Donati Bloodlines: The Complete Trilogy

by Bethany-Kris

  Apparently, he had come after all.

  “Smile,” Affonso demanded at her side.

  Emma slid on her mask. All someone would need to do was look close enough to see what was really beneath the sheer falseness of her smile.

  At the other end of the table, Emma found her lies staring her right in the face.

  He smirked.

  And winked.

  Calisto Donati was her worst mistake, her greatest shame, and the one thing she still wanted more than anything. Emma could still feel him all over her, long after his touch and kiss was gone. In thirty days, her entire world had changed—he had changed her.

  Emma had a feeling that if she played another game with Calisto, she would surely lose.

  She had already lost once.

  Wasn’t it enough?

  “Calisto,” Affonso called out. “Where did you stay when the flight was canceled? You said the reservations for your room was over.”

  “I got another room for the night,” Calisto said.

  Lie.

  “You didn’t answer my calls after we first chatted.”

  “I was tired and fell asleep early.”

  More lies.

  “You should have called me back,” Affonso muttered.

  Emma swallowed back her panic.

  “I slept in and forgot about it,” Calisto said simply, brushing Affonso off. “Then the airport notified me about the flight to New York and we rushed to catch it in time.”

  Another lie.

  Calisto’s falsehoods would be easy to unravel if Affonso looked into anything his nephew said. Thin lies were the easiest to see through.

  Emma met Calisto’s gaze again. The chatter at the table continued like nothing was amiss. Emma supposed to these people, nothing really was.

  Calisto gave her another one of his sexy, knowing smiles. She didn’t look away.

  She couldn’t.

  Calisto

  The church smelled of burning incense. Calisto hated that smell more than anything. It lingered on everything it touched, his goddamn suit included.

  “Father Day,” Calisto said, knocking on the slightly open office door with two knuckles.

  “Cal?”

  Calisto smiled at the old priest’s voice. He remembered spending Sunday after Sunday at this church when he was younger, hiding under the pews and ignoring every second of the sermons. When he had gotten old enough to know that was unacceptable, Calisto had taken a seat between his mother and uncle.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Do you have a minute?” Calisto asked.

  “For you, my son, of course.”

  Calisto pushed open the door and stepped inside the small office. Father Day sat behind his desk, wearing his black ensemble and his white collar. Between his withered fingers, the priest held a small golden cross attached to a long length of black rosary beads.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayer,” Calisto said quietly.

  Father Day shook his head. “Nonsense, Calisto. I can pray at any time. He is always listening, as you very well know.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know,” the priest shot back.

  Calisto chuckled. “You’re right on the ball today, huh?”

  “I always am. You’re troubled.”

  There was no hiding from this man.

  Calisto sighed, swallowed his nerves, and shoved his clenched fists in his pockets. For the last couple of days, those very actions had been his repeated failsafe. When he felt confused, unsettled, or out of control; when he was too close to Emma and his thoughts wandered, he clenched his fists, let his fingernails cut his skin, and hid his shaking hands in his pockets.

  It was easier than lying or hiding.

  “Is it that obvious?” Calisto asked.

  Father Day shrugged. “I have known you since you were just high enough to reach my knees. There is not much you can hide from me, Calisto. How long have I been taking your confessions or counselling you on personal matters when you needed it?”

  “I started confessing at fifteen.”

  Smirking just a bit, the priest waved a finger at Calisto. “After your first time with a girl, I believe. You were not sorry in the least for your actions, but you knew the right thing to do was confess it. You couldn’t quite say that you wouldn’t do it again, however.”

  Calisto grinned. “That’s just the Catholic in me, Father.”

  “Mmhmm. Sit, Cal.”

  He did as the priest demanded.

  “I haven’t seen you this month,” Father Day said.

  “I was out in Vegas for a while doing some business.”

  “You mean bringing back your uncle’s paid-for bride. I know where the girl comes from.”

  Ouch.

  Calisto sucked in air through his teeth. “Know about that, do you?”

  “Affonso confesses, too. When people want things to happen in this church, on their time schedule, I demand their honesty on certain things. They know better than to cross the man who offers them the penance they crave in their darker moments.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s where I was.”

  “Pity,” Father Day muttered, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “She’s such a pretty, young thing and he’s …”

  “Not,” Calisto finished for the man.

  “Hmm. You said it, my boy, not me. My place is not to judge.”

  “You could judge a little.”

  “I cannot,” Father Day said in a murmur. “Tell me your troubles, Cal. Get them off your mind before they eat away at you. Remember last year, shortly before your mother died? That was an awful time for you. All that anger you let fester inside, and when she passed on, you nearly exploded with your guilt and grief. Don’t do that to yourself again. You’re far too good for that and you know it.”

  Calisto wished it was that easy.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Calisto assured.

  “How so?”

  “I feel very little guilt for what I did this time, or, for that matter, what I didn’t try to do at all. Maybe that’s what bothers me—that I didn’t try to stop myself, and that I have no remorse for taking something precious, something that didn’t belong to me.”

