Thin Lives (Donati Bloodlines #3) (15 page)

Emma couldn’t stop staring at her child. He was beautiful with his tiny, sloped nose, rounded pink cheeks, and his small features.

Oh, Cross was perfect.

All those hours, those terrifying, painful hours, had been worth it for this one, quiet moment of her life. People often said that once the baby was in the woman’s arms, she forgot about the pain that had come with the birth because the child took it away.

Emma hadn’t believed that, not entirely.

And in a way, she still didn’t.

She would never forget the pain—not the blood, the contractions, or the fear. But once she had her healthy, beautiful—albeit tiny, given he’d come early—boy in her arms, the memory of the pain had lessened instantly. She focused in on Cross, his bloodstained cheeks and matted black hair. She had traced her shaking finger down the slope of his nose and under his blinking, hazy black eyes as a nurse put him on her chest and began to warm him with a towel.

Not once did she think about the pain.

“So beautiful,” she told her little boy.

Cross’s black eyes watched her contentedly, though she was sure things were a little fuzzy to him. Still, as long as he was swaddled and being held, he was happy. Emma didn’t mind making him happy. He was her little prince, after all.

“I waited so long for you, Cross.”

The baby blinked, unknowing.

He couldn’t possibly know how terrified she had been for most of his pregnancy, or how much she had needed to do just to keep him safe while praying he stayed right where he was inside her womb for long enough to survive being outside of it.

Worth it
, Emma reminded herself.

Once more, Emma went about counting each one of the baby’s little fingers and toes. She traced the lines on his palms, and studied the fingerprints on each of his little fingers.

Innocence and pure love rested in her arms.

Emma had never felt more complete.

She had also never felt lonelier.

Staring at Cross only reminded her of the person he was missing the most, even if he didn’t know it—his father. He shared far more of Calisto’s features than he did hers. From his dark hair, or his black eyes, the curve of his plump pink lips, and the shape of his nose—it was all Calisto Donati right there in flesh and blood.

Cross was his father’s son, no doubt about it.

“Handsome boy,” Emma told him.

“So he is.”

Emma started at the new voice, knowing damn well her hospital room had been closed, which meant she didn’t want visitors while she fed and attended to her son. Cross was staying in the NICU as his oxygen levels sometimes dropped, and he had just a touch of jaundice that the doctors were monitoring. He also wasn’t taking well to a bottle, but he didn’t mind a breast. Emma’s milk hadn’t dropped, even two days after her son was born, although the lactation consultant said that was normal for some women. Still, she fed her boy because that was what he wanted, even if she wasn’t giving him much.

“Affonso,” Emma said, not bothering to look up from her son. “Good of you to finally come around.”

He hadn’t bothered to come to the hospital during the birth, or even seen Emma off when the ambulance came. He hadn’t once visited her in the two days since Cross made his way into the world. She was surprised to see the man there at all.

Then again, maybe she wasn’t.

Affonso wanted his boy, after all.

Affonso strolled across the room, his shoes squeaking with each step, making Cross’s little brow pucker at the sound. “I’ve been here. I’ve seen him, and held him, for your information. And when you’re ready, I will sign the birth certificate. Today, even.”

Emma’s throat thickened at his admission.

“I even took him for a little walk around the place, and let some of my men see him,” Affonso added.

It was very possible he was telling the truth, considering Cross spent a good majority of his day between Emma’s room and the NICU ward when they were checking him over and recording what they needed to, regarding his breathing and color. When he wasn’t with Emma, she knew that Affonso could have gotten in on the basis that he was her husband, and the child’s father. He was listed on the information, and even had a bracelet waiting that matched the baby.

Still, it made her sick to her stomach.

Affonso watched her from the side with that cold smile of his. “Ah, you’re getting it, I see.”

She was getting it, as terrifying as it was to her.

He was telling her—without directly saying it—that her son was not safe from him, not even in a hospital surrounded by people who were meant to be constantly watching Cross. At any point, Affonso could simply take her baby, and she could do nothing.

