by Bethany-Kris
She had no escape.
No excuses.
Not here.
Calisto wouldn’t allow her one.
She had all the answers. Somehow, he just knew she did. God knew he was owed an explanation. Whatever he had been up to—whatever they had been up to before his accident and amnesia—Emma had the answers he craved.
He intended to get them from her.
Every last one of them.
Calisto found that much of the rest of the Donati home was in the same condition as the front hall. Empty, dark, and lonely. It was almost like he could hear the loneliness ringing through the halls and bouncing off the walls. Or maybe … just maybe … that was his own mood reflecting the darkness surrounding him.
He wasn’t really sure.
Upstairs, Calisto found a single door open down the hallway that housed the master bedroom, other rooms for guests, and several bathrooms. The door belonged to the master bedroom. A small stream of color filtered out through the opened doorway, but it wasn’t enough to say the bedroom light was on.
It was only strange because there was no noise. Given it was ten o’clock at night, it wouldn’t be a stretch to think Emma was sleeping. Calisto didn’t know many people who slept with lights on, no matter how dim the light was.
If she was sleeping, he hoped she wouldn’t be too pissed off at his presence. He was aware of the fact she was supposed to be on bedrest, and that stress wasn’t good for her pregnancy.
Emma hadn’t given him a choice.
Her, not him.
Yeah, that’s what Calisto was going to keep telling himself. He refused to feed into the strange curiosity he had about Emma Donati. It had been building from the moment he’d first seen her face after he’d awakened. He wouldn’t admit that for longer than he cared to admit, he thought there was more behind her false smile, polite words, and the distance she put between her and him—that there might be more to them.
He couldn’t.
Except … he was feeding into it.
Calisto just wasn’t sure what it was.
But tonight he was going to find out.
Whether she wanted to tell him or not.
Calisto stood in the doorway of the master bedroom and looked around. The bed was made—sheets pulled perfectly flat and looking untouched. The large chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling was in fact turned off, but a stream of light came from the small crack of an opening in the door across the room leading to what he knew was one of two walk-in closets. The one that belonged to Emma.
The lump of clothing in the middle of the bedroom floor caught his eye as he took a few steps into the room. He recognized the article immediately as the dress Emma had been wearing at the funeral. The bloodstained, silk dress looked as though it had practically been ripped off, what with the way the silk was crumpled and snagged.
Calisto stepped over the dress, concern compounding in his heart. Maybe he had made the wrong choice by sending Emma home alone. She hadn’t seemed all too distressed at the hospital, but it was possible that she was better at hiding her inner turmoil than Calisto really knew.
Crossing the rest of the space, Calisto hesitated at the slightly open door to the walk-in closet. He wasn’t exactly sure what had made him pause, but his hand froze around the doorknob just before he pushed the door open.
Then, he heard the softest murmur inside the small room.
“It’s okay, bambino,” he heard murmured.
Emma.
Calisto pushed the door open just enough to get a view inside. He found Emma sitting in the middle of the walk-in closet on a round, white leather bench seat. Bare foot and wearing nothing but a short, silk chemise, her head was tilted down and her attention was on her rounded stomach. Her hands slid over the swell in a rhythmic fashion as she sighed. At her feet, her little dog slept.
Emma shifted on the seat, wincing slightly.
Calisto wondered if she was uncomfortable, or worse, in some kind of pain.
Her next words explained her discomfort a bit.
“I know, you’re running out of room, huh?” she asked the unborn baby softly. “Mamma’s sorry, sweet boy. Just a little while longer.”
Calisto knew he was intruding on a private moment that he had no right to witness. This wasn’t his place, or his space. This woman wasn’t his wife, and she wasn’t carrying his child.
He shouldn't be standing there, watching her.
But he couldn’t move.
Emma started to hum quietly under her breath, still rubbing her stomach with soothing, gentle movements. “I need you to stay in there for a little while longer, Cross. Until your daddy is ready—when he’s back to himself. Okay, bambino? Just a little while longer.”
Cross?
Calisto blinked, taking in the name. Something about it made him want to smile, but it also felt like a heavy weight had landed on his chest. He didn’t know why, though, because he’d never even heard it before.
Guilt compounded hard in Calisto’s emotions. Unable to spy on Emma more than he already had, he knocked gently on the door, cleared his throat for good measure, and pushed it open.
Emma didn’t even look up.
It was almost like she knew he was standing there watching her.
Had she?
“Calisto,” Emma greeted quietly.
With the door fully open, he had a much better view of how little clothing she actually had on. Calisto’s gaze traveled over Emma’s long, shapely legs straight from her bare feet right up to the creaminess of her thighs. The chemise she wore barely reached mid-thigh, and it was low cut enough to showcase her cleavage. His throat tightened, as did his slacks.
Calisto ignored those strange reactions.
This woman was married.
And pregnant.
He had no business being attracted to her.
Clearing the thickness from his voice, Calisto asked, “Would you like a moment to get dressed?”
