Thin Lines (Donati Bloodlines Book 2) (10 page)

“About what?”

“The rosary. You were using it for your own comfort. I
can’t see you taking it away from the woman,” the priest said.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I have no doubt.”

Once the priest was inside his silver Mazda, Calisto
took his first real breath. He trusted Father Day not to spill his secrets, or
whatever assumptions the man had. That didn’t necessarily make Calisto’s
feelings any better.

He was still heavy in his heart.

His stomach rolled.

Thin lines
, the priest had
said.

It was appropriate. Calisto had been walking on a
tightrope from the moment he met Emma Sorrento all those months ago. Dancing
between the lines of what was acceptable and what was downright wrong.

More than he wanted to admit, Calisto crossed those
lines. He did in it his thoughts and sometimes his actions. He rarely felt
guilt for what he had done, but more what he didn’t do.

He might do it again, too.

Calisto wanted to get the hell out of the cold October
air, so he took the steps two at a time. It seemed like a blink, and the
reasonably warm September gave way to a chilly, windy October. He’d been
perfectly happy collecting money, checking up on his uncle’s Capos earlier in
the day, and staying out of the wind. But when the boss called, Calisto did as
he was told.

Affonso demanded Calisto come to the house.

Nothing else.

Calisto pressed the doorbell and waited. He tucked his
head down, determined to hide from the wind by flipping the neck of his tweed
coat up. He shoved his hands into his pockets and cursed under his breath.

Two long minutes later, the maid let Calisto in the
front door. He would usually just go right in if Affonso wanted or needed something,
but his uncle had told him to make sure he rang the doorbell. He wasn’t sure
why.

“Mr. Donati,” the maid greeted, taking Calisto’s coat
once the door was closed. “Your uncle is in his office with his wife. He’s
almost done. You shouldn’t interrupt them when they’re in the middle of one of
their … feuds. Let them shout it out and pretend like you didn’t hear. It’s
better for us all that way.”

Calisto’s brow furrowed. “They’re fighting?”

“For the last week.”

He hadn’t noticed that.

“Really?” he asked.

The maid nodded. “About all sorts of things. At least
she’s not quiet anymore. When she’s quiet, she makes me sad. But when she’s
angry …”

Calisto couldn’t help but laugh at the expression the
maid wore. “That bad, huh?”

“She gives it to him, let me just say. I’m surprised
he lets her go on like that.”

Calisto had made an effort to come around to the house
more than he usually would over the last month since the baby’s burial. He made
all sorts of excuses to Affonso for why he would randomly show up. Maybe he had
a payment to drop off that could have waited until tribute, or some issue that
needed discussed that wasn’t really an issue at all.

Really, Calisto just wanted to check up on Emma. It
was like a fucking itch that irritated him on a daily basis. It would prick at
him just below the surface of his skin, demanding his attention. Most times, he
would find Emma locked away in the library during his visits. She would be
sitting in a window, or on one of the leather chairs. There was never a book in
her hand, and she rarely acted like he was there. Sometimes she talked, but
most times she didn’t.

Affonso occasionally mentioned how distant Emma was.

Calisto knew depression. He’d had his own bout of it after
his mother had died and his anger ran its course. The grief in his heart had
been debilitating. There was no doubt in his mind that Emma was probably in no
better of a state.

She would have to work through it. Eventually the
sadness would wane, and she would begin to come out of the dark cloud that
never seemed to leave.

Calisto knew.

But he kept coming to check on her when he could. He
would keep coming unless she told him to go away. Affonso didn’t mind Calisto
coming around, and he didn’t seem to notice how Calisto made an effort to speak
with Emma each time before he left.

That, or Affonso didn’t care.

It was hard to say.

“I’ll stay out of their way,” Calisto told the maid.

The woman smiled. “They’re almost done. They’ve been
at it since this morning. The two don’t even sleep in the same room anymore and
they still manage to wake up fighting with one another. Sad marriage, that is.”

Calisto shook his head, but said nothing. The maid was
a wealth of information, if nothing else. Rolling up his sleeves as he walked
through the house, Calisto made his way through the living room to the back
hallway that he knew led to the library and Affonso’s office.

Sure enough, as he got closer, Calisto could hear the
voices shouting at one another.

“It’s been a month,” Affonso growled. “It’s time for
you to clean your face and do something else, Emma.”

“You don’t get to decide how long is appropriate for
my grief, Affonso, and you sure as hell don’t get to decide how I grieve.”

“I’ve let you do what you wanted. You stay in bed
until noon. You eat when you want to instead of having meals with me. You
ignore invitations from others, you don’t take calls, and you can’t be bothered
to say more than two words to me.”

“I wonder why!”

“The fact remains, it is time to get over it. Get up
in the morning, get yourself ready, and go on with your day. What happened is
better left behind in the past. Move on. Stop fretting over things you can’t
change.”

