by Bethany-Kris
Cross made those friendships organically—without help—which Calisto considered another benefit to his son’s disarming charm.
But, Tommaso didn’t have a lot of connection to Calisto. Certainly not enough to be seeking him out for a private conversation at a restaurant without some kind of prior notice.
“Cross told me where I could find you today,” Tommaso said as he took a seat across from the desk.
“I wondered how you found me. Now, I’m more curious as to why.”
Tommaso smiled, but there was still a nervous aura surrounding the young man. Like the way he shifted in the chair, kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, or wouldn’t meet Calisto’s gaze for too long.
“Shit,” Calisto said. “Please don’t tell me you killed one of my guys, or some nonsense like that.”
That broke the tension long enough for Tommaso to laugh, and lean back in the chair. It didn’t last for too long, though. Just as quickly, Tommaso sobered and straightened fully. “No, nothing like that. But you know, depending on how this goes, make sure to tell my mother that I love her, and all that good shit.”
Calisto’s brow furrowed, and he decided it was time to stop messing around. He put away his papers, shut down his laptop, and gave Tommaso his full attention.
“All right,” Calisto said, “give me the bad news, whatever it is.”
“Not that, either.” Tommaso sighed. “It’s just … I’m not used to needing to approach a girl’s father, you know? I don’t normally have to do that being who I am, and who my father is. Except you’re not like other men, you’re like my father, but here, in New York. And if someone approached my sister before they went to Tommas—”
“Back the fuck up,” Calisto interrupted.
Tommaso glanced up. “Huh?”
“This is about Camilla?” Calisto asked, confused. “You’re here about my daughter?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Well, don’t fucking pose it as a question, now. Either you are, or you are not. Which one is it?”
Tommaso cleared his throat. “I am.”
Well.
Huh.
Calisto felt about as shocked as Tommaso looked in that moment. He certainly understood why the young man felt so shook up, however …
“Sorry, but you just came here for nothing, Tommaso.”
“Pardon?”
“You wasted your time,” Calisto clarified, “especially coming to me.”
“That has got to be the fastest rejection—”
“No.” Calisto rubbed a spot on his forehead where tension was beginning to irritate him. “I mean, I take it you’re here to ask me if you can take my daughter out, and you don’t need to ask me at all. I don’t make those choices for Cam, I never have. Neither does her mother. She’s nineteen, smart as fuck, too; so she is more than capable of saying whether or not she’s interested in someone.”
Tommaso rested back in his chair. “But you’re …”
“For Camilla? I’m just her dad. And I love her very much. So, should something happen between the two of you that displeases me because it displeases her, then you can safely assume we will revisit this conversation.”
Calisto smiled, adding, “But until then, Tommaso, the rest is up to, and has always been up to, my daughter.”
“Okay.”
Calisto waved at his office door, dismissing his guest. “So, have a nice day, and enjoy your visit. If it helps with Cam, she likes action movies, pretty cars, and dancing.”
But Calisto didn’t know if that would help Tommaso all that much. Camilla was different than other girls her age.
Different and difficult and wonderful.
She didn’t make time for boys, not in any serious manner. She almost saw them as commodities in her life. Once she was bored, she moved on. Calisto wasn’t sure if that was because Camilla had yet to meet the right guy, or she wasn’t all that interested in meeting him at all.
Nonetheless, Calisto’s position remained the same.
It would always be his daughter’s choice.
He had no say.
With a quick goodbye, Tommaso was gone from Calisto’s office, leaving him alone to his work and thoughts once again. He let out a breath, wondering how he wanted—or should—feel regarding what just happened.
He didn’t entirely know.
He supposed it was all on Tommaso, now.
Calisto wished him luck.
“Emma!”
“Hmm?”
His wife barely reacted to his sharp whisper. Calisto was trying to be discreet, but his distracted wife was not helping the situation. Emma bounced from one thing to the other in the kitchen, doing what she did best.
“Emma!” Calisto whisper-hissed again.
“What, Cal? Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
Finally, his wife glanced up at him, her gaze narrowed. Now, usually, Calisto would take that as a clear sign of Emma’s irritation with him and book it the hell out of there as fast as he could. He couldn’t do that this time.
“Someone is here,” Calisto said from the kitchen entryway.
Emma simply stared at him like he had grown a second head. “We’re having a dinner. Yes, people are coming over.”
Calisto shook his head. “No.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for you to be refusing now. People are already here, or so you said.”
He had the strangest urge to smack his head against the nearest wall. “Emma, listen to me for five seconds.”
“I am. You’re the one acting like a bee crawled up your ass or something.”
“Someone is here,” Calisto repeated, this time adding, “with Camilla.”
Emma instantly stopped what she was doing. “What?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But—”
Calisto heard two distinct sets of footsteps approaching from behind; one familiar, and the other, not so much. He gave his wife a look, and then stepped aside as the two people came closer.
