Thin Lives (Donati Bloodlines #3) (16 page)

Affonso, Ray, and another family Capo that his uncle was particularly fond of.

Calisto’s hand was on the door, ready to push it open, when his uncle called out. He tried not to show how warred he felt inside as he turned to his uncle with a fake smile firmly in place.

“
Zio
,” he greeted, meeting the men in the middle of the hall. “I couldn’t find you.”

Affonso waved a hand, dismissing his words. “No worries, Cal. They took my boy to his mother, and I went up to the roof for a smoke break.”

“It’s a time to be celebrated,” Ray agreed.

The Capo nodded as well.

Calisto paid them no mind. He was more focused on the way Affonso was looking at him, as if he was searching for something.

“Did you see the baby?” Affonso asked.

Calisto forced back the truth. “No, and they didn’t give me a room number when I asked.”

All lies.

“Oh?”

“No, I thought maybe I had the wrong hospital.”

Affonso laughed. “Only you, Calisto. Come, we’ll see him now.”

Calisto was going to refuse, but Affonso was already turning on his heel and heading down another hallway in the wing, far away from Emma’s room. He knew the baby boy—Cross, she had named him—was with his mother, but he didn’t say a thing as they came up to a row of glass windows showcasing plastic bassinets and rocking chairs behind the walls.

Affonso sighed heavily. “He’s not back yet.”

“It’s fine,” Calisto said, wanting to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. “I can see him on another day, uncle. I’m sure you’ll have a dinner or something.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Affonso passed Calisto another one of his cool looks that screamed his displeasure. “You can wait a while. What is wrong with you? You look like something is on your mind. Have I missed something?”

Calisto knew, just by the way Affonso was focusing in on him, that if he didn’t give his uncle something to consider, he would continue bothering Calisto until he had what he wanted. “I didn’t understand why you waited so long to call me to the hospital. That was all. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I didn’t see the baby for another few days.”

Affonso raised a single brow high. “I’m being cautious.”

“Oh?”

“The Irish,” Affonso said simply. “And isn’t that enough? My son has been born, they’re in a rage, and I barely survived their first attack. I didn’t want all of us in one place at the same time. It would be like waving a giant red flag and practically asking them to come at me once more.”

The moment Affonso started talking, Calisto knew his uncle was lying.

Why?

Because at that very moment, the most important people in the Donati Cosa Nostra were all in the same spot, the very same place, and they were together.

Affonso, the boss. His wife, and newborn son. Ray, the family underboss. And Calisto, Affonso’s right-hand man as his consigliere.

Yes, he was lying through his teeth.

That only made Calisto even more distrustful of his uncle than he already was. He still thoroughly believed Affonso had something to do with the priest’s death, and from that moment on, he had walked on egg shells around his uncle, torn between a loyalty he had always felt, and the distrust that now colored his view.

Calisto didn’t want to feel this way.

Affonso was the one who didn’t give him a choice.

“There he is,” Affonso said, bringing Calisto from his thoughts.

Sure enough, a nurse walked in behind the windows, holding baby Cross in her arms. All over again, Calisto’s heart ached and his soul
hurt
in a way he couldn’t explain when he looked at the child.

“Handsome, isn’t he?” Affonso asked.

Calisto forced himself to speak. “He is. You should be proud, uncle.”

Affonso smiled, and for once, it didn’t come off as cold. “Well, I suppose I have Emma to thank for that, hmm? She managed to do something right, for once.”

Ouch.

“She birthed you a healthy child,” Calisto said quietly. “I would think that in itself should be—”

“She did something all women do, Cal. Do not mistake my gratitude for admiration.” Affonso stared at the baby as he was placed in a plastic bassinet. “And he isn’t entirely healthy—he’s got a touch of jaundice, and his oxygen fluctuates a bit too much.”

“You said he was early by a few weeks.”

“Almost two months,” Affonso replied, still focused in on the baby and not Calisto. “He had a little while longer to stay inside his mother, but what can you do when you have a defective woman?”

But Calisto was listening—he heard the vileness coming from Affonso, but he heard something else, too.

Almost two months early …

Calisto counted back the months in his head, only now realizing something frightening but important. Maybe he had overlooked it because it was only recently Calisto learned about the period of a couple of months’ time when he had stepped in for Affonso because the man up and left his
famiglia
and his wife behind, only coming back after Calisto’s accident. It was just another lie Affonso had told.

Those lies were adding up. They were making mountains Calisto couldn’t ignore.