Calisto balled his fists so hard that his fingernails
broke into his skin. His uncle had said those very words to him more times than
he cared to count. Affonso didn’t understand that people couldn’t forget his
wrongs when he demanded they do so. People couldn’t move on because he willed
it as so.

“I need my wife,” Affonso said when Emma stayed quiet.
“I need her to be at my side, to have her dinners, sit at the table beside me,
and act like the proper woman I know you are. You have duties, Emma, and you
don’t get to drop them just because you want to be sad for another month.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“I know that’s what it is.”

“You are un-fucking-believable,” Emma spat.

“So be it. You still have a duty to me. I expect you
to fulfill it.”

“What, do you want me back in your bed, Affonso,
fucking you and sucking your dick first thing in the morning?”

Calisto pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he
hadn’t heard that statement.

“I don’t need you for any of that, as you very well
know. Keep your damn bedroom, Emma. Keep your body. You can’t give me what I
want, anyway. You’ve already proven exactly what you can give me—heartache and
burials for dead children.”

“Because I’m only good enough if I can birth a live baby,
right? Other than that, I’m fucking useless.”

“Your language is horrible.”

“Go to hell, Affonso.”

“Emma, with you, I am already there.”

“Good,” she said, sweeter than honey. “The feeling is
mutual.”

Something smacked hard against something solid, making
Calisto straighten in place.

“Your issues and your pity party are over, girl,”
Affonso barked. “I won’t say it again. When I want you at my side, you will be
there. I don’t care if you need to pop a happy pill first thing in the morning
to make it a reality. Do it. Your wallowing is making me look like a fool. I
show up to dinners alone. I go to church alone. That is over.”

“I’m not
wallowing
.”

“You are. And it’s sickening. It’s been a month. Move
on.”

“It’s not that easy,” Emma said quietly. “Don’t you
get that?”

“What I get is that you’re using this as an excuse to
get away from me. If the church wouldn’t shun me, I would send you back to your
uncle and father for them to do with you what they wished.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Affonso.”

“You … I am not fighting with you anymore about this,
Emma. Next month we have the Thanksgiving party. I expect you to be present. I
am not making yet another excuse for my wife’s absence.”

“Because heaven forbid your young wife isn’t around to
bat her lashes for your people,” Emma jeered.

“Get out of my face,” Affonso hissed.

Not two seconds later, Emma flew into the hallway with
a scowl, fiery green eyes blazing, and a huff right on the tip of her tongue.
She caught sight of Calisto waiting a few feet down from the entryway just as
she walked out of Affonso’s view from inside the office.

He waved two fingers, his silent hello.

Emma sucked in a deep breath, and walked on past.
Calisto didn’t fault her for the anger she must have felt. She had every right
to be pissed off.

Rubbing the new ink on his wrist, Calisto strolled
into his uncle’s office. The tattoo of the rosary and cross on his wrist was
just a couple of weeks old. He’d had the piece done for his own selfish needs,
and nothing more.

Hidden in the design of the beads of the rosary were
the dates of death for people who’d left his life. His mother, father, and
grandfather. The month and year for the miscarriage of his child that didn’t
get the chance to even be. And another bead for the baby that never had the chance
to live, but still made an impact during his short time on earth.

The rosary circled down from Calisto’s left elbow,
around his arm, down to his wrist where the cross had been tattooed in his palm
as if he were holding it.

It soothed him like the real thing.

But he didn’t want to keep adding dates to it.

“
Zio
,” Calisto greeted.

Affonso looked up from his hands. He sat behind his
desk, rubbing his palms over his face. “Thank
Dio
, there you are.”

“You called?”

“I gave my driver the night off. I want to go out. Do
something. Drive me.”

Calisto raised a brow. “You want me to act as your
driver? There’s a half of a dozen enforcers who could do the same thing. I was
busy picking up money and checking on your goddamn men.”

“They’re not my consigliere. You are. And you are
never too busy for me.”

Point taken.

“Now?” Calisto asked.

Affonso nodded sharply. “Get me out of this house
before I kill that woman.”

Christ.

Calisto

Despite who he worked under in Cosa Nostra, Calisto
did enjoy his job. Seeing money come in meant he was doing something right. He
liked the control he had as a consigliere, although his uncle had been using
him for an errand runner lately.

Leaning back in the office chair, Calisto drummed his
fingers on the tabletop as the Capo chatted away from across the desk. The
office door was wide open, exposing the restaurant’s busy kitchen and workers
moving from one prep table to another. The chef barked his usual orders, and
the people under him moved accordingly.

“I mean, they’re still causing us issues, you know
what I mean?” Wolf asked.

