The kind that fit perfectly in a man’s hands—his hands. Silky skin made to bite and taste, or paint with a stream of his come.
He bet she felt like fucking satin inside.
Fucking Emma would be heaven. His fingers digging into her skin, turning it red as he fisted her hair and listened to all the sounds she would make for him.
Yeah, perfect.
That one thought alone was enough to send him over the edge. Calisto came hard, his semen spilling over his shaking fingers in hot, sticky streams.
Calisto sucked in a hard breath and rested back against the seat, still holding his hard cock. At least it wasn’t aching anymore.
As for him?
He was still fucked either way.
Emma
“Tell me you managed to find a dress after I left,” Minnie said.
A waiter set three plates on the table. Emma was grateful for the momentary distraction, as the waiter began to prepare wine glasses and sparkling water. Once the young man was gone, however, her mother’s gaze turned on Emma again.
“Well, did you?” Minnie demanded.
“She’s been pestering me all damn day,” George muttered. “If you didn’t find one, she’ll blame me, Emmy.”
Emma didn’t pay her father’s tirade any mind.
“I found one,” Emma said. “I charged it to the card Affonso left.”
“Did you take it to your penthouse?”
“I had it shipped to New York.”
“Emma!”
Minnie’s loud exclamation made George drop the fork he was holding. It landed with a clatter in his plate of tiny steak.
“Jesus, Minnie,” George growled. “Lower your voice. Sometimes, it’s like living with one of those goddamn Yorkie dogs with you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Minnie asked with narrowed eyes.
“You know what it means, woman. We’re eating, not at the fucking races. There’s no need for you to jump out of your skin and shriek like a banshee over the smallest things.”
“Maybe you should take note of where we are and fix your language, George.”
“Maybe you should—”
Oh, my God.
“What’s the issue with me sending the dress straight to New York, Mom?” Emma asked, wanting to diffuse the fight starting between her parents. God knew if those two got into it, they would fight the dinner away. No eating would be had. Not peacefully, anyway. “It’s one less thing I need to have shipped later, or take on the plane with me when I do go. Plus, I won’t have to worry as much if it does get lost on the way because they’ll have more time to find it.”
“Fittings, Emma,” her mother said like it should have been obvious. “You can’t just wear a dress right off the rack.”
George pointed his fork, the one he’d picked back up, in his wife’s direction. “Agreed. It’s like a suit. You need to take the time to have those things fitted properly.”
“I can and I will wear it right off the rack.” Emma shrugged. “It fit perfectly. Even Marian said it didn’t need to be fitted.”
Minnie pursed her lips. “Huh.”
“Sì.”
“I would have liked to be able to see it on you at least once
,” Minnie said.
“You will. At the wedding.”
“As long as you don’t gain any weight,” her father added.
Emma didn’t grace that with a response. Her appearance, weight, choices in clothing, makeup, and hair had always been something her parents monitored closely. She could only wear the best of the best, be done up in the most beautiful ways—by the most talented people—and she had to always look the part.
It could mess with a girl’s head.
Emma didn’t allow it to mess with hers.
“I’m sure Emma will look wonderful,” Minnie said.
George scowled. “She better. She’s representing the whole family by marrying into the New York bunch. This is important, Minnie.”
Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. It kept her quiet, even though she wanted to shout as loudly as she could about how little she really cared for the importance of her arranged marriage. It wasn’t like her parents would care. Her feelings weren’t important.
That was how the mafia life worked. A woman had to be blind to the things she didn’t want to see, happy about the things that made her sad, deaf to the murmurs down the hall, and oblivious all the times in between.
“She knows it’s important,” Minnie said quietly. “Worry not, George.”
George passed Emma a silent look that somehow managed to chastise and warn her without even saying a word. “Well, I believe she does. We raised her, after all. Affonso wants a well-behaved, pretty-faced, young woman to stand at his side …”
Well-behaved. Pretty-faced.
Emma’s body went cold all over.
“… and no one can say that we didn’t raise our girl to be a good mob wife,” George finished. “She knows the score. Don’t you, Emma?”
“Yeah, Dad. I know the score.”
George smiled. “That is all that matters, sweetheart.”
In her hand, Emma held the Queen of Diamonds and the King of Spades. On the table, another queen, king, and two aces had been flipped over by the dealer.
Emma tossed another two-hundred into the pool, raising the bet. The pile in the middle was now a foot wide and a couple of inches high. The other four people at the table had folded with scowls at missing a large pot.
Calisto was still in.
Emma watched him from across the table, and ignored the other four pairs of eyes on her. She had been whooping their asses throughout the game, but this one hand had left her chips dwindled down to a few hundred and not much more.