  Father Day lifted a single brow high as he replied, “And do you wish to keep this thing; this thing that isn’t yours, as you say?”

  Calisto tried to stay quiet, but the confession slipped out. “Sì.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a good answer.”

  “There are a lot of reasons,” Calisto said simply. “I’m not sure any of them would be worthy or good ones to move forward with. One is simply to hurt someone else, another is to feed my own selfishness, and others could be to build onto this complex I have festering in my head that I need to save something to keep it from being ruined like other things have been. I don’t know, Father, because none of them matter.”

  “Because it isn’t yours,” Father Day said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You know, Calisto, these roadblocks that pop up in our lives at the worst times and in the most unlikely of places are put there for a reason.”

  Calisto scoffed. “Really? And what is the reason for this one? Because believe me, it couldn’t be worse than it is.”

  “It could,” Father Day assured. “But God will not give you what He doesn’t know you can already handle.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “Because you’re not listening.”

  Calisto blew out a frustrated breath. “In a month, I managed to break every rule I ever followed. I broke my oath to my famiglia, and I betrayed my uncle. My actions would defile the church, the vows that I believe in, and my faith. Did He really give me a barrier like this just to see me fail, Father?”

  Father Day smiled softly. “Of course not, Calisto.”

  Then why did it feel like it?

  “And,” the priest added quieter, “you cannot blame God. He allows you to make
your own choices, knowing that you are strong enough to handle the consequences of them.”

  “Even if it kills me,” Calisto murmured.

  It wasn’t even a question.

  Father Day glanced down at the rosary in his hand. “If it does, then He will be there to welcome you. You make your path, Calisto, and He will walk you through it.”

  “I don’t know what my path is anymore, Father.”

  “You’ll wander back to it, I’m sure.”

  Two days later, the church bells began to ring.

  At the very front of the church, Calisto sat at the end of the pew. His left ankle crossed over his right knee, and his chin rested in his hand. His gaze never left the altar where his uncle and the priest stood waiting, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

  A quiet room in Vegas.

  Marble floors.

  Breathless whispers.

  White sheets.

  Soft skin.

  Morning light.

  “I think I would keep you …”

  But she wasn’t his.

  Calisto reminded himself that he was obsessing over nothing—something he couldn’t have. He was letting his confused thoughts tie strings with his emotions. This was exactly why he didn’t attach himself to people. It always ended up ruined somehow.

  He drew in a deep breath, needing the moment to calm the heaviness settling throughout his body. In his heart, his mind, and his chest, it was like a weight had suddenly been put there, taking him down under invisible water.

  Clearly, he had not found his path yet.

  He was still scrambling to keep from drowning.

  “Beautiful day for a wedding,” Ray said at Calisto’s side.

  Calisto passed his uncle’s underboss a dismissive glance. “Mmm.”

  “You could show a little more interest in all of this, you know. Sit straighter and fucking smile, or something.”

  “I’m good,” Calisto said under his breath.

  Ray sighed loudly, but stayed quiet.

  Calisto couldn’t show any more interest in this sham of a wedding than what he already was. It had been an internal war just to get up on time, get his goddamn suit on, and show up at the church to take his seat.

  A woman was being married today.

  She didn’t want to be married.

  He knew the truth.

  It ached.

  Calisto clenched his fist on his knee. Shortly after, the wedding march began to play.

  The doors to the back opened.

  Calisto’s chest got tighter than ever.

  Somehow, he managed to stand like he was supposed to. Turning slightly, he found Emma and her father instantly. She was the only one wearing white, after all.

  The veil she wore covered her face just enough to shroud her features. The sheer fabric trailed all the way back to the floor behind her and over the length of the dress. Lace hugged her curves, reminding him of how it felt to hold her in his hands, and to own those dips and swells.

  A lump formed in Calisto’s throat.

  Emma wasn’t smiling.

  How could she?

  This was a terrible day.

  Calisto dropped his gaze as the father and bride-to-be started their slow walk up the satin-lined aisle. Tulle linked between every church pew, and a ball of white roses hung off the ends of each curled arm.

  The closer Emma came to the front and Calisto’s spot, the worse he felt.

  He’d delivered her for this day. This was his penance for doing that to her when she didn’t deserve it. The ache in his chest, the lead in his feet, and the wrongs he helped to make with her were all a part of the sentence he had to endure.

  Emma Donati would be his punishment.

  She wouldn’t be as sweet after today.

  She wouldn’t ever be as happy as she had once been.

  She would never be free.

  Calisto would have to watch it all from the shadows, knowing he brought her to this.

  So, he met Emma’s gaze as she passed him by, arm in arm with her father, and didn’t drop it until he no longer had a choice. He was quiet as she was handed over, familiar words were exchanged, and a new future was given to a woman who never asked for it.

  Calisto didn’t do a thing.