“I’ve had men posted around the building since you came in,” Affonso explained with a wave, coming closer to the bed. “I had to make sure everything was … good.”

Emma swallowed hard. “You mean that I didn’t have Calisto come here and meet his son before you could get your filthy fucking hands all over his child.”

Affonso’s dark eyes flashed with a warning. Emma knew she had crossed a line, but damn, that’s all her life was with Affonso Donati.

Lines drawn in the sand.

Rules written on the walls.

Unspoken threats hanging in the air.

It suffocated her.

Her life felt so thin—it only became thinner with every passing day. Like the less pleasing she was, the less useful she could be, the less important she became.

Cross was her one thing—a beautiful, perfect thing she just wanted to love.

And keep
safe
.

With the grace of a predator, Affonso sat on the edge of Emma’s hospital bed, never taking his gaze away from her and the content baby boy. He reached out to touch Cross, and Emma moved slightly away, holding her baby a little bit tighter from the monster who appeared on the outside to be a saint.

“My son?” Affonso asked, opening his hands to take the baby.

Emma refused. “He’s happy where he is.”

“Give me my child, wife.”

“Affonso—”

Her words cut off as he ran a hand over the top of Cross’s head, messing up the baby’s black tufts of hair in the process. Then, as quickly as his hand had touched the baby, he was lifting it, and squeezing Emma’s throat.

She gasped, a burning pain searing through her lungs when she couldn’t take in even a little bit of air to breathe. Affonso simply smiled his cold grin again, and grasped a little tighter.

“Shall we have a reminder, Emma?” he asked quietly.

Her gaze flitted to the closed door of her maternity suite. No one was coming to help her, and Affonso had probably locked the door behind him when she was distracted with admiring her son.

“Do let me remind you who this child belongs to, now,” Affonso continued, never releasing his hold on her throat even a little bit. “While he was inside your body, he was yours to take care of and do with as you wished. But now that he is outside into the world and alive, I will do with him what I wish. If you plan on making this hard, then I will make it exceptionally easy by making you disappear.”

Emma’s eyes watered, but she kept a firm hold on Cross, refusing to drop him and claw at Affonso’s hand like her instincts were demanding.

“I’m his mother,” she croaked.

“You are the whore that created him,” Affonso replied coolly. “And believe me, he will grow up thinking just that, if I have any say.”

Finally, Affonso let her go, and at the same time, took the baby from her arms. Emma lurched forward in the bed, ignoring the pain shooting through her lower regions at the action.

“Give me him back, Affonso!”

Affonso gave her a look over his shoulder, before his attention was back on the baby in his arms. “Cross, Cross, Cross … my boy, you are a handsome thing, aren’t you? Let’s go for a walk,
bambino
.”

“Affonso,” Emma muttered through clenched teeth, “do not take my child from me.”

“I’m simply taking him for a walk,” her husband replied.

Lies.

The man was a goddamn liar in the worst way.

He wasn’t just taking Cross for a walk as he proclaimed, he was warning her again.

Affonso could take her child.

He could hurt her.

Hurt the baby.

Anything.

And she could do
nothing
.

“You’re a bastard,” Emma told him.

Affonso didn’t bother with a reply.

Emma was scared that if she did more—fought him more—he would do far worse to her, Cross, or Calisto than just simply choking her.

What could she do
?
What
?

Calisto

The first call had come in late in the night—well after three in the morning. Calisto had answered it with sleep thickening his voice and confusion muddling up his mind. He had barely heard the words of the caller on the other end, but he heard a few important ones.

Ones like
Emma
,
baby
, and
hospital
.

He remembered asking about Affonso, and if his uncle was there, or if he was asking for his family to come in for the birth and wait in the family rooms. He got a clear “no” for that.

Calisto, despite feeling like he should get his ass out of bed and go to the hospital anyway, had rolled back over, and tried to go back to sleep. He’d mostly just tossed and turned for a couple of hours, something prickling at the back of his mind like it usually did lately. It wouldn’t let up no matter what he tried.

