Donati Bloodlines: The Complete Trilogy

by Bethany-Kris

  Calisto

  Despite who he worked under in Cosa Nostra, Calisto did enjoy his job. Seeing money come in meant he was doing something right. He liked the control he had as a consigliere, although his uncle had been using him for an errand runner lately.

  Leaning back in the office chair, Calisto drummed his fingers on the tabletop as the Capo chatted away from across the desk. The office door was wide open, exposing the restaurant’s busy kitchen and workers moving from one prep table to another. The chef barked his usual orders, and the people under him moved accordingly.

  “I mean, they’re still causing us issues, you know what I mean?” Wolf asked.

  Wolf Puzza was one of the best Capos the Donati family had. He was a high earner with a small crew, and that was practically unheard of. But because the guy was quick—had his hands in a lot of pots, and knew the best ways to make money—he didn’t need more soldatos to add to his crew. What he had was enough.

  “Us, or just you?” Calisto asked.

  Wolf bristled. “I am a part of the whole puzzle, Cal.”

  “I agree, but Affonso thinks differently than me. If he believes you’re somehow urging the Irish on in their quest to take over business in West Brighton, then you’re going to have a problem. Affonso won’t allow one Capo to start a bloody war with another family just for the sake of keeping a small piece of his territory. Besides, you’ve been feuding with the Russians for years.”

  “I came to an agreement with the Russians,” Wolf muttered. “It’s not the same.”

  “My answer remains the same, man.”

  “I’m not purposely starting issues with the Irish family in Jersey, all right? Those bastards are just coming at me because my crew controls the area they want control of.”

  “I told you, Affonso doesn’t want a street war with the Irish,” Calisto said, shrugging. “I get it, Wolf, really I do. They’re irritating little shits. A few well-aimed bullets would end all the nonsense they’ve caused thus far. I can’t give the okay on it, not without Affonso’s agreement. And he won’t give it, I know.”

  “What if that’s exactly what the Irish want?” Wolf asked.

  “A street war?”

  “Sì.”

  “Then I suggest you arm yourself with a bigger crew. Your streets can’t take that big of a hit, Wolf,” Calisto said.

  Street wars with other families were only good for one thing: spilling blood. Families always took a large hit to their numbers in wars, making it downright difficult to earn money. In their attempts to replace the men lost, bad seeds might weed their way into the ranks.

  It was not the Cosa Nostra way.

  “No, I meant what if they wanted one with Affonso,” the Capo replied sharply.

  Calisto straightened in his chair, taking those words in. “Why would they? This has been about Brighton for a long while. I assume they’re going after West Brighton where you have most of the control because anywhere else in Brighton is under the Marcello reign or the Russians at the ports.”

  Wolf scoffed. “You’re still not getting it, are you?”

  The Capo’s rudeness made Calisto’s hackles rattle. “Watch it, Wolf. I may not be the boss, but I won’t tolerate your disrespect.”

  “My apologies.” Wolf sighed, and rubbed his hands together. “I’m just saying that it’s odd, Calisto. You would have thought the Irish would give it up by now, or at least, moved onto a different spot in Brighton to work on controlling. Yet, they keep coming at one of Affonso’s men like they want to piss him off.”

  Calisto took those words in for a moment. “They’ve worked their way into a couple of spots in Brooklyn, too. The soldier they killed was another Capo’s man. We’ve also had sightings of them in the Kitchen, and Harlem.”

  “Why me, then?”

  “You’re the closest, I suspect,” Calisto replied.

  “The easy target.”

  “Yes.”

  Now, Calisto was wondering if Wolf had a point in his statement of Affonso and the Irish having some unknown problem. It wouldn’t be such a surprise. Affonso didn’t get along well with other leaders, and he was known to shun their attempts at peace-offerings until they went away altogether.

  But what could have possibly happened?

  “I’ll look into it,” Calisto finally said, pushing up from his seat to stand. “And I’ll ask Affonso again for permission to go in on the Irish and end whatever this is.”

  “But you don’t think he’ll give it.”

  “No. Which is why I said I’ll look into it all. In the meantime …”

  “I’ll be careful,” Wolf muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “It’d be wise. There isn’t much else I could do for you. Why don’t you try aligning yourself with the Marcello crew in Brighton? I know the Capo running them, I can make a call to him. He’s an old friend.”

  “Giovanni Marcello handles the territory there, right?”

  “It’s the only section of Brooklyn that Lucian Marcello let his brother take during the last Commission meeting. I’m convinced it’s because Lucian is like any good Italian.”

  Wolf laughed. “He doesn’t want to deal with the Russians.”

  Calisto smirked. “Exactly. And Gio, well, he gets along with everybody. Better to let someone like him set up shop than someone like Lucian who shoots first and doesn’t even bother to ask his questions later. He’s a lot like his father, Antony, in that way.”

  “I hear Antony stepped down,” Wolf noted.

  “A while ago, actually. Gio doesn’t talk about business a lot. We keep it clean of all that.”

  “I’d appreciate the call, Calisto,” Wolf said.

  “I’ll make it before the night is over,” Calisto replied.