He did the math again.

Once more.

And
again
.

Calisto swallowed hard, staring at the sleeping, dark-haired, olive-skinned, black-eyed baby just beyond the glass.

Was it possible?

Was this another thing he was missing?

Was there a reason Emma wouldn’t have told him—a reason like her husband, and Calisto’s lost memories?

Was that baby—

“Now, about the Irish,” Affonso said, turning away from the window to face Calisto.

He schooled his features, hoping his emotional upheaval was well hidden. “I will handle them.”

“Will you?”

“I’ve had several talks with the Marcellos. It’ll end, uncle.”

Affonso looked pleased to hear it. “Wonderful.”

“But they did want to know something,” Calisto said.

“Which was what?”

“The same thing I would like to know—why you’re in any sort of feud with the Irish family at all.”

Affonso’s cold mask was firmly back in place in a blink. “What you need to concern yourself with—and nothing else—is the fact they nearly killed me, and you, at one point. That is enough for you. Do you understand?”

Calisto stared into Affonso’s eyes—the same soul-black gaze he had.

Except his was never cold.

Calisto’s eyes never lied.

“Yeah,
zio
, I got it.”

“Good. I will give you a call about the meet-and-greet dinner Emma wants to have for the baby. Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Ray to be the godfather.”

Calisto found he did mind, as he was sure a couple of months ago, Affonso had asked him to be the godfather. He glanced to the side, finding Ray watching him silently.

Just the way Ray’s head was turned in his direction, his arm outstretched toward the Capo to take the card he was handing over, made Calisto pause.

He blinked.

Familiar
.

Calisto could feel the steering wheel under his hands again, the dark highway ahead of his vision.

It was that night—the one he kept dreaming about. The dream that ended in a nightmarish way with his car on its top, and then … blackness, nothing.

But this time, when he turned to see who was speeding up beside his vehicle, their window rolling down, and the flash of metal that peeked out … Calisto found a familiar face.

Ray
.

Calisto had never felt more insane—more crazed, caged—than he did pacing the length of his club’s large office. He’d only come here to the club because he knew it would be mostly empty given it was in the middle of the day and a weekday, no less. Only a few employees were downstairs, and they hadn’t even noticed him when he came in and went straight to the elevator that led to his office.

Between his bouts of confusion and panic, the rage festered.

Thickening his blood.

Making his fists clench and his jaw tighten.

He wasn’t even sure who he was angrier at—himself, or the people who had lied to him; people he thought he could trust were the ones who had taken two and half years of his life from him.

A life he still didn’t have back completely.

Then his confusion would hit all over again, making that crazy feeling build back up in an instant. For months he’d had that same dream, and saw that unknown shadow of a face staring back at him from the other vehicle before they began pulling the trigger and ran him off the road.

He’d been near Ray time and time again since the accident.

He’d seen the man over and over.

His brain had more than enough moments to remember it had been Ray who had done that, so why now?

Was it even real, or was it just a by-product of Calisto’s paranoia making him see something that didn’t exist?

Worse was the fact that Calisto didn’t understand why Ray would come after him at all. Unless there had been some issue that he couldn’t remember, but it seemed unlikely. It felt wrong.

His gut hadn’t led him astray yet.

So why?

He despised the fact that he was still asking questions, that he had no answers.

Was it Ray making a move on Calisto’s position?

Or … had Affonso ordered the hit from wherever he had gone?

More frustrated than ever, Calisto strolled over to the wall-to-wall windows, and stared out at the empty club floor.

He didn’t know who to go to.

He didn’t know who to trust.

Blowing out a heavy breath, a calm swept Calisto’s senses. He pushed away from the windows, knowing what he had to do next. Protect himself—figure out why he had been lied to over and over again.

Get rid of the problems.

Whatever they were.

It took him no time at all to take the elevator down to the main floor, and cross the club to the back entrance where he had left his vehicle parked in the back alleyway. Yet again, the few employees didn’t even notice him, as they were too busy with bringing in the liquor order, and readying the club for the weekend rush that was just days away.

Calisto had just closed the driver’s side door of his SUV, turned the key in the ignition, and put it in drive when a dark form caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. A spike of dread drove straight into his spine, though he didn’t have much reason to feel that way.

It could be just a worker.

Or garbage pickup.

A homeless person.

But his gut never steered him wrong.

Calisto reached for the gun holstered at his back as he glanced into the rear-view mirror again.

