Thin Lives (Donati Bloodlines #3) (9 page)

Some days, it felt like Emma had just imagined it all.

Like maybe everything she had been with Calisto was just a dream.

Emma knew it was crazy—it was impossible to forget what she had shared with Calisto Donati. All their love, the stolen moments, their foulness together, and the beauty underneath it all were real.

They were real.

But he didn't know.

He didn’t know any of it.

And little by little, with every day that passed her by, Emma found she was losing those pieces that reminded her they had existed once.

Just like the rosary.

All too soon, Emma knew … there would be nothing left.

Still, as she stared at the rosary, she couldn’t deny the urge to give it back to its rightful owner. To put it back where it started, and let it make its way home.

The rosary had served its purpose. It comforted her. It gave her hope. It grounded her.

But it still wasn’t hers.

And she thought maybe … just maybe … Father Day would like to have his rosary back.

Emma quickly leaned over the coffin, and grabbed hold of Father Day’s cold, unmoving hand. She lifted it, and put the rosary over top his other hand before laying his palm down on it again. The black beads tangled around the cross he held, while the golden cross attached to the rosary was hidden between his hands.

“Thank you,” Emma said, straightening back up again. “Thank you for giving me sanctuary.”

She hadn’t found the road that Father Day said she would.

Not yet.

But the lingering faith she had wouldn’t let Emma go.

For that, she was grateful.

With one last quick goodbye, Emma made her way out of the private room, intent on finding her husband and then a pew to sit in. As it was, she had been standing for too long.

She was twenty-six weeks along in her pregnancy. It was nothing more than a miracle that she had made it this long without her cervix weakening and putting her into early labor.

She wasn’t supposed to be on her feet like this.

Nonetheless, she felt like she had to do this today. She owed it to the priest.

Right outside of the private room, Emma froze, finding Calisto standing off to the side. He was leaning against the wall, and staring at an intricate, rich-colored tapestry hanging off a curtain rod just outside of the confessional room. He didn’t seem to notice her presence, but he must have known she had been in paying her respects, or he would have interrupted her.

Emma didn't say a thing—she took that moment to just stare at Calisto when he didn’t know she was doing it. He looked more like the old him before his accident than he had in a long while. His suit jacket was tossed over his arm, and the sleeves of his silk dress shirt had been rolled up to the elbows.

A clear sign he was stressed.

The strong lines of his face were darkened in his frown, and it was impossible not to see the pain flickering in his eyes.

Emma thought most times, Calisto often looked confused. She didn’t think anyone else knew it, because he hid it well, but she saw it. Like he was staring around at his world and knowing something wasn’t right, but still being unable to make it better.

Between the fingers of his right hand, he twirled an unlit cigarette.

In his left, he held the rosary she had given him last Christmas.

“Cal?” Emma asked.

Calisto barely acted like Emma had startled him as he turned to glance at her. “Afternoon, Emma.”

“You can go on in.”

He didn’t move. “In a minute. But thanks.”

Emma knew it probably wouldn’t do her any favors to ask, but she couldn’t help herself when the words slipped out. “I know you were close to Father Day, so this must be hard for you.”

Calisto barely reacted. “Harder.”

He had found the priest, too.

She couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I’m sorry, Cal.”

Calisto did smile then. It was small and fleeting, but it had been there. Just as fast, he pushed off the wall, pocketing the cigarette and rosary he held. Stepping past Emma and into the entryway of the private room, he stopped for a second to mutter, “I should say goodbye before I convince myself otherwise.”

Why did she feel like he was talking about more than just the priest?

“Horrible day,” Affonso muttered, glaring up at the gray sky.

“Fitting for a funeral,” Emma replied.

Affonso didn’t bother denying it.

Light sprinkles of rain fell on the graveyard and over the people as dirt was thrown into a waiting grave. Not five minutes before, Father Day’s casket had finally been lowered after a long and well-deserved procession.

They had moved from the one church to the graveyard at Father Day’s church so the man could be buried at his parish.

It was the only thing about the day that really made Emma wish she hadn’t come, or at the very least, excused her way out of the burial by saying she needed to get home and rest. That would have been a viable, believable excuse, surely.

