by Bethany-Kris
Calisto was regretting that choice now.
Making a fast beeline straight for the car he knew housed his uncle, the driver, and Emma, Calisto barely heard the screech of tires fill the air. He didn’t bother watching the car speed off down the road, as he was too concerned with making it to the Mercedes, even though he didn't know what he might find.
From the vehicles he passed, he could hear muffled screaming and shouts as someone dialed nine-one-one. Calisto paid them no mind.
He was too busy watching the Mercedes. He was too concerned with the fact he couldn’t see movement through the dark tinted window of the back, and how not one person had exited the vehicle since the shooting had stopped several seconds before.
It felt like time had just slowed.
He couldn’t move fast enough.
What was even odder, was that while he knew he should be most concerned about his uncle’s welfare, his mind was screaming someone else’s name.
Emma.
Emma.
Emmy.
Over and over.
Louder and louder.
The mantra of her name continued to fill his thoughts until his heart was in his throat and he couldn’t breathe. Calisto didn’t even realize he had gone to the side of the car that he watched Emma jump into earlier until he was grabbing on the door, and trying to yank it from the fucking hinges to open it up.
The damn thing wouldn’t move.
He pulled again, only to realize it was locked.
Calisto slammed an open hand on the dark tinted window, letting out a shout. He heard the click of a latch as someone inside the vehicle unlocked the door, and then he pulled it open just as fast.
Emma’s frightened, wide stare met his the second he had the door open. It was just the sight of her face—pale skin, red lips, green eyes. Terrified, and shaking, she whispered his name. Across the side of her cheek, blood splatters dotted her skin.
“Emmy,” he said softly, reaching in for her.
She held up her hands.
Bloody.
Her fingers trembled.
“Cal …”
It was only then that Calisto’s attention was drawn to the form slumped against Emma’s side.
Affonso.
Shit.
Calisto cursed under his breath as he pulled Emma from the car. She didn’t put up a fight, and even stumbled a few feet away before he could ask her if she was okay.
She was walking.
Her side was bloody.
But no gunshot wounds.
“Zio,” Calisto said, climbing in the back of the Mercedes.
Affonso groaned, low and hard. The sound was filled with pain, and a gurgling followed right behind. Calisto paid no mind to the driver that was slumped over the wheel.
“Cal,” Affonso gasped.
Calisto swallowed back his panic, hearing sirens in the distance.
Help was coming, he knew.
Somehow, he got Affonso to his back on the leather seat, ignoring the blood that stained his hands. Calisto found three different wounds that were bleeding from different spots on Affonso’s chest.
It was bad.
So bad.
Affonso stared up at Calisto, glassy-eyed and breathing hard.
“I’m sorry, zio,” Calisto mumbled.
And he was.
He’d been distracted.
He made a mistake.
Had he been behind Affonso’s car, or in front of it, this probably wouldn’t have happened. Had he taken more care to protect Affonso after getting warned about the Irish, his uncle wouldn’t be dying in his arms.
Affonso chuckled, but it came out hollow, and he winced. “No worries, my boy.”
“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Calisto … this is nothing.” Affonso let out a shuddering exhale, and red tinted his saliva when he coughed. “I’ve forgiven you for worse—I’ll forgive you for this, too.”
“Thirty seconds out, Ryke.”
Calisto barely heard the shout from the front of the ambulance. He hadn’t even gotten a decent glance at the man’s face when the paramedics arrived on the scene and began working on Affonso. Their movements had been rushed—a frantic, but organized chaos. He stayed out of their way, but couldn’t help watching as his uncle drifted out of consciousness as the paramedics finally got the three bullet wounds staunched.
There had been so much blood.
So much.
Calisto was pretty certain a body couldn’t sustain that much blood loss. Affonso’s usually olive tone complexion had slowly turned an ash gray over the course of the ride to the hospital. His lips—covered by an oxygen mask as the paramedic kept pressure on his wounds—were tinted blue around the seams.
“Ten seconds to drop,” came the familiar voice from the front of the ambulance.
Calisto’s brow furrowed, and for a second, his attention left Affonso’s prone form on the stretcher. He’d been asked to sit back and out of the way, and he was more than happy to do so.
But that voice …
The few times he’d heard the paramedic that was driving, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the guy’s voice. But right then, Calisto had.
Familiar.
“They’re notified it’s a gunshot victim, right?” the paramedic working on Affonso said.
“High trauma, yeah.”
“They’re waiting?”
“Of course, Jose.” Ryke said. “Five seconds.”
Calisto wasn’t even sure what he was hearing between the two male paramedics, but he stayed in the corner of the ambulance and didn’t move a fucking inch. The final words were barely out of the driver’s mouth and the ambulance came to a sudden stop that rocked the vehicle, but didn’t seem to faze the paramedic leaning over Affonso with both hands pressed down to the man’s bloody, bare chest where he had gauze bunched up and soaked in red.
He couldn’t stare at the blood-soaked cloths for long.
It made him sick.