Ray?

The Irish?

He couldn’t see a face, he was too focused on the hand holding the gun that was pointed straight at him through the back windows.

Bullets shattered the back window as Calisto hit the gas. He didn’t make the sharp turn at the end of the alley that would lead him out the other side. He’d been too focused on the person still shooting at him.

He didn’t even see that brick wall coming …

Calisto

At first there was light.

Clear and streaming through his lids.

Waking him up. 

Calisto, stiff in his arms and neck, pushed himself up from whatever he had been slumped over. A steering wheel.

Then there was pain.

Radiating and sharp.

It started in his neck, traveled through his upper torso and limbs, and straight down his back. He sucked in a harsh gulp of air and then let out a groan, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he tried to ride the waves of pain to a more manageable state.

It didn’t help all that much.

As much as he blinked and stared around, he couldn’t quite make out what was wrong or where he was. The blurred vision probably didn’t help any, and neither did the pounding headache making him cringe and wince with each and every movement.

Then, when he did wince, a stinging pain seared through his cheek.

Calisto smacked his mouth, feeling the dryness there. He reached up with his right hand, patted his cheek, and hissed, pulling his fingers away just as fast at the sensation of pain that followed the action. Thick, red liquid covered his fingertips.

For a long while, he just stared at his fingers, trying to figure out what that red shit was. His gaze traveled from his fingers to the broken windshield in front of him, and the tufts of smoke coming out of the smashed front end of his SUV, to the brick wall that was also spattered lightly with red. He could hear the hissing and pops of the engine, and he could see the long crack his vehicle had made in the brick wall when it hit it.

Damn, how hard had he hit it?

Calisto blinked again.

And again.

With shaking hands, and a dizziness making him sick to his stomach, he grabbed the rear-view mirror and twisted it downward. The red made sense when he could see the ugly, two inch long gash on his cheek that was bleeding a little too much for his liking.

It was only then that he noticed the right side of his jacket was soaked in the blood from the wound.

Fuck
.

That was going to need stitches.

More than anything, Calisto needed clarity in his mind, but the more he tried to get the blurriness from his vision and clear the haziness from his mind, the worse it all became and the sicker he felt.

Concussion?

Likely.

Calisto decided to take it all in one thing at a time and he would go from there. The most obvious thing was the brick wall he’d obviously driven into. And while his windshield was broken, the glass was scattered across the hood, like it had been broken from the inside. That didn’t explain his cheek, or why his back window was broken.

Another pop from the engine answered a hiss, and Calisto decided he should probably get the fuck out of the SUV just in case that gray smoke meant something bad was about to happen.

You’re not usually this slow on the ball
, he thought.

Ignoring his taunting inner voice, Calisto pushed open the driver’s door, and stumbled out into what looked like a back alleyway. It took him a few minutes, and couple of times looking around at his surroundings, but he realized quickly enough that he was outside of his club.

Calisto wet his lips and smacked his mouth again.

Jesus.

He really wanted some water.

Just a couple more stumbled, swaying steps, and Calisto neared the back of his SUV. His hand found the black painted metal of the back, and he leaned against the passenger door to help keep him upright as he breathed through his nose to quell the nausea.

Shit, he must have smacked his head awfully hard against the steering wheel.

Or something …

Once he felt good enough to move again, he rounded the back of the SUV, and stopped up short. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but that seemed to be a running theme since he opened his eyes. Tilting his head to the side, Calisto stared at the back end of his SUV, trying to make sense of the littered, circular holes that had busted out taillights and ruined the nice paint job.

Suddenly, and without warning, the knowledge of what those holes were came to Calisto with a sharp, painful clarity.

Bullet holes.

When he squeezed his eyes shut, he remembered the dark form, and the gun drawn. He could hear the breaking glass again, and the sensation of his body being propelled forward into his dashboard and steering wheel when he hit the brick wall at a speed that could have killed him.

He was trying to get away.

Calisto touched his cheek again, and sucked in more air at the pain. He stumbled his way back to the front of the SUV, looking over the glass from the broken windshield and the brick wall.

His blood had spattered the brick wall—he’d seen the blood. There was no blood on the glittering pieces of glass that had scattered over the hood, which meant his injury came after the windshield had been broken.

Calisto found what he was looking for all too soon.

A bullet embedded in the brick wall just below his blood splatters.

The cut on his face wasn’t from hitting the dashboard, or the broken windshield.

It was a bullet graze.