But no.

Instead, she was standing in a graveyard that she hadn’t visited in months. More months than she wanted to admit. Her baby boy was buried just four rows down, under a maple tree where he was both shaded, but also where he could be colored by falling leaves in the Autumn.

Emma had come to the graveyard on and off after her baby passed away shortly after his birth, but then her trips went from once a week to maybe once a month.

Then she stopped altogether.

It was less painful this way.

She didn’t want to get caught up in remembering the hell that day had been when she birthed him, knowing he would die. She didn’t want that sadness and fear to color up her current pregnancy, and put her straight into an anxious, driven mess.

So she avoided it.

Or tried.

“Well,” Affonso said, tugging on the lapels of his jacket. Another shovelful of dirt was tossed into the grave, and people began to turn to leave. Quite a few stayed behind. “I suppose that’s that, isn’t it?”

“It is. What was that about with Ray earlier in the church?” she dared to ask.

Affonso pulled off his sunglasses, ones he didn’t need with the current weather, and peered over his shoulder. Emma followed his gaze, but found he was staring at nothing but the row of parked cars along the road of the cemetery.

“Nothing,” Affonso said after a moment. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Emma forced herself not to glare.

He always did that. Dismissed and deflected while making her concerns seem petty and useless. It irritated her more than she could explain, but it was nothing new.

“Before I get any wetter from this godforsaken rain,” Affonso mumbled, glancing back up at the sky, “I am going to the car. Let’s leave.”

Emma hesitated. No doubt, she needed to get off her feet for a while. She had an appointment with her specialist in two days to check her cervix again and make sure a stitch wasn’t needed just yet, but she didn’t want to push her luck.

Still, while she was here …

“Would you mind if I caught up with you in a couple of minutes?” Emma asked.

Affonso tossed her a look, cocking a brow. “I can’t see how watching the gravekeeper toss in dirt will be more enjoyable than the dry, warm backseat of my Mercedes.”

Emma brushed his comment off. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“I thought I should go say hello to the baby, since I’m here and all.”

Affonso straightened a bit, his passive, uncaring mask firmly back in place. “Oh.”

Emma didn’t let his response, or lack of one for that matter, bother her all that much. Affonso wasn’t an emotional man, and on the topic of things that did poke at his nerves, he was content with acting like he didn’t have feelings at all.

Their dead son was just one of those things.

“Will you make it fast?” Affonso asked. “I have a meeting to get to.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “What meeting?”

“It was a last-minute thing. Something came up. I told you not to worry about it. Make it fast, yes?”

“Fine.”

But she wasn’t promising a damn thing.

Emma

Emma tugged her jacket tighter, wanting to keep the cold October wind out. It didn’t do very much to help. The light sprinkling of rain had practically stopped altogether as she crossed down the rows of headstones, looking for the one belonging to her child.

It wasn’t exactly hard to find it.

Coming to a stop under the maple tree, Emma’s sadness welled hard and swift in her heart. Just like it always did. She bent down to brush a few leaves off the marble headstone, letting her thumb linger on the carved letters of her boy’s name.

A sleeping baby angel wrapped in his own wings had been carved into the shiny black marble. She had thought it was appropriate at the time, seeing as how little Affonso had come into the world doomed to grow his wings before it was his time.

Even with the fallen leaves coloring up the small grave, Emma thought the spot looked a little lonely. She made a mental note to pick up some poinsettias and tiger lilies for the next time she visited.

Straightening back up, Emma hugged her jacket closer again, shivering under the wool. She was so focused on the headstone that she didn't realize someone was coming up behind her until a thick, warm jacket was thrown over her shoulders, and two hands squeezed her gently.

The touch was heavy, but familiar and supportive.

Emma took a quick breath, knowing who it was before he even said a word.

“I saw you shivering over here as I was getting ready to leave,” Calisto said behind her.

“I’m not sure if it’s just the cold doing it, or this day.”

Calisto chuckled softly. “I know what you mean.”

Emma turned around to face Calisto, and kept a hold on his jacket to keep it in place. She was worried that if she didn't give her hands something to do, she might just reach out and grab him instead.

She had wanted him closer for a long time.