  He couldn’t, without hurting Emma in a new way. Not without putting her in danger, or worse, causing her to be shamed for their lies.

  Hadn’t he hurt her enough?

  “Another,” Calisto demanded, waving his finger over the empty tumbler.

  The bartender serving the wedding guests gave the glass a baleful look.

  “That’s your third glass in fifteen minutes, sir.”

  Was Calisto supposed to care?

  He didn’t.

  “Another.”

  “Same thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  The bartender poured another dirty whiskey and said, “Take it a little slower this time, or someone will be carrying you out of here tonight.”

  Maybe that’s what Calisto was going for.

  “Sure,” Calisto said instead of voicing his inner thoughts. He picked the glass up, put it to his lips, and downed the four ounces of burning whiskey in one fast gulp. Putting the glass back on the bar top, he slid it to the bartender. “Was that slow enough for you?”

  “I’m not pouring you another.”

  Calisto scoffed. “I don’t want another.”

  Facing the crowd, Calisto leaned against the bar and rapped his fingers against the ledge. He scanned the crowd of people dancing in the bar. Affonso had decided to use one of his more upscale bars as the location for the reception. The place was packed, making Calisto feel more suffocated than ever.

  These were his people.

  His famiglia.

  He still felt incredibly alone.

  Calisto’s gaze cut through the crowd again, zoning in on the one couple dancing in the middle. Affonso wore his usual pleased, sly smile with his hand holding Emma’s and his other at her lower back. Emma had finally replaced her mask of nothingness for a thinly veiled smile that anyone with two brains cells could see was fake.

  Nonetheless, she had done her thing. The cake was cut. The dances were had. She allowed Affonso to show her off, and smiled sweetly each time someone mentioned her new last name.

  Calisto’s chest started to hurt again. He turned to the bar, leaned over, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey when the bartender’s back was turned. Pouring himself another hefty glass, Calisto slammed it back faster than his last one.

  It burned all the way down.

  It felt fucking sublime.

  Creating his own pain was better than feeling the dull ache that just wouldn’t let up. The sting in his throat from the whiskey was easier to focus on than the guilt eating away at him slowly.

  “Cal?”

  Calisto spun on his heel only to find his sixteen-year-old cousin standing behind him. Cynthia crossed her arms, and clicked her silver stilettos on the floor in a fast beat. Her pout and hard, brown eyes—eyes that matched his—said the girl was annoyed and getting worse by the minute.

  God knew his cousins were spoiled rotten. Affonso treated them like little queens, but he never gave them the right kind of attention. The kind that would teach them how a man should properly treat a woman in his life.

  Calisto was left to that job.

  “Hey, Cee,” Calisto said.

  “He made me wear a dress,” Cynthia said, huffing.

  Calisto couldn’t help but laugh. “You look nice.”

  “I hate dresses.”

  “You sound like a brat.”

  “You look like …” Cynthia failed to come up with something and scowled instead. “Shut up, Cal.”

  “I know you’re not happy, but remember, Emma isn’t here to try and take the place of your mom. You know that, right?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Calisto followed her gaze
only to find Affonso spinning his new wife out from his side, and then bringing her back again with a charming smile for the clapping people.

  Calisto knew exactly what Cynthia’s problem was.

  “Has he danced with you tonight?” Calisto asked quietly.

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “Has he asked?”

  “No,” the teenager muttered.

  “Then I will,” Calisto said, pushing away from the bar.

  He held his hand out for Cynthia to take, and his cousin’s palm met his before she flashed him a shy, happy smile.

  “Thanks, Cal.”

  “No problem. Pretty girls should be danced with. Come on.”

  Calisto led his cousin out on the dance floor, just a few feet away from Affonso and Emma. The slightly faster beat of the new song was more to Cynthia’s tastes, so Calisto let her lead him into whatever dance she wanted to move to. His cousin’s small smile turned into a brilliant grin, and he forgot all about the people and the not-so-happy fucking couple.

  Family was important.

  His mother taught him that first.

  Calisto picked up the slack where his uncle failed with his daughters. If Cynthia wanted to dance, if she wanted some male attention to make her feel special for the evening, then Calisto would give it to her.

  Better him than some random man filling a void.

  As the song changed again, to a slow moving beat, Calisto drew his cousin closer for a waltz. Pink-cheeked and beaming, Cynthia poked Calisto in the chest.

  “You should dance with Michelle, too.”

  “I will,” he promised. “Do me a favor, huh?”

  “Anything, Cal.”

  Calisto sighed. “Don’t blame Emma for your father’s lack of attention, Cee. I know she’s the easy target for your resentment, and you think she’s yet another thing for him to shower affection on while he forgets about you and your sister, but that’s not the case. She is in no better of a situation than you.”

  “She’s only twenty. That’s what I heard people say.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dad’s almost fifty.”

  Calisto coughed. It was better for Cynthia and Michelle to draw their own conclusions about how Affonso’s marriage to Emma came about. “Yeah.”