Ever since that day in Emma’s walk-in closet, when he had that memory of them together in an unfamiliar bed, Calisto couldn’t stop thinking about the woman. More often than he knew he should, and in ways that were not at all innocent.

Sometimes, it disgusted him.

She was pregnant, and married. He shouldn’t be dwelling on a single memory of how soft her skin was, or how tartly sweet her arousal had tasted in his mouth. He certainly shouldn’t be dreaming about her—dreams he wasn’t sure if they were memories, or things his mind was simply making up.

Calisto was torn in several different directions. One part of him knew he was crossing a line, and that clearly, he had already crossed one or two where Emma was concerned. Another part made him want to keep looking for more, and see what else he could find. And then there was the slightly more rational part of his brain that knew what he had done was wrong, and what he was doing was possibly worse.

So he kept a distance.

It was the best he could do, even if the bigger part of his brain practically screamed for him to go to the one thing that felt right in his strange world, even if it was wrong to everyone else.

The second call had come in late in the morning, a little before eleven. Calisto had still been getting ready to leave his place and get a start on the day. He’d called Affonso for an update on Emma, but he got no answer. This time when Ray called with his update, Calisto demanded to know where Affonso was while Emma was laboring alone.

“Celebrating,” Ray had said.

That was it.

Even when Calisto asked for more information, he was shut down. It both pissed him off, and concerned him.

It was almost like Affonso didn’t trust him.

Truthfully, Calisto didn’t trust Affonso, either.

Calisto had just taken a bite of his dinner at his favorite restaurant when the third call came in. He’d spent the day handling business, and collecting payments that should have been Ray’s responsibility to pick up. Apparently, he was needed elsewhere.

There was no answer given when he asked where Ray was needed, either.

When the third phone call had come in, Calisto knew what it was for before he even picked it up. Surprisingly, it had been Affonso on the other end, clearly happy and probably a little bit drunk if the way his words slurred were any indication.

The newest, littlest Donati
principe
had made his way into the world.

Calisto wasn’t sure how Affonso knew if he hadn’t been at the hospital, but he guessed his uncle had men posted, waiting for any news. He’d congratulated his uncle, and asked when he wanted Calisto to come to the hospital to see the baby.

Affonso had hummed and hawed, not giving a real answer.

Deep in the pit of his stomach, something heavy weighed Calisto down with every word he spoke. Sure, he gave his congrats, his platitudes, and pleasantries on the birth of his uncle’s son, but each word felt falser than the last. Like he didn’t really mean them at all.

And maybe he didn’t.

At the same time, he considered Emma, too.

Who had been with her when she birthed her child?

Who had helped her, encouraged her, and supported her through that hell?

No one, it seemed.

That made Calisto feel the very worst of all.

“I’m happy for you,
zio
,” Calisto had said one last time to Affonso.

His uncle’s response surprised him, but at the same time, it didn’t. “Are you really, Cal?”

No, he really wasn’t.

Calisto lied, instead.

“Of course, you finally have your boy.”

Calisto headed down the bright white, sterile-smelling corridor, hearing the muted sounds of murmurs and soft cries of babies coming from within the rooms of the maternity ward. He hadn’t known before arriving, but after a woman was done laboring and delivering her child, she was moved to the maternity ward where she would spend the rest of her stay.

With a room number in mind, Calisto eyed the plaques on the doors he passed until he found the one he was searching for. Since the door was slightly open a couple of inches, and his uncle had invited him to come down and say hello to the newest family member—three days after the baby was actually born—Calisto didn’t think to knock and wait. He simply rapped his knuckles gently against the door and then pushed it open.

The hospital room wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t filled with the people he expected, either.

Soft, pastel blue walls with white trim and accents stared back at him. The hospital bed, which looked much more comfortable than the ones he had spent time in over the years, was propped up into a sitting position. The curtains had been drawn, and the lights were dimmed.