Camilla walked into the kitchen with a wide smile. Tommaso Rossi followed right behind her. Calisto’s gaze dropped to the two’s connected hands, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one to notice. Emma glanced down to see the affection between the two, as well, but she didn’t hide her surprise nearly as well as Calisto did.
“Oh,” Emma mumbled. “Well, hello.”
Calisto almost laughed.
Almost.
He had no idea how he managed to hold it back, but he did. It certainly was a shock to see their daughter bring someone to a family dinner. As a date. It was even more surprising to see her date be Tommaso Rossi.
“You don’t mind putting an extra plate on the table, right, Ma?” Camilla asked.
Emma recovered from her shock beautifully. As she always did. It was one of the things—many things—that Calisto loved about his wife.
“Yes, of course,” Emma told their daughter. “So, do you want to introduce us properly, or …?” Emma trailed off with an exaggerated nod in Tommaso’s direction. The young man only chuckled. “I mean, if you want to.”
She knew damn well who Tommaso was. Calisto had told his wife about him six fucking months ago when Tommaso had approached him about Camilla. Of course, Calisto hadn’t heard much about his daughter or Tommaso after that, and he knew the young man had eventually headed back to Chicago. It was, after all, where Tommaso’s life and family happened to be.
Calisto assumed that was the end of it.
Apparently not.
“Ma, Daddy,” Camilla said with a roll of her eyes, “This is Tommaso. He made a special trip down from Chicago to see me. Since I was already having dinner here tonight, I figured he could join me.”
Emma nodded. “Okay. Hello, Tommaso.”
“A special trip?” Calisto asked.
He ignored the look his wife shot him.
“I kind of missed New York,” Tommaso said, smiling at Camilla.
Yeah.
Calisto thought it was more likel
y someone in New York.
Someone like Camilla.
“Huh,” Calisto said.
“All right,” Camilla jumped in, giving her father a side-eye that could rival her mother’s. “We are going to take a walk through the back property until dinner is ready. Shoot me a text, in case we’re too far to hear you yell, Ma.”
“Sure,” Emma replied. “I can do that.”
The two young adults wasted no time getting out of the kitchen, still connected by their hands the entire time. Calisto waited an extra few minutes, just to be sure they were out of earshot, before he turned back to his wife, knowing she had a million and one things to say to him.
“A little bit of a warning would have been nice, Cal,” Emma said.
“I tried,” Calisto argued.
Emma turned to look out the window in the kitchen that faced the large backyard, and showcased where the property melted into a line of trees and trails. There, Calisto could see Camilla and Tommaso heading for one of the trails that would lead to a little pond and sitting area.
“Wasn’t that like six months ago when he was here last?”
“Yep,” Calisto said.
“Huh.”
“Yep.”
He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it, either.
“Well,” Emma drawled under her breath.
“He’s good, as far as that goes,” Calisto said, more for himself than his wife. “He comes from a good man, so that’s a bonus.”
“Well.”
“Spit it out, Emma.”
“Maybe that is the trick to Camilla.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cam,” Emma said, “and boys. You know how she is. They don’t keep her interest longer than a toy does for a toddler. Maybe he figured out a way around that with her.”
“And how would that be?”
“Distance and space,” Emma offered with a shrug. “One thing at a time, maybe.”
“Emmy, love, no man has the sort of patience needed for that kind of shit.”
Emma looked over her shoulder at Calisto, her expression both soft and serious at the same time. “Really?”
“What?”
“If he loved her, even if it’s crazy to love someone else that fast and know you do, then would patience and time matter if you got what you wanted in the end?”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Calisto replied.
“You’ve got time. Think about it now.”
Calisto did. It seemed he might not have given Tommaso enough credit all those months ago.
“Well, then.”
Emma smiled. “As long as she’s happy.”
Yes, that, too.
Affonso Donati
Affonso Donati wondered as he watched a young couple lean closer at a nearby table, their hands touching and eyes never leaving one another, if he could possibly understand that sort of emotional devotion to another person. That complete, pure type of loyalty and love that would make him want to bring a woman constantly, impossibly closer. A feeling that would have him always needing to touch her, and then still have him running back for more, later.
He didn’t wonder for long.
Affonso didn’t understand those sorts of nuances between lovers at all. He never had, despite his two decade long marriage, not to mention his many dalliances with women and mistresses over the years. He fully expected, and believed, that he would never truly understand those strange things.
Perhaps he was just incapable.
Who was to say?
The closest thing he had ever come to that sort of deep emotion was an obsession with Camilla Calisto Donati during his younger years, but even that hadn’t been a proper love. And it ended terribly, for both of them.
Affonso supposed his raising probably had a great deal to do with all of his perspective, or lack thereof, on the matter. A philandering father who made no secret of his constant affairs with many women, and a mother who never spoke against her husband’s choices. His father had always kept a handful of whores on the side to feed his whims, and often brought his two sons along for the ride.