  A quick handshake later, and Wolf disappeared out of the office and into the hustle of the busy kitchen. Sitting back down in the chair, Calisto rested his elbows to the edge of the desk and rubbed his hands over his face. The loudness of the kitchen soothed him in a way, and that was one of the only reasons why he kept the door open. It also helped to wane any gossip that might be happening between the workers about what the owner was doing behind closed doors.

  Loose lips sunk ships.

  Calisto wouldn’t be the one to find himself under boiling water because of an employee who was more interested in their boss’s dealings than doing their work.

  Most of his businesses dealt with clubs—he owned three. But during the daylight hours, when he wasn’t running for Affonso, Calisto took up residence in his lone restaurant in Manhattan. It was upscale enough to keep the police away, but it was a good enough spot that he had access to the Donati Capos, should they need something or want to chat.

  The pile of cash sitting on the corner of the desk caught Calisto’s eye.

  Chatting was one way to put it, he thought wryly.

  Another was to say it like it was. When a Capo came to him for a talk about business, they did so with the intention of getting through to the boss. Calisto, as a consigliere, was Affonso’s gatekeeper. Much like Ray was, as Affonso’s underboss. Capos often brought along a bit of grease to wet Calisto’s wheels, so to speak. Money talked louder than words did sometimes, and they figured handing him some cash would get them to the boss quicker.

  Calisto decided who or what was important enough to take to Affonso. He made the calls on what Affonso got to hear or deal with when it came to his men. It cut down on a lot of bullshit where the boss was concerned, but it left Calisto wading through it for most of the day.

  Double-edged swords.

  While it was great for Affonso not to have a half of a dozen men running to him for every little problem, it was irritating and time-consuming for Calisto to be the middle man.

  His eye caught the money again.

  But he did like cash.

  “So this is what you do all day?”

  Calisto damn near jumped out of his chair at the soft voice coming from the open doorway. His head snapped up from his h
ands, and his gaze immediately found who he was looking for leaning against the doorjamb in a tight, short red dress.

  Shorter than he knew was appropriate.

  Affonso wouldn’t like that. He also wouldn’t like the red on her lips.

  Emma.

  Calisto shook off the surprise at seeing her in the back of his kitchen, standing in his office. He ignored the strange happiness that bubbled up in his gut at the idea that she had sought him out for something.

  “Not all day,” Calisto corrected quietly. “Just the morning and afternoon. I take from three to eleven to do what I want—or what Affonso wants—and then I head over to the club I manage until two in the morning.”

  Emma pursed her lips and tapped her crimson, spiked pump to the floor. “And when do you sleep?”

  “When I can.”

  Which isn’t often, he held back from adding.

  Calisto had learned over the years that in this life, he didn’t need sleep. Or rather, he didn’t need a lot of it. He could sleep when he was dead—when he wasn’t the consigliere of a crime boss, and he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder for one reason or another.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Emma shrugged, quiet and still like a statue. “I was in the neighborhood. My driver might have pointed out that this restaurant was yours. I hadn’t tried it.”

  “I recommend the salmon. It’s fantastic.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  Calisto dragged his stare down Emma’s form. She wore a black, leather bomber jacket over top of the red dress. He was silently pleased—and less worried about her mental health—at seeing her dressed up, her makeup done, and her hair tossed up in a messy chignon. Each time he had visited the Donati home over the last month and a half, he always found Emma looking like she had little to no desire for anything. Not getting dressed, handling herself, or whatever else she might need to do.

  Depression was a bitch.

  He hoped she was coming out of it.

  “What are you really doing here?” Calisto asked.

  Emma glanced down, but he still saw the crimson camber of her lips. “I’m surprised you care to look beyond the fact I’m actually out of the house, Cal.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Affonso didn’t question me at all today. I was up and dressed—even if it wasn’t to his satisfaction with my dress choice. I looked pretty, just how he likes. He didn’t say a thing when I told him I would be gone for most of the day. He didn’t even ask what I was doing or where I was going.”

  “Carter reports back to him anyway,” Calisto said, referring to Emma’s enforcer and driver.

  “Not my point.”

  “I understand your point.” Calisto stood from the chair, swiped the money off the side of the desk, and shoved it into his suit pocket. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here in my restaurant office, Emmy.”

  “Well, that for one.”

  Calisto rounded the desk, and leaned against the front of it. Here, he was only two feet away from Emma. He convinced himself it was more than enough space to be acceptable.

  “Which is what?” he asked.

  “Emmy.”

  “What about it?”

  She picked at her nails. “I’m alone most of the time. The last month and a half feels like a big, black hole that I was sucked into. And then I woke up one morning and I was so pissed off at him for being able to act like what happened didn’t matter.”

  Why was she telling him this? Didn’t she know it only made it harder for Calisto to ignore the craziness she created inside him?

  “What does that have anything to do with me calling you Emmy?” he asked.

  Emma looked up at him; her gaze burned with fire and ice all at the same time. “I woke up today and for the first time in a couple of weeks, I wasn’t angry with him. I wasn’t over it, but I wasn’t angry.”

  “Being angry with Affonso is pointless, Emmy. He feeds on that shit—sucks it in like cigarette smoke. I would have told you not to waste your efforts, but at least you were doing something other than staring at the walls and lying in bed.”

