Thin Lives (Donati Bloodlines #3) (30 page)

“Yeah, Cam,” he finally said.

At least then, he could have just a few more private moments with her.

He was again reminded, as he watched Camilla finger the bedspread, that it wouldn’t be what he took with him when he finally left the world, but what he left behind.

Calisto knew he would leave the very best parts he could. Today, he might have been giving one of those pieces of him away, but that was just a part of life.

God knew he had lived his without regrets.

It was someone else’s turn, now.

“If you’re having problems with the gangs,” Calisto started to say.

“No problems,” Cross cut in fast. “None that I can’t handle.”

Calisto rubbed at his forehead, knowing he had to give his son a bit of leg room to move, or Cross would simply force his way like he always did. Cross Donati had a way about him when it came to certain things. He wasn’t one to let others handle his business—he could and would do it alone. Cross was arrogant in that way, but Calisto had to admit, that cocky confidence had carried the boy straight through his life and let him succeed in most everything he wanted to do. From baseball, to soccer, to college, and the mafia.

When Cross said he wanted something, he got it.

It didn’t matter what it took, he did it.

Calisto was proud as hell, as far as that went. But sometimes he worried that Cross simply hadn’t come up against a challenge that would defeat him, and it was only a matter of time before he did meet his match in that regard.

What would happen then?

Calisto might not be able to step in.

“I can make some calls,” Calisto offered. “I don’t want bloody streets, Cross.”

Cross smirked. “I can make calls too, you know?”

“Who and why?”

“Andino Marcello, to start with,” his boy replied, his grin never wavering. “We’re good friends. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping me clear out a few gangs to make the cash flow a little better. And I know Andi’s got a taste for guns, too. He’d probably like getting in on that trade.”

Calisto shook his head, chuckling. “Andino Marcello, hmm?”

“
Si, Papa
.”

A quietness settled over the room, but Calisto was sure his son didn’t even notice. Their conversation had gone on uninterrupted, but that didn’t mean they were alone in Calisto’s office. When Cross had shown up an hour earlier, wanting to chat business with Calisto about some issue he’d been having in his territory, a couple of Capos had come along with him for the chat. Calisto had been enjoying a drink with his consigliere, Wolf, when he invited Cross in with the men.

While Calisto had raised Cross from the time he was an infant, his status to the child was always clear for others so that their secrets would stay hidden. Even for Cross, the secret of his paternity was unknown.

Like history repeating
, Calisto thought.

Over the years, Calisto found himself praying that if Cross ever found out the truth, it would not lead them down the path it had taken Calisto and Affonso all those decades ago. While he might not have betrayed Cross like Affonso had done to him time and time again, he was still lying to his son.

And that was the exact same no matter how he tried to spin it.

That would still cut the same.

It would still sting.

It would hurt.

But no matter how many times he’d corrected Cross as a boy, telling him it was
Zio
, and not
Papa
like the boy preferred, Cross called Calisto his father. Honestly, he was the only thing Cross had for a father. It wasn’t like he had treated him any differently as he grew up.

The distinction was still important.

Rarely did Cross call Calisto his father in front of others, though.

The silence stretched on a little longer until Calisto broke it with a nod.

“Fine, call Andino, Cross. See if he’s up for business. You know how Dante Marcello is, though. He doesn’t like to mingle business unless it’s good for him—excellent for him, even. Keep that in mind.”

Cross smirked, drawing in Calisto’s full attention again for the moment. In that one second, it seemed like the rest of the men in the room bled away as he stared at his son.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Strong features.

Confident air.

Schooled attitude.

Soul-black eyes.

Donati charm.

“Is it business you’re worried about where Dante is concerned, or something else?” Cross asked.

Calisto laughed, knowing damn well what his son was dancing around. “Well, I think that’s for you to worry about, not me.”

“Dante likes me.”

“At times.”

“When I’m not within breathing distance of his daughter, you mean,” Cross joked.

Calisto shrugged. “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do, Cross. Someday you’ll have a daughter—maybe—and you’ll understand. Don’t fault Dante for how close he keeps Catherine.”

Cross and Catherine Marcello had dated for a few years starting when they were teens and moving into their early twenties. It didn’t end well, but what kind of young love ever did?

Mostly, Calisto just didn’t want Cross getting mixed up in something he couldn’t handle.

He thought his son was over that girl.

Cross matched Calisto’s posture, arrogance back in a blink. “Let me worry about all that, yeah?”

Calisto sighed. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”

His boy laughed, pushing out of the chair without a care in the world, it seemed. The men who had come with Cross to chat got up from their respective seats as well, ready to leave.