Wolf Puzza was one of the best Capos the Donati family
had. He was a high earner with a small crew, and that was practically unheard
of. But because the guy was quick—had his hands in a lot of pots, and knew the
best ways to make money—he didn’t need more
soldatos
to add to his crew.
What he had was enough.

“Us, or just you?” Calisto asked.

Wolf bristled. “I am a part of the whole puzzle, Cal.”

“I agree, but Affonso thinks differently than me. If
he believes you’re somehow urging the Irish on in their quest to take over
business in West Brighton, then you’re going to have a problem. Affonso won’t
allow one Capo to start a bloody war with another family just for the sake of
keeping a small piece of his territory. Besides, you’ve been feuding with the
Russians for years.”

“I came to an agreement with the Russians,” Wolf
muttered. “It’s not the same.”

 “My answer remains the same, man.”

“I’m not purposely starting issues with the Irish
family in Jersey, all right? Those bastards are just coming at me because my
crew controls the area they want control of.”

“I told you, Affonso doesn’t want a street war with
the Irish,” Calisto said, shrugging. “I get it, Wolf, really I do. They’re
irritating little shits. A few well-aimed bullets would end all the nonsense
they’ve caused thus far. I can’t give the okay on it, not without Affonso’s
agreement. And he won’t give it, I know.”

“What if that’s exactly what the Irish want?” Wolf
asked.

“A street war?”

“
Sì
.”

“Then I suggest you arm yourself with a bigger crew.
Your streets can’t take that big of a hit, Wolf,” Calisto said.

Street wars with other families were only good for one
thing: spilling blood. Families always took a large hit to their numbers in
wars, making it downright difficult to earn money. In their attempts to replace
the men lost, bad seeds might weed their way into the ranks.

It was not the Cosa Nostra way.

“No, I meant what if they wanted one with Affonso,”
the Capo replied sharply.

Calisto straightened in his chair, taking those words
in. “Why would they? This has been about Brighton for a long while. I assume
they’re going after West Brighton where you have most of the control because
anywhere else in Brighton is under the Marcello reign or the Russians at the
ports.”

Wolf scoffed. “You’re still not getting it, are you?”

The Capo’s rudeness made Calisto’s hackles rattle.
“Watch it, Wolf. I may not be the boss, but I won’t tolerate your disrespect.”

“My apologies.” Wolf sighed, and rubbed his hands
together. “I’m just saying that it’s odd, Calisto. You would have thought the
Irish would give it up by now, or at least, moved onto a different spot in
Brighton to work on controlling. Yet, they keep coming at one of Affonso’s men
like they want to piss him off.”

Calisto took those words in for a moment. “They’ve
worked their way into a couple of spots in Brooklyn, too. The soldier they
killed was another Capo’s man. We’ve also had sightings of them in the Kitchen,
and Harlem.”

“Why me, then?”

“You’re the closest, I suspect,” Calisto replied.

“The easy target.”

“Yes.”

Now, Calisto was wondering if Wolf had a point in his
statement of Affonso and the Irish having some unknown problem. It wouldn’t be
such a surprise. Affonso didn’t get along well with other leaders, and he was
known to shun their attempts at peace-offerings until they went away
altogether.

But what could have possibly happened?

“I’ll look into it,” Calisto finally said, pushing up
from his seat to stand. “And I’ll ask Affonso again for permission to go in on
the Irish and end whatever this is.”

“But you don’t think he’ll give it.”

“No. Which is why I said I’ll look into it all. In the
meantime …”

“I’ll be careful,” Wolf muttered, rubbing a hand over
his face.

“It’d be wise. There isn’t much else I could do for
you. Why don’t you try aligning yourself with the Marcello crew in Brighton? I
know the Capo running them, I can make a call to him. He’s an old friend.”

“Giovanni Marcello handles the territory there,
right?”

“It’s the only section of Brooklyn that Lucian
Marcello let his brother take during the last Commission meeting. I’m convinced
it’s because Lucian is like any good Italian.”

Wolf laughed. “He doesn’t want to deal with the
Russians.”

Calisto smirked. “Exactly. And Gio, well, he gets
along with everybody. Better to let someone like him set up shop than someone
like Lucian who shoots first and doesn’t even bother to ask his questions
later. He’s a lot like his father, Antony, in that way.”

“I hear Antony stepped down,” Wolf noted.

“A while ago, actually. Gio doesn’t talk about
business a lot. We keep it clean of all that.”

“I’d appreciate the call, Calisto,” Wolf said.

“I’ll make it before the night is over,” Calisto
replied.

A quick handshake later, and Wolf disappeared out of
the office and into the hustle of the busy kitchen. Sitting back down in the
chair, Calisto rested his elbows to the edge of the desk and rubbed his hands
over his face. The loudness of the kitchen soothed him in a way, and that was
one of the only reasons why he kept the door open. It also helped to wane any
gossip that might be happening between the workers about what the owner was
doing behind closed doors.