But worse yet, it made him sicker that somewhere inside of him, Calisto didn’t know what to feel at all. The sight of the blood bothered him, and he wanted to be worried for Affonso, but he just felt cold.
So numb.
He thought it was shock, maybe.
It would be a damn good excuse.
Instead, he was unfeeling.
Unconcerned.
Unapologetic.
And he just didn’t know why.
The very next second after the ambulance stopped, the paramedic leaned over with one hand and hit the latch on the back doors. Light, noise, and several new voices took over as the stretcher’s wheels were kicked out and Affonso was pushed out of the ambulance without a second of hesitation. People—doctors, likely—swarmed the stretcher, taking over and barking orders while listening to the paramedic’s report.
“Straight to the OR on the fourth,” one of the doctor’s barked. “Get blood on standby. He’s blue.”
Calisto didn’t even get the chance to blink or stand from the small, uncomfortable steel bench he was sitting on before Affonso’s bloody, prone body was gone from his view completely. All he saw was the automatic door close, and the small trail of blood that had been left in the wake of Affonso’s departure.
Wary, Calisto pushed up from the bench as the paramedic climbed back into the ambulance. He offered Calisto a small smile, and nodded his head toward the doors.
“You should catch up with them,” he said.
Calisto knew the man was right.
But he just … couldn't move.
Not fast enough, anyway.
The paramedic seemed to understand, and went about cleaning up the mess that the back of the ambulance had turned into over the chaotic drive to the hospital. Calisto eventually got out of the ambulance, but he didn’t go far. He leaned against the side of the vehicle, pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and lit one up with shaking, bloodstained fingers.
Taking a hard drag, Calisto closed his eyes.
&
nbsp; He just needed to think.
He felt wrong all over.
“Damn, that is you,” came a voice from the side.
Calisto opened his eyes only to find another paramedic watching him from the back of the ambulance. It was the one with the familiar voice, but now that he could get a good look at the man’s face, he didn’t recognize him at all.
“Me?” Calisto asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Been a shitty year for you, huh?”
Calisto blinked. “I don’t … understand?”
Why did that come out like a question?
Even he didn’t know.
Calisto was so sick and fucking tired of being unsure all the damn time.
“You’re having a rough year, man. I hope I don’t see you in my ambulance again,” the paramedic said.
“Again.”
That time, it wasn’t a question.
The paramedic shrugged, and took a spot next to Calisto. When he asked for a smoke, Calisto handed him one without a word. He held up a lighter and waited for the man to light up. Then, he replaced the lighter back in his pocket.
“You need a Xanax or something?” the paramedic asked. “The last time, I almost shoved one down your throat. You looked ready to kill me, but I got it and all, given your wife was beaten pretty bad and you were having the worst anxiety attack I’d ever seen.”
Calisto just stared at the man from the side, not knowing what to say. He didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about. He sure as hell didn’t have a wife, and he couldn’t remember being in the back of an ambulance recently.
Then again, he couldn’t remember a whole lot as it was.
The paramedic kept talking like he didn’t realize Calisto was just watching him and not responding.
“You seem better this time—not as out of control, anyway,” the man said, shrugging one shoulder as he took another drag off the cigarette. “Then again, you had me pretty worried what with the way you were going on over your wife and whatnot.”
Calisto swallowed hard. “My wife.”
“Yeah, man. I mean, you might as well have begged to be put in her place. She was beaten pretty bad, but came out okay. It looked worse than it was. We’re not supposed to check up on our patients after we drop them off—like a distance thing to keep our head clear for the next call. But I couldn’t help it with you two. I wanted to make sure she was all right, and you were, too. I got an update from the nurse on shift that was watching her room. You never left her side.”
“My wife,” Calisto repeated quietly.
“Emma, right? That’s her name.”
Calisto didn’t respond.
He was already walking toward the hospital.
The taste of fear saturated his tongue, but it wasn’t from the current day’s events surrounding him. No, it was from something else—something he couldn’t remember, but his heart could still feel.
Pure terror.
That’s what it felt like.
He’d almost lost Emma at some point, he realized, and that felt like terror.
Calisto listened as the nurse stood in the doorway of the family waiting room, giving an update on Affonso’s condition. He was still in surgery. He’d lost a great deal of blood. His heart had stopped once on the table, but they brought him back from the brink. The surgery to remove the three bullets from Affonso’s chest and repair the damage to his internal organs had been touch and go for a while, but it looked good from that point forward. It was very likely he would come out of it just fine, as long as they could continue to keep him stable.
Hope lingered at the edges of the nurse’s voice as she relayed the messages to the waiting people. Calisto wasn’t really listening. His mind was somewhere else entirely.
Once the nurse was gone, Calisto resumed his spot in the corner of the room, alone in his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he watched the people huddled in small groups, chatting amongst themselves. Most were his uncle’s men, others were friends of Affonso who had shown up after news of the shooting began to spread, and in the far corner, directly across from Calisto’s spot, was Emma.
She sat still and silent. The woman hadn’t even looked up when the nurse came in to talk about her husband’s progress and current state. Her gaze was drawn down to her rounded stomach where her hands rested, cradling the swell.