That’s why they left
, he thought,
because they thought their job was done when they saw the blood and you not moving
.

Calisto thanked God for his shitty luck and someone else’s stupidity. A man should never leave a scene until he was sure his target had stopped breathing. That was one of the first rules he’d learned growing up under Affonso’s direction.

At the thought of his uncle, Calisto’s stomach turned again, and he just had time to move away from the vehicle before vomit spilled from his throat. It burned on the way out, strong and acidic.

Hunched over with a hand to the wall, Calisto breathed through his rage and dizziness.

All those months …

All the lies …

Calisto blinked.

Emma
.

Vegas.

Skin. Auction. Fear.
Sex.

Calisto’s tongue peeked out to sweep his bottom lip as he breathed as rhythmically as he could. Another blink, and he was seeing new things.

White dress. Lace. Father Day, Affonso, and the altar. His own fist clenched against his knee. Red, frowning lips behind a veil. He was sorry for delivering her for that day—that awful day.

With every breath, each blink, the memories bled together for Calisto until his mind was a screaming, aching, jumbled mess of things he had forgotten. And with each forgotten moment—for every lost emotion—the pain intensified until he was vomiting again, and tears streaked down his cheeks.

How had he forgotten?

How was it possible that one day he had woken up, and
forgot
how he loved her?

Their time …

Their words …

Stolen minutes, brief seconds, and darker days.

Calisto’s knees hit the pavement hard, and his fingers curled into fists against the brick wall of his club, making his fingernails break from the pressure.

It was difficult, having all of his memories from before bleed into the time he had spent without them.

Anger festered and then flared, overwhelming his heart.

Guilt ate at him.

Pain suffocated him.

But through it all, his mind—hazy and full—focused on two things.

Emma.

Cross.

Emma.

Cross.

Once he had gained enough of his bearings to stand straight, Calisto stumbled back to the open driver’s door of the SUV. Somehow, he had a feeling that not very much time had passed from the moment he wrecked his SUV, to now. He only thought that because no one had yet to come out of the club and find the wrecked vehicle, or him. Then again, he’d hit the wall of another business that was only open on the weekends, and it was possible there was no one inside to hear the crash.

Calisto had all he could do to keep from retching again as he dug around on the floor of the SUV, trying to find his cell phone. He was definitely concussed, and it wasn’t a particularly good feeling.

Finally, he found the fucking phone.

He hit the power button, illuminating the cracked touchscreen. Just from the home screen, he could clearly see that there were a few missed calls and a couple of messages. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he typed in the code to unlock the device and see exactly who had called him.

Calisto ran down the numbers.

Ray.

Wolf.

One of his managers.

Ray again.

The messages were the same thing—the same people.

Calisto went back to the previous log screen, and focused on what he knew was there. In a day, Affonso made it a point to call him several times. Usually, it was to run some kind of errand or to chat about whatever fit Affonso’s fancy that day.

He only had one call from Affonso.

Just one.

The call that had asked Calisto to the hospital.

Affonso hadn’t even tried to call him after that. Not once.

Going back into the missed calls, Calisto found that Ray’s last call had come in shortly after he’d woken up from the crash. Probably when he was at the back of the SUV.

Calisto swallowed the thickness building in this throat, not liking what any of this meant to him.

Ray wouldn’t be calling if he knew Calisto was dead—or even if he thought so.

Wolf—the Capo that Calisto was closest to in the Donati family—had never been someone Calisto was suspicious of, and he was supposed to meet the man for dinner later to discuss business. It would make sense that he would call.

The manager of Calisto’s restaurant always called around the same time everyday just to see if the boss was coming in or not.

There was only one thing that was unusual about the phone calls.

Only one thing was out of place.

Affonso hadn’t called—he always did.

But he wouldn’t if he knew you were dead
, he thought to himself.

Calisto squeezed his eyes shut, needing the darkness to think, and wanting to block out the pain thrumming in the base of his skull.

Ray had been the one who shot at him and drove him off the road all those months ago. There was no question about it—Calisto’s memories on that night were as clear as crystal, much like everything else now was.

But this time, Calisto seriously suspected Ray wasn’t involved at all.

Affonso
.

Calisto blew out a slow stream of air, and opened his eyes again, the phone still clutched in his hand. It would be easier to understand if he knew why Affonso had chosen to come after him.

Why now, when he could have done it at any other time over the last eight or nine months since his accident?

Calisto stilled—
eight or nine months
.