Loose lips sunk ships.

Calisto wouldn’t be the one to find himself under
boiling water because of an employee who was more interested in their boss’s
dealings than doing their work.

Most of his businesses dealt with clubs—he owned
three. But during the daylight hours, when he wasn’t running for Affonso,
Calisto took up residence in his lone restaurant in Manhattan. It was upscale
enough to keep the police away, but it was a good enough spot that he had
access to the Donati Capos, should they need something or want to chat.

The pile of cash sitting on the corner of the desk
caught Calisto’s eye.

Chatting was one way to put it
, he thought wryly.

Another was to say it like it was. When a Capo came to
him for a talk about business, they did so with the intention of getting
through to the boss. Calisto, as a consigliere, was Affonso’s gatekeeper. Much
like Ray was, as Affonso’s underboss. Capos often brought along a bit of grease
to wet Calisto’s wheels, so to speak. Money talked louder than words did
sometimes, and they figured handing him some cash would get them to the boss
quicker.

Calisto decided who or what was important enough to
take to Affonso. He made the calls on what Affonso got to hear or deal with
when it came to his men. It cut down on a lot of bullshit where the boss was
concerned, but it left Calisto wading through it for most of the day.

Double-edged swords.

While it was great for Affonso not to have a half of a
dozen men running to him for every little problem, it was irritating and
time-consuming for Calisto to be the middle man.

His eye caught the money again.

But he did like cash.

“So this is what you do all day?”

Calisto damn near jumped out of his chair at the soft
voice coming from the open doorway. His head snapped up from his hands, and his
gaze immediately found who he was looking for leaning against the doorjamb in a
tight, short red dress.

Shorter than he knew was appropriate.

Affonso wouldn’t like that. He also wouldn’t like the
red on her lips.

Emma
.

Calisto shook off the surprise at seeing her in the
back of his kitchen, standing in his office. He ignored the strange happiness
that bubbled up in his gut at the idea that she had sought him out for
something.

“Not all day,” Calisto corrected quietly. “Just the
morning and afternoon. I take from three to eleven to do what I want—or what
Affonso wants—and then I head over to the club I manage until two in the morning.”

Emma pursed her lips and tapped her crimson, spiked
pump to the floor. “And when do you sleep?”

“When I can.”

Which isn’t often
, he held back
from adding.

Calisto had learned over the years that in this life,
he didn’t need sleep. Or rather, he didn’t need a lot of it. He could sleep
when he was dead—when he wasn’t the consigliere of a crime boss, and he wasn’t
constantly looking over his shoulder for one reason or another.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Emma shrugged, quiet and still like a statue. “I was
in the neighborhood. My driver might have pointed out that this restaurant was
yours. I hadn’t tried it.”

“I recommend the salmon. It’s fantastic.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Calisto dragged his stare down Emma’s form. She wore a
black, leather bomber jacket over top of the red dress. He was silently
pleased—and less worried about her mental health—at seeing her dressed up, her
makeup done, and her hair tossed up in a messy chignon. Each time he had
visited the Donati home over the last month and a half, he always found Emma
looking like she had little to no desire for anything. Not getting dressed,
handling herself, or whatever else she might need to do.

Depression was a bitch.

He hoped she was coming out of it.

“What are you really doing here?” Calisto asked.

Emma glanced down, but he still saw the crimson camber
of her lips. “I’m surprised you care to look beyond the fact I’m actually out
of the house, Cal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Affonso didn’t question me at all today. I was up and
dressed—even if it wasn’t to his satisfaction with my dress choice. I looked
pretty, just how he likes. He didn’t say a thing when I told him I would be
gone for most of the day. He didn’t even ask what I was doing or where I was
going.”

“Carter reports back to him anyway,” Calisto said,
referring to Emma’s enforcer and driver.

“Not my point.”

“I understand your point.” Calisto stood from the
chair, swiped the money off the side of the desk, and shoved it into his suit
pocket. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here in my restaurant
office, Emmy.”

“Well, that for one.”

Calisto rounded the desk, and leaned against the front
of it. Here, he was only two feet away from Emma. He convinced himself it was
more than enough space to be acceptable.

“Which is what?” he asked.

“Emmy.”

“What about it?”

She picked at her nails. “I’m alone most of the time.
The last month and a half feels like a big, black hole that I was sucked into.
And then I woke up one morning and I was so pissed off at him for being able to
act like what happened didn’t matter.”

Why was she telling him this? Didn’t she know it only
made it harder for Calisto to ignore the craziness she created inside him?

“What does that have anything to do with me calling
you Emmy?” he asked.

Emma looked up at him; her gaze burned with fire and
ice all at the same time. “I woke up today and for the first time in a couple
of weeks, I wasn’t angry with him. I wasn’t over it, but I wasn’t angry.”