She missed him all the time.

“What were you doing, anyway?” Calisto asked, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

Emma smiled brightly, hoping it was enough to deflect his attention. It worked for a quick second. “Just wanted to take a walk.”

She knew, without a doubt, that the headstone would only lead to more questions for Calisto that would likely go unanswered. She was sick and tired of lying to him and hiding things from him for fear Affonso might find out and hurt Calisto, or even her and their child.

But she didn’t know what else to do.

“Taking a walk in a graveyard?” Calisto asked, raising a single brow.

He didn’t believe her.

She could see it in his face.

“I needed a moment after the burial,” Emma said, hoping to wave all his concerns away. “Affonso is waiting for me in the car—he said something about a meeting. Do you want to walk me?”

It was playing with fire.

Affonso wouldn’t like seeing Emma and Calisto together, not alone.

She was willing to risk it on the offset chance she wouldn’t have to explain the headstone, the baby buried beneath it, or Calisto’s involvement in the birth.

Wasn’t going through it once enough?

“Sure,” Calisto said, smiling.

He offered her an arm, and she took it.

But just as they turned toward the path again, Calisto glanced back at the headstone. She tried not to react to his curiosity, but when his entire body seized as he read the name and date marked on the grave, she let out a ragged breath. Maybe the name and date, or even the baby angel could be overlooked, but the child’s parents’ names listed beneath certainly couldn’t.

It was coming …

Calisto’s questions.

Emma waited for them, but kept her gaze on the ground, especially when Calisto turned back and his hand covered hers that was tucked into his elbow.

Somehow, he managed to surprise her.  

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I didn’t know that … well, that you had lost a child.”

“We don’t really talk about it, Cal.”

“I guess I can understand that. Is that part of the reason why Affonso keeps everyone away from you with this pregnancy? He’s always going on about how high-risk it is, and things.”

“Mostly,” Emma admitted. “Early labor is a very real possibility with any of my pregnancies. I have to be careful.”

“Come on,” Calisto said, tugging Emma forward with him. Once they were walking down the path, he slowed them a bit as they came up behind other people. “Are you even supposed to be walking around like you are?”

“Not as much as I did today, but everything looked good in my appointment yesterday. Besides, I wanted to be here.”

Calisto patted her hand. “I still think you should be resting.”

Emma laughed. “I plan to, no worries.”

The closer they came to the row of cars parked along a private road that was adjacent to the main road, the slower Calisto began to walk. Given that Emma’s arm was tucked along his, she was forced to walk slower, too.

She didn’t know what was up with him, but he’d grown quiet.

“Was that what happened to that baby?” Calisto asked. “He was born early?”

“Too early to live outside of my body,” Emma replied quietly. “But he did live for a short while, and I was able to love him for that time as much as I possibly could. That’s the one and only thing that got me through handing him over to y—”

Emma stopped speaking abruptly, well aware what she almost divulged. A secret about that day that no one knew except her, the doctor, and the one nurse who had stayed in the room after little Affonso had stopped breathing. Calisto would know, too … if he could remember.

Calisto’s walk slowed to a stall altogether, as did Emma’s as she had no choice but to follow him since he was still holding her. Without a word, he directed her off to the side of the path, slightly hidden by a few birch trees, and allowed a group of people to pass them from behind.

“Keep going,” he said. “You stopped. I want you to keep going.”

She swallowed hard, glancing to the side. She couldn’t meet that soul-black stare of Calisto’s. Usually, she adored looking into his eyes and seeing all that was good, familiar, and beautiful staring back at her. When he was cold everywhere else, he was lit up in his eyes.

It was only lately, with his memories being gone, that she felt like staring at him was like staring at a stranger.

But right then …

At that moment, he looked nothing like a stranger.

“You’re doing it again,” Calisto said. “Looking over your shoulder like someone might see you chatting with me. You did that in the library, too.”

Emma tugged her arm out of his hold, needing the space. “I told you why.”

“A bit, but I don’t think you told me all.”

Jesus.

She looked down the pathway at the row of cars, searching for Affonso. As long as her husband didn’t see her chatting privately with Calisto, there should be no problem.