“I never look for trouble,” Cross said as he was leaving. “But it always seems to find me.”

Calisto couldn’t even rebuff Cross, because the man was already gone from the office with the other Capos on his heel. Sighing, Calisto waved his consigliere off as well, and watched as the man downed a glass of whiskey before taking his leave.

Alone in his office, Calisto let the peace of the space soak into his bloodstream. He stretched his legs out, propping them up on the desk and folding his arms behind his head.

He didn’t mind this—not as much as he thought he would.

All those years ago, the very idea of being the boss of the Donati Cosa Nostra had sickened him. The thought of carrying on the legacy of a man he despised made him disgusted.

Yet, here he was.

Except … it was his legacy now.

Calisto was okay with that, for the most part.

People rarely spoke about Affonso, or the fact that the man was still missing. His body had never been found, after all. Burned to a crisp.

Ray had never been found, either.

Calisto had the Irish boss to thank for that.

Friendships like those were made to last.

Calisto sincerely hoped that on his rise to the top, Cross was able to do the same, and make his own friendships that would help to carry him through life. As it was, Cross seemed to do damn well all on his own. Most men slipped and stumbled their way through Cosa Nostra, earning their buttons with shaking hands and unsure words as they spoke their oaths.

Not Cross.

Not a Donati.

“Hey.”

At the quiet greeting, Calisto’s feet dropped from the desk with a snap, and he sat up straight in his chair. Emma stood leaning in the doorway with a ball of fur under her arm, petting the dog’s head.

About a decade earlier, Calisto had needed to take Midnight in and have the poor pup put to sleep. It nearly killed his wife, as she loved that mangy dog so much simply because it had been a gift from him to her in one of her loneliest times.

It took her ten years, but she finally let him get another dog.

He really wished this one would stop chewing on his shoes.

Emma glanced down at her pup, and smiled.

Calisto figured if the dog made her happy, he could live with the ruined shoes.

For now.

“Hey,” Calisto finally replied.

Emma’s gaze lifted to his, and her smile deepened. “Everybody gone?”

“Yes. Did Cross find you before he left?”

“Of course.”

Calisto winked, and gave a low groan as he pushed up from his chair. The week had been a busy one with his daughter’s wedding, and the streets being as noisy as they were. There was no rest for a boss. It was something he longed for more often than not.

Peace.

Quiet.

Rest
.

“Is he ever going to settle down?” Emma asked.

“Cross?”

“No, Jesus, Cal. Yes, Cross.”

“He will,” Calisto assured. “On his own time and when he is good and ready.”

Emma pouted. “He’s twenty-five. I’d like a grandbaby to spoil. Maybe two.”

Calisto cocked a brow at his wife. “Two?”

“Or three. Stop looking at me like that, Cal. You want it too, but you just won’t admit it like I will.”

Fair enough.

“Camilla is newly married. Give it time.”

Emma frowned. “But she’s in Chicago. Cross won’t leave—so I’m depending on him. He better not fail me. You make damn sure he doesn’t.”

“God, Emma, give him some time.”

“Make sure, Cal,” she said, eyeing him in that way of hers.

Calisto laughed as he crossed the room, sneaking a kiss from the corner of his wife’s mouth as she played with her puppy. The one, chaste kiss was enough to soothe his overworked mind and tired body. Just touching Emma gave Calisto all the calm and serenity he needed.

He wasn’t quite sure why that was.

She had always done it for him.

When things were too much, when he needed to think, when he wanted to breathe, Emma was the one thing that gave all of that to him.

His one person.

There was no one else for him. After two and half decades together, he still loved and adored her just as much as he always had.

“Stop worrying yourself over Cross and his activities,” Calisto said, kissing his wife on the top of her head.

Emma grumbled under her breath, but otherwise said nothing.

“And don’t go sticking your nose into it all, either,” he added.

“You’re no fun,” she muttered. “One phone call, Calisto, and we could have him caught like a deer in the headlights.”

Calisto sighed heavily. “Don’t meddle in his affairs.”

“He still talks about her.”

Catherine, she meant.

“Leave it alone,” he said. “Promise me.”

Emma gave her husband a side-long look, before pushing up on her tiptoes and kissing him sweetly. “Fine, for now.”

“Emma—”

“For now, Cal.”

Calisto chose not to argue. He never won when he did. Not with Emma.

Oddly, he was okay with that.

It wasn’t about winning, anyway. Love wasn’t about battles.

Not always. 

He figured they had already won more than enough a long time ago.

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three very young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, a snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a spouse calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something ... when she can find the time.

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