Emma stood, reaching for a silk robe that hung off a dresser. Her pup barely moved an inch, just stayed happily sleeping by her feet like the dog had nowhere else he would rather be. She quickly pulled on the robe, and tied the sash at her waist.
“I’m fine,” Emma said. “Do you have news about Affonso?”
Calisto raised a brow, unsurprised at the dryness in her tone. She didn’t sound like she cared at all, or that she wanted to know anything.
“Do you care to hear it?”
“He’s my husband.”
“That’s not an answer,” Calisto said.
Emma didn’t break his gaze for a second. “I suspect he’s not dead, or you probably wouldn’t be here. At least, I would think you’d have other things to take care of. I called Cynthia and Michelle’s school. I had their flights booked—they’ll be here in two days. I’m sure Affonso will want his children.”
“He probably will.”
“Yes, well, if that’s all you came for—to tell me that he’s survived the surgeries—you can go.”
Calisto took a step into the small room, not finished in the slightest. He had other things he wanted to know—things that had very little to do with his uncle.
Yet, the second he walked in, he also stopped.
His gaze dropped to the floor.
White marble stared back at him.
Calisto had looked at the floor before—he’d seen white marble.
This time, he looked again.
He saw something different.
He heard gentle breaths, and sharp gasps.
He saw his fingers raking down pale skin. He tasted salt and sweetness on his tongue when he kissed a shoulder blade, and tangled his fingers into the dark, wavy hair of the woman beneath him. Her clothes were on the floor, mixed up with his things.
Her words—the high cries of his name—came from trembling, pink lips and echoed.
Echoed in a dark, quiet room.
Seeped into his bloodstream.
Burrowed into his soul.
Ca
listo could feel her.
Soft skin.
Wetness and heat.
Tight and slick.
And he knew that skin, knew those green eyes, that silky hair, and her voice.
Her voice.
Jesus Christ.
“Cal?”
Calisto blinked.
He fisted his hands at his sides, and breathed deep.
“Cal?” Emma asked again.
For a moment, Calisto didn’t really hear her. He was in a different place, a different time.
White marble.
Clothes on the floor.
Gasps filling a quiet penthouse.
I think I would keep you, he remembered saying.
A gentle touch to his cheek made Calisto’s head snap up. It broke the daze—the memory drifted away. Instead, he found himself staring into worried, expressive green eyes as Emma stroked his cheek with her thumb.
“Calisto, are you okay?”
He blinked again.
A frown tugged Emma’s painted red lips down.
Oddly, he wanted to run his thumb over her lips.
Just … touch her.
But he couldn’t really remember why. He did remember something—that night, in Vegas. It had to be Vegas. He didn’t remember what led up to it, what happened that day, or why he had been in bed with Emma, but clearly he had.
At some point, he had taken this woman.
And she was not his to have.
Emma moved a little closer to him. Calisto wanted to step back—distance would be better—but he didn’t move. He liked the smell of her perfume, and the way she was watching him.
“Vegas,” Calisto said, his tone barely breaking a whisper.
Emma gaze flashed with knowing, and she nodded once. “Vegas.”
“White marble.”
“My floors,” she murmured, smiling gently. “What else, Cal? What else do you remember?”
“You.” The word came out in a breath, nothing more. “Me.”
Emma sighed shakily. “That doesn’t tell me a lot.”
Calisto wet his lips. “Sex. We had—”
“Shh,” she said, her thumb stroking his jawline once more.
He wasn’t sure why, but he was shaking. His hands trembled, and he felt entirely overwhelmed. Maybe it was because he was still coming off from that memory, and what it all might mean.
No, he knew what it meant.
And yet, he couldn’t stop watching Emma, the curve of her smiling lips, and the hope that flickered in her eyes as she stared at him … waiting.
He didn’t know what she was waiting for.
Was it him?
Before he even really processed what he was doing, Calisto tipped his head down and caught Emma’s lips with his own. He expected her to freeze—he didn’t even know why he kissed her except that he wanted to.
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She didn’t freeze at all.
Her lips moved against his softly at first, like she knew precisely what she was doing and that it was all too familiar for her. It was new to him, but it wasn’t at the same time.
That scared him.
But he kissed her harder, she parted her lips, and his tongue sneaked into her mouth instantly, wanting her heat and her taste.
When he found it, something cracked in his chest.
His heart, maybe.
All at once, the realization of what he was doing slammed into Calisto like a wrecking ball of pain and shame. He stumbled back from Emma, hands flying up as if to keep her away. Uncertainty flickered across her pretty features as tears welled in her eyes.
Don’t cry, he wanted to say.
He said nothing.
“I-I shouldn’t have done that,” Calisto mumbled.
Emma shook her head. “You don’t know why. It’s not the same.”
It didn’t make it better.
Calisto took another step backward.
“Wait,” Emma pleaded.
“I have to go.”
“You told me you would always stay if I just asked, Cal. I’m asking. I asked once before and you didn’t stay then, either. Something terrible happened. Please just wait.”
He couldn’t.
He’d made a terrible mistake.
“I’m sorry,” Calisto said before he turned on his heel.
He couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.