On the other hand, Affonso’s mother was the perfect housewife incarnate, always presentable and respectable. Her children were always clean and well-behaved. Food was always on the table for each meal of the day, never failing. Her children were seen, but never heard. And Affonso had never heard his mother complain about any of it, even when she was sick.
Affonso had learned, through years of watching the dynamics between his parents, that this too was the type of relationship he wanted—expected—between himself and his wife. It seemed normal enough, the way his father never hid his intentions or affairs from his wife, and how his mother simply bent to her husband’s whims.
Had she been unhappy, surely she would have spoken up?
Had she been in pain, surely her sons would have seen it?
Affonso remembered nothing of the sort from his mother. And so, he fully believed that all women were capable of behaving in the same way. But if they struggled, he also figured they could learn what was expected of them over time. After all, falling in line was much easier than being constantly unhappy.
Like anything else in life, this too could be learned.
His first wife had been perfect, or as near to it as a woman could be. Her own raising, one similar to Affonso’s, had likely helped her along a great deal in that respect. She birthed him children, kept his home clean and beautiful, warmed his bed when he wanted her to, and she turned her cheek to his affairs and business dealings over the years. She was quite happy to just be and be let be, so to speak.
She had been happy in her place, and satisfied by material things instead of emotional nonsense and empty promises of fidelity that Affonso could not keep.
The only thing his wife had never done that he wished for, was birth him a son. Two healthy girls, sure, but never a boy to carry on his name and legacy. Oh, there had been the stillborn son at seven months gestation …
Affonso shook the thought away.
He did not think about that.
He would not.
That event had happened just a year into their marriage. He could not remember a more devastating event in his life emotionally. Back in those times, fathers had been expected to stay at home or in the waiting room until birth was over. Affonso had demanded to be present for the birth. It was his first child with his wife, after all.
They knew the baby was a bit early.
They had not known he would be dead.
“A boy,” the doctor had whispered into the quiet delivery room.
Too quiet.
Affonso distinctly remembered the elation in his heart at hearing those two words. A boy. His boy. And then as fast as that joy had come into his heart, it was violently ripped away. Slippery, wet, and bloodstained, the baby came into the world silent. And blue on his lips, one little hand clenched into a fist, and the other spread wide open. Ten fingers, and ten toes. Perfect features that seemed oh, so still.
He was doll-like.
The baby boy never breathed.
He never moved or opened his eyes.
He never lived.
He never was.
Devastating wasn’t a good enough word, but it was the best one Affonso had.
It was the only memory in Affonso’s life that he willingly chose to supress with every bit of effort he could bring forth. It was the only time he had seen his wife cry.
Never again.
It could ruin a man. He was not made for that sort of pain.
No one is, he thought sadly as he watched the young couple just one table over. Sure, life was simple and easy for them now, or it appeared that way, but life would eventually teach them its terrible truths, too.
In time, it always did.
That was unavoidable.
“You seem distracted.”
The statement of his companion brought Affonso out of his thoughts, and back to the meeting at hand. He was grateful
for the reprieve.
“We could do this another time, if you prefer,” Maximo said.
Affonso shook his head. “No, old friend. Now is perfectly fine. I was just thinking about my deceased wife, that’s all.”
Maximo’s expression softened. “Ah, well, if you’re not ready to discuss this arrangement, then I can certainly understand why.”
Affonso regarded his counterpart for a moment, wondering how similar yet different the two were in the grand scheme of things. Both men were respected bosses of their Cosa Nostra families. Affonso in New York, and Maximo Sorrento in Las Vegas.
But that was just about where the similarities ended.
“You know,” Affonso started to say, “At my age, I’m not required to go through this charade again. I was married for two decades, I’m nearing my sixties. It just isn’t expected for a man—a boss—of my age and position to remarry to please the Commission.”
Maximo nodded. “I’m aware. And yet, here you are, looking for another wife. A young wife, I might add. You even have the option to choose this time around, without the usual constraints and rules of made men to weigh down your choices. Except, you’re still opting for the proper Catholic, Italian woman of a respectable house and name.”
“I am,” Affonso agreed.
“Why?”
“Unfinished business, I suppose.”
“Oh?”
“A boy,” Affonso murmured. “A son. I would like to have one to carry on my family’s name and my legacy in this thing of ours. Doesn’t every man in our position?”
“I see,” Maximo said.
“My wife has been dead long enough, and so, it is time to move on.”
“Then it’s time to get to business, isn’t it?”
Affonso smiled. “It is always time for business.”
Maximo gestured over his shoulder, and quickly, one of his waiting men stepped forward, a file waiting in his hand. He passed the item over to his boss without a word, and Maximo then slid it across the restaurant table to Affonso.
Opening the file, Affonso found a photo of a beautiful blonde, green-eyed woman staring back at him. A young woman, yet not too young. She certainly didn’t have a child-like appearance, but rather, a woman just stepping into adulthood and what it would bring to her life. She was perfectly put together. Impeccably dressed in beautiful clothes. Heathy-looking. Petite. Smiling brightly at the person taking the photo.