Something heavy grew in Calisto’s heart at the sight of Emma holding her pregnancy swell, all of her attention focused only on her child and not the panic surrounding her. She was still wearing the same clothes from earlier—the ones that had been stained with Affonso’s blood, but someone had taken her to wash her arms and face, thankfully.
Still, Calisto couldn’t stop staring at her.
His wife, the paramedic said.
The man thought, by Calisto’s reaction and behavior toward Emma during a time he couldn’t remember, that she was his wife.
He couldn’t let go of that—his mind wouldn’t let go of it.
Especially not while he stared at her, seeing how carefully and sweetly she ran the tips of her fingers over her swell as if to soothe the moving child within.
Shouldn’t she be more panicked?
Shouldn’t she be worried for her husband?
Calisto wasn’t stupid; he knew the marriage between Affonso and Emma was essentially a sham. But the woman was pregnant, wasn’t she? She’d lost a previous child, too. Obviously some aspect of that marriage was real, no matter how disgusting it felt to consider it.
Suddenly, Emma’s gaze lifted.
Instantly, she found him staring.
Calisto didn’t look away, though he knew he probably should. But the strange stirrings of heat in his stomach didn’t let up as Emma smiled at him—faint and fleeting—as her hands flattened to her rounded stomach and she glanced away.
That stirring grew, heating and flaring to life.
Calisto swallowed back the ache it caused, because shit, he didn’t even know what it meant.
How could he be attracted to Emma Donati?
She was married.
His uncle’s wife.
Pregnant.
It wasn’t right at all.
And yet, he found his gaze sliding back in her direction when he thought no one might watch him.
Oh, yes.
This was bad.
All of it.
Calisto went for his next best defense, knowing he needed space. “Someone needs to take Emma home.”
No one moved.
Wolf Puzza glanced at Calisto from his chair two seats away. “She’s the boss’s wife.”
Emma was watching Calisto now, too.
Calisto cleared his throat. “She needs to go home. Someone take her home.”
Calisto
The Donati home was dark and quiet when Calisto unlocked the front door and pushed it open. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but the darkness wasn’t it. Maybe he assumed he would find the house lit up, and Emma rushing to the door at the first sign of someone coming home with news about Affonso.
Oddly enough, Calisto felt stupid somewhere deep in his soul for even assuming so. It was like a part of him somehow knew that Emma Donati didn’t care for her husband as much as she let on when Affonso, or anyone else, was around to see the couple together. She had a part to play—she played it well.
But the woman didn’t offer very much else where her husband was concerned.
Shaking the feeling off, Calisto toed his shoes off, and hung his jacket in the coat closet. He took note of Emma’s shoes, her coat, and purse sitting in one big lump in the middle of the hallway floor just a few feet down from the front door. Like maybe she hadn’t even had the care or strength to put her things away.
Calisto understood, if that’s what she felt like. The day had been an emotional fucking hurricane all across the board. From the funeral, to the shooting. It seemed like the world was playing one huge joke on them all, and it didn’t look like it was about to let up any time soon.
So yeah, he didn’t pass judgment on the heap of belongings or the fact Emma had clearly just wanted to get the stuff off and hide away.
But he still needed to find her.
He had news.
And he had questions.
Calisto just wasn’t sure which one was more important right then.
What he did know, however, was that now was a good time to ask those questions. There was no one around to walk in on the conversation he needed to have with Emma. There was no reason for her to look over her shoulder like someone might jump out and punish her simply for talking to him.
She had no escape.
No excuses.
Not here.
Calisto wouldn’t allow her one.
She had all the answers. Somehow, he just knew she did. God knew he was owed an explanation. Whatever he had been up to—whatever they had been up to before his accident and amnesia—Emma had the answers he craved.
He intended to get them from her.
Every last one of them.
Calisto found that much of the rest of the Donati home was in the same condition as the front hall. Empty, dark, and lonely. It was almost like he could hear the loneliness ringing through the halls and bouncing off the walls. Or maybe … just maybe … that was his own mood reflecting the darkness surrounding him.
He wasn’t really sure.
Upstairs, Calisto found a single door open down the hallway that housed the master bedroom, other rooms for guests, and several bathrooms. The door belonged to the master bedroom. A small stream of color filtered out through the opened doorway, but it wasn’t enough to say the bedroom light was on.
It was only strange because there was no noise. Given it was ten o’clock at night, it wouldn’t be a stretch to think Emma was sleeping. Calisto didn’t know many people who slept with lights on, no matter how dim the light was.
If she was sleeping, he hoped she wouldn’t be too pissed off at his presence. He was aware of the fact she was supposed to be on bedrest, and that stress wasn’t good for her pregnancy.
Emma hadn’t given him a choice.
Her, not him.
Yeah, that’s what Calisto was going to keep telling himself. He refused to feed into the strange curiosity he had about Emma Donati. It had been building from the moment he’d first seen her face after he’d awakened. He wouldn’t admit that for longer than he cared to admit, he thought there was more behind her false smile, polite words, and the distance she put between her and him—that there might be more to them.