Calisto buttoned his blazer as he walked past the well-dressed man holding the restaurant door open for him. Inside, a waiting woman offered to take his things and check them into the coat room, but he refused her offer. With Ray at his back, and Wolf Puzza—one of the only Donati Capos that Calisto actually trusted—behind Ray, Calisto strolled further into the restaurant until he was standing in front of a woman with a tablet in her hands and a Bluetooth ear piece attached to the side of her head that she was chatting into.
He waited her out, but couldn’t help the restless feeling settling deep into the pit of his bones. While a part of his mind was on his uncle, another part of it was somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Emma.
Ray stepped up beside Calisto, offering a pointed look at Calisto’s drumming fingers. He stopped the fidgeting almost instantly, not wanting to give away his inner turmoil.
“Sir?”
Calisto’s head shot up at the young woman’s question. “Yes?”
“Donati, right?” she asked.
He wasn’t even surprised that she had been forewarned he was coming with his people. This meeting had been a long time coming, and Affonso had purposely avoided it as much as he could. Despite their Cosa Nostra family being steeped in tradition, Affonso greatly disliked working with other syndicates.
Sometimes, shit just couldn’t be helped.
The Donati family wasn’t the dominating family in New York. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have power—they did, to an extent. But there was always someone bigger and better waiting in the wings.
Everyone answered to someone else in this world.
Affonso Donati was no exception.
“Yes, that’s me,” Calisto told the woman.
She offered him a thin smile and a wave as she stepped away from her podium, a finger pressed against the Bluetooth in her ear. “This way, please. The Marcellos are waiting.”
Wonderful.
Calisto took the lead as he walked behind the woman, letting Ray and Wolf trail behind him once again. He wanted his position when ranked against the other men he had brought along to the meeting to be known as the highest position.
There was no need to confuse anyone, or lead them on, for that matter. He didn’t think the Marcello family would appreciate having to deal with wondering which one of the Donati men was heading the family while their boss was in recovery. It was never good to play those kinds of games, after all.
Affonso was down and out, and so, Calisto took the lead.
For now.
After a short walk through the main section of the restaurant where the rest of the patrons were enjoying their meals, the woman guided Calisto and his men into a private area where four men, and surprisingly, a woman, was waiting. The moment Calisto’s arrival was announced, the woman who had directed them to the room, turned on her heel and left without so much as a word.
No food rested on the tables.
No menus.
Not even a glass of wine or a pitcher of ice water.
Calisto knew it then—the Marcellos had no intention of this meeting being something more than it was. They didn’t intend to break bread and make nice as they chatted about the Irish and the street war that had been going on for well over a year. They were not going to make pleasantries while they figured out what to do.
They were simply going to make demands.
Calisto was going to have to follow them.
The Marcellos dominated.
That’s just how it worked.
Calisto surveyed the men, and woman, waiting across
the room. At the far end of the table, his black hair peppered with salt behind his ears, sat the oldest and probably the most domineering of the Marcellos.
Antony.
From outwardly appearances, Antony Marcello was an enigmatic, charming individual. He was often quieter than those around him, but Calisto was a man who saw that for what it was. While most would overlook Antony at first glance, someone would be incredibly stupid to do so.
He watched, rarely speaking unless needed.
Antony always watched.
And that was unsettling.
A man who watched took in everything. He knew everything. He could use it, too.
Antony was the former boss of the Marcello family, but had stepped down a while ago to allow his second oldest son to take over. Willingly, from what Calisto understood. It was a rare thing, to be sure, as most bosses were usurped or forced out of the seat in some other way—usually violent.
This man, however, had raised an army of sons.
Three sons, to be exact.
And so, when he was ready to give up his position and retire, he had that army of sons to fall back on. God knew the Marcello sons ran New York like the Cosa Nostra royalty they were.
Calisto had no intention of fucking this up.
None at all.
The man sitting at the middle of the table stood, his hand coming up to rest on the woman’s shoulder who was sitting in the seat beside him.
“Calisto,” Dante said, smiling politely, “take a seat, old friend.”
Calisto chuckled. “How long do you intend for this meeting to last, Dante?”
Dante shrugged. “Not very long.”
“Then you won’t mind if I stand, I’m sure.”
Calisto’s closest friend from the Marcello family sat beside his father. The youngest Marcello son—Giovanni. He reached over, and patted the table with his palm.
“Let him stand,” Giovanni told Dante.
Dante sighed. “Fine. How is your uncle?”
Calisto’s smile faded. “Better.”
“But not out of the water,” came a reply from the quietest of the three brothers.
He passed Lucian Marcello a look. “No, not quite yet.”
“Sad thing, that is,” the woman at Dante’s side said softly, glancing up at her husband.
Catrina Marcello.
Calisto wasn’t all that surprised to see the woman sitting there amongst the Marcello men. She, herself, had a reputation in their business. Where most wives of made men were comfortable at home, in church, raising children, and putting dinner on the table, this woman was not like that at all. In her own right, Catrina had made herself a nice little spot as a Queen Pin—a drug dealer that catered to the richest and most elite people.