Emma sat on the middle of the bed, cross-legged. On the bed with her was a tiny, blue bundle swaddled tightly but for one arm that had escaped. All Calisto could see was rounded, pink cheeks, dark tufts of hair, and a thumb firmly stuck between the baby’s lips.

“My dark-eyed boy,” Emma cooed to the baby, running the tip of her finger down his nose. “You look just like your father, Cross.”

Calisto cleared his throat, not wanting to feel like he was spying on Emma and her baby.

Emma’s head snapped up, her gaze finding his instantly. A softness resonated in her features as she stared at him, seemingly unsure of what to say. “Calisto. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I didn’t mean to inter—”

“No, no,” she interjected quickly, waving a hand to ask him closer. “Come here, you didn’t. It’s just …”

Calisto strolled forward, but slowly. “Just what?”

“Affonso hasn’t really allowed anyone to come, that’s all.”

“He said he would meet me at the nursery,” Calisto said, shrugging.

Emma’s eyes widened a second before she laughed under her breath. “Well, that’s on the other side of the maternity ward, Cal. It’s where they allow the families to spend time with the babies while giving us new mothers time to rest and also privacy.”

Calisto cringed. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She scooped the sleeping baby into her arms, and his attention was drawn to the boy’s sleeping features. Instantly, he could see the resemblances he shared with the newborn. Brown-black eyes, dark hair, the shape of his nose and lips. “Cross Nazio Donati is what I named him.”

Calisto was still staring at the baby, that sensation poking at his brain again, like there was something he was supposed to know, but couldn’t remember. “He certainly looks like a Donati.”

The baby watched him with dark eyes.

Donati eyes.

It unsettled him, because the child felt so familiar to him, yet, he hadn’t even touched him.

“He’s awfully expressive for a baby,” Calisto said more to himself than to Emma.

Emma smiled a genuine sight. “I think he gets that from his father.”

There was a lilt to her tone, as if there was more to her words. He still couldn’t stop staring at the baby, his mind running a million miles a minute. He was going straight back to that place where he knew he shouldn’t be. A place where he considered things like Emma, and his strange attraction for her—his desire to want to be closer to her. Just looking at the child that resembled him because they were family and nothing more was enough to twist his gut with something hot and heavy.

The baby looked like it could be his, for Christ’s sake.

And he liked that.

“Would you like to hold him?” Emma asked.

Her innocent question brought Calisto out of his crazy head with a bang. He knew he was going crazy—he had to be fucking insane. That was the only explanation to why he would even think about Emma in the way he was, never mind the things he knew he had once done with her.

That’s what it is
, he told himself.
You’re confusing something that happened with everything you don’t know. You want to keep what you do know, so you’re forcing something that isn’t there. Stop being stupid!

Calisto took a step back, and then another, even when Emma’s smile fell, and sadness colored her features.

“Ah, no,” he started to say.

“Just wait a minute, Cal.”

Calisto shook his head. “I should go.”

“Stay.”

Her one word stopped his walk. He had turned, but glanced over his shoulder. “Didn’t you say that you asked me that once, and I didn’t listen?”

She frowned. “Something terrible happened.”

“I should go,” he repeated.

But he really wanted to stay there with her and that baby that made his heart clench just by looking at him.

“Cal,” Emma whispered.

His head snapped up from the baby to her face again. “Yes?”

“You keep looking at him like—”

“It’s nothing, Emmy.”

“Is it?”

“Congratulations again, but I need to find Affonso.”

Calisto strolled forward again, needing space and time to think.

Behind him, he heard Emma call out, “Maybe you can’t remember because you don’t want to know what you’ve done. Is that it, Calisto?”

He didn’t answer, but he was terrified that she was right.

Calisto had every intention of just leaving the hospital—he
did
. As he came to the exit doors of the wing, the one that would lead him back the way he came, the elevators opened down the opposite hallway, and out came several people he recognized.