  “After I got married …”

  Calisto’s throat tightened, but he pushed it back and forced himself to speak. “Keep going.”

  “I thought you kept disappearing because you didn’t want to be near me. Like maybe I was a disgrace to you because of what happened in Vegas. And then I thought that you were staying away because you were selfish.”

  “I am,” he interjected quietly.

  “Selfish in the way that you didn’t want to tempt yourself, you didn’t want to hurt yourself, and it had nothing to do with me. I figured it was all about you.”

  Calisto quickly glanced away when Emma stared up at him. “What are you doing here?”

  He shouldn’t keep asking her that. He should just make her go.

  Surprise … he didn’t.

  “I wasn’t angry when I woke up today, and it was nice. And I also realized, the more I thought about you and these last few months, the more it made sense. It’s the same reason why you stayed with me at the hospital, Cal, and why you kept coming to the house to check on me. It’s the same reason why you tried to talk to me every time you did come over, even when I outright ignored you.”

  “Emma—”

  “You stayed away because you care about me, just the same way that you couldn’t stay away over the last month and half because you knew I needed someone. I have no one, and you knew that, so you filled the void.”

  She stepped closer to him, out of the doorway and directly inside his office.

  Calisto clenched his hands at his sides. “It doesn’t matter, Emmy. I’m happy to see you’re out and about; moving forward.”

  “Don’t do that,” she whispered.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You are. You’re trying to shove me off because I’m too close. Because I came here, because it’s stupid, and because you don’t want to turn me away. Right, Cal?”

  ‘Of course I care.”

  “A lot more than you should,” she pressed.

  Calisto’s chest constricted with pain. He’d convinced himself long ago that it was only imaginary where Emma was concerned. He couldn’t possibly feel something for someone that didn’t belong to him and that he could never have. He just couldn’t.

  “Thank you, Calisto.”

  Those three, seemingly innocent words struck him straight in his blackened, worn heart. She’d spoken them so quietly, but surely. Confident, even, like she knew exactly what they would do to him.

  It hurt.

  God.

  But he liked it.

  Calisto liked that she acknowledged him and what he did. He had needed it, and while every part of him screamed how wrong it was, it made him feel like a fucking king.

  Before Calisto could think better of his actions, he stepped forward and grabbed the door, shutting it without even looking out to see who might be watching. Emma’s enforcer must have been around somewhere, but was he close enough to see?

  Calisto was close enough to Emma that the silk of her dress brushed against his arms. He could smell the hauntingly sweet perfume she wore, and he took another breath, wanting to have more of it soaking into his lungs.

  “Where is your driver?”

  “Carter is at a table,” Emma told him softly. “He’s ordering for us. I told him I would invite you out to eat with us.”

  Calisto watched her mouth move, and the way her two front teeth peeked out through her upper lip. It was still a goddamn tease. He still hadn’t gotten this woman on her knees below him like he’d wanted to.

  Jesus.

  Why was he walking on this tightrope again with her?

  “We can’t do this,” Calisto murmured.

  Emma’s bottom lip disappeared beneath her teeth. “We’re not doing anything, Cal.”

  “We are.”

  It didn’t have to be labeled to be so
mething.

  It still was.

  “Thank you for reminding me that I wasn’t alone,” she said.

  “You’re not, Emmy.”

  “Not when I have someone who cares watching out for me, right?”

  Calisto knew better, but he snagged Emma’s wrist in his palm and held tight. The heat of her smooth skin siphoned straight into his bloodstream, like a shot of adrenaline right to his heart.

  It was bad, but it was right.

  It was good, but it was wrong.

  “Right?” she asked again.

  Her green gaze, jaded with pain and seeking something, watched him with an understanding that he didn’t know how she had gotten. He’d been careful with her, not wanting to bring her too close but never keeping her too far away.

  Clearly, Calisto hadn’t been careful enough.

  “Right,” he finally said.

  Emma took a tiny step closer, her heels clicking on the tile floor. Her warm breath washed over his jaw when she tilted her head upwards so that she could stare at him again.

  “We’re not doing anything,” Emma said so quietly that he strained to hear. “Someone has to know we’re doing something for there to be anything, Cal.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to walk that line, Emmy.”

  “Liar.”

  Calisto’s jaw ticked. “I—”

  “Liar, you do. Because you care.”

  He didn’t even get the chance to blink before Emma lifted up on her tiptoes, and pressed her mouth to his. For a quick second, Calisto was stunned. All he could feel were her silken lips covering his, and her hand fisting into his jacket. He couldn’t think beyond the sweet-smelling perfume that reminded him of candied cherries, or the emerald eyes watching him, demanding he deny her what she was asking for.

  How could he deny her?

  After everything, how was he supposed to do that?

  Calisto was far too selfish to stop Emma or to push her away. He cared too much.

  When she grabbed his jacket tighter and pulled, making him stumble into her warm body, Calisto was gone. His one hand landed to her waist while his other tangled into the chignon at the nape of her neck. He pushed her backward until they came to stop against the door.

  Emma laughed—breathy and low—against his cheek.