But it was hard to avoid her husband’s sharp eye.

It was even harder to avoid his heavy hand. She had learned that once on the floor of her walk-in closet when Affonso nearly killed her after finding out she was pregnant. He only stopped because the child she carried was a boy, and the baby belonged to Calisto.

Otherwise, she didn’t doubt that Affonso would have strangled her or beaten her to death, right there on the marble floor while Calisto was sleeping downstairs.

It was fucking impossible for Emma to forget that awful night. It was even more impossible to forget how easily Affonso had attacked her, and that he would likely do it again in a second if she gave him one reason.

That was all the bastard needed.

A
reason
.

Crossing her arms to discourage Calisto from holding her again, Emma faced him. “There’s nothing else to tell about it. Draw your own conclusions. You know Affonso is territorial. It’s never someone else’s fault that they’re near me, it’s always mine. Is that what you want, for him to throw a fit because we’re having a friendly conversation while I’m wearing your jacket?”

Calisto’s face barely flickered with an emotion. “Of course not.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Very little about my uncle,” Calisto murmured.

Emma’s gaze cut to his. “Then what?”

Silently, Calisto held out his arm and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. Emma couldn’t help but notice how the ink on his hand, where he had the cross done inside his palm, seemed less faded than it had the last time she looked at it. Like maybe he had the cross touched up recently.

Calisto rolled up the silk sleeve to his elbow, showcasing the full length of the rosary tattoo to Emma’s view. It never failed to amaze her how realistic and beautiful the design was. She loved it just as much now as she had when he’d first gotten it done.

But he never explained much about it to her.

She didn’t know all the reasons why he’d had it done. He only said that it was like a personal memorial, or something. She’d assumed it had something to do with the rosary he’d given to her, considering it was so similar in design with the cross and black beads.

“Well?” Calisto asked.

Emma just stared at him. “Well, what?”

“I want to know what you know about this.”

“Your tattoo?”

“Exactly,” Calisto said. “Even the artist who put this on me didn’t know what they meant.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you mean, but your tattoo wasn’t something I was made aware of until after you had it done, Cal. And I admired it, nothing more. You didn’t tell me anything about it.”

“Bullshit.”

For the first time in a long while, Calisto’s tone stunned Emma. His curse had come out dark and tired—like he knew she was hiding something and he was sick of being lied to.

“It’s not bull—”

“It is,” Calisto interrupted fast, taking a step toward her. Emma refused to move when he held his arm up a little higher and then ticked his chin over her shoulder, back in the direction of the grave they had just left together. “It is fucking bullshit, Emmy, and I’ll tell you why it is. Because there are several dates on my arm right here. Some I know. Others I don’t. But the third date matches the day, month, and year on your child’s headstone. So don’t tell me it’s bullshit when I’ve been staring at this tattoo for a week, and you’re the first goddamn person who I’ve been able to correlate at least one of the two unknown dates to.”

Emma’s mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. Her bottom lip trembled, and she clenched her fists tight to give her something else to focus on other than the pain in Calisto’s darkly handsome features.

Finally, her words caught up with her brain. “I didn’t know there were dates in your tattoo.”

Calisto’s anger started to bleed out of his gaze. “Oh.”

He glanced around before drawing his finger over the different rosary beads, as if to show Emma where the dates were hidden. She did notice them once he’d pointed them out, but they were very well hidden in the design.

“I didn’t know, either,” Calisto said. “Not until recently.”

Emma had a hard time hiding how it made her feel to know that his personal memorial had included something as difficult and significant as the day her son was born and then died. She barely gave the other date he said was unknown a second glance, because one was enough.

She knew what it was, too.

The month and year she had miscarried Calisto’s child right after her wedding to Affonso.

Jesus.

Emma didn’t realize how those events had affected Calisto. But clearly, they had left impacts on his very person. So much so that he wanted to carry them with him in a very permanent way.

“My statement still stands, though,” Calisto said, forcing Emma out of her thoughts.

“Which was what?” she asked.

“You’re the only person I’ve been able to correlate one of the two unknown dates with, and it matches the date on your baby’s headstone. Tell me, what are the chances that the other date on my arm will match up with you, too?”