by Bethany-Kris
His jaw ticked, and his hand balled into a fist against the tabletop. Then, Calisto grabbed his cup from the table and stood from the booth quickly. His rushed movements and stiff back told Emma that she had struck a nerve.
Something …
What had she said that pissed him off so much?
“What are you doing?” Emma asked.
“Going back to my table,” Calisto muttered. “Maybe you were right, Emma.”
The way he used her full name instead of her nickname felt wrong. It came out of his mouth stilted and emotionless. Not like how he usually spoke.
“Right about what?”
“You. The overindulged mafia princess with her poor-little-me complex. Keep feeding that, let it fester and grow. I’m sure in five years, that’ll be the one thing still going strong inside of you when everything else is used up and gone. Affonso will keep the silver spoon in your mouth, gagging you quiet. Don’t worry about that.”
Emma’s heart clenched, but her mind screamed louder. Unlike earlier when his words had hurt her by accident, this was not the same.
Calisto meant to hurt her.
His words had a purpose. He probably meant to distract her from his own secrets by cutting her with his words. She wouldn’t let him do that. He was hiding something.
Emma wanted to know what it was.
“I upset you,” Emma said softly.
Calisto froze solid as he turned to leave, and a shudder worked over his shoulders at her statement. “No, I—”
“I did. What was it?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his stare locking onto hers and holding strong. For the first time, Emma felt like she was getting a good look at this dangerous, attractive man. A familiar discontent colored his irises, barely hidden. A story was right on the tip of his tongue. Hatred twisted his features into a mask of pain, taking away his usual apathy and replacing it with a man she might be curious to know.
A man who looked raw.
Beaten by unseen things.
Used by unknown beings.
Sore to the touch, like unhealed wounds.
She knew those things.
All of them.
Because she had them inside, too.
“What was it?” Emma asked again.
“You assumed I didn’t understand. You assumed I didn’t know. Your life, your feelings, and your mistakes. You assumed. And you were wrong.”
Emma
The building in front of Emma gave off bad vibes. All she had to do was look at it and dread slipped into her veins, freezing her solid.
She didn’t want to do this.
How many times had she told her mother no, brushed her off, or skipped out on appointments in the past three weeks?
Several.
Too many.
Emma let out a shaky breath, eyeing the lace and satin on display in the shop’s window with as much disdain and hatred as she could. Her mother had Emma’s size. She knew her height and measurements. Emma, quite vocally, had refused to do this very thing and had told Minnie that she would wear whatever in the hell was supplied for her to put on.
Anger surged through Emma.
Wedding dresses covered mannequins in the window. Pretty, delicate veils draped their faces. Crystal covered shoes, meant for brides wanting to be their very own Cinderella for the day, rested on raised platforms, catching the sun’s rays and glittering.
“Damn you, Mom,” Emma growled under her breath.
A light chuckle drew Emma’s attention to the side.
Calisto leaned against a black car, a lit cigarette dangling from between his lips. Just the way the light of the sun shone down from behind him lit Calisto’s tall, fit form up like a halo. When he slowly released a cloud of smoke from his lips, his features and amused smirk were shadowed by the gray plume. The man looked damn good standing there like he didn’t have a single fuck to give but for the smoke on his lips.
Emma ignored the chill running down her spine.
Because it wasn’t cold.
It was hot.
And something deep in her stomach pulsed, right along with the ache between her thighs.
Stop it, she told herself.
She learned Calisto could be an asshole, a mystery, and sometimes entertaining when he wanted to be. He was mostly quiet, and he watched people a lot with those piercing eyes of his. He rarely engaged others for any kind of interaction.
It only made Emma wonder about him even more. That certainly didn’t help the growing interest she seemed to feel every goddamn time he was around.
And the man was always around!
The fact that she was getting married in just a couple of weeks did not deter the strange attraction building up heat and crashing through her bloodstream. It was intent on infecting her until she couldn’t ignore it any more.
Probably going to get myself killed over this.
Emma ignored her inner voice.
Calisto’s dark chuckles made Emma snap out of her daze. The pulse between her thighs didn’t let up, because frankly, Calisto looked like sex on legs with dark-wash jeans hugging his hips, a leather jacket resting open against his taut, cut chest, and that fucking cigarette …
She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at the man like he was some kind of God. Snapping her mouth closed, her walls slammed up high and the defenses came out.
Emma’s attitude had always been her best protection, after all.
“What do you find so funny?” she asked.
Calisto quieted. “Well …”
“Well, what?”
“You looked fit to tear that fucking store down for a second. Like you were thinking you could set the place on fire just with your glare alone. Who knows? Maybe you would have, if I hadn’t interrupted you. Sorry to break up your hate-fest. Please, resume. It amuses me when you’re annoyed at something.”
Emma’s hackles rattled at his teasing. “I’m not annoyed.”
“I beg to differ, dolcezza. You’re ten shades of annoyed and ready to rip someone’s face off. A stubborn woman can never hide her anger, no matter how hard she tries. It’s a sign of a passionate person—I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it, only to work on hiding it.”
“No, I’m not annoyed. I’m pissed off. If I were annoyed, I’d push on through with a fucking smile on my face. Right now, I can’t even muster up something like that to get me through this.”
“It’s just a wedding dress,” Calisto said quietly.
“Right. Just a wedding dress. It’s not the end of my freedom or yet another pair of shackles for them to wrap around my leg to keep me contained.”
Calisto laughed deeply. “My God, you are …”
Emma stiffened when Calisto’s gaze traveled over her body like he was taking her red dress, leather boots, and the curves of her body in for his memories. It didn’t feel innocent, not with the way his throat bobbed with a swallow, his teeth bared a little, and his eyes narrowed.
“I’m what?” Emma asked, trying miserably to hide the air in her voice.
How could someone turn her on just by looking at her?
Worst fucking crush ever.
“You are one dramatic girl, Emmy,” Calisto finally said with a sigh. “But dramatics won’t get you out of the marriage or the dress shopping. It won’t change your future or the decisions that have already been made for you. I suggest you plaster on a fuck-you smile and do what you have to do.”
Emma wanted to scream out her frustrations. “I wish it were that easy.”
“Unfortunately, that’s life. It’s a part of growing up and being an adult. We don’t get what we want just because we want it, and nobody is looking out for you right now. They’re all looking out for them and what they can gain from this. The easier you let it be done, the quicker it will be over.”
“And then I’ll be married to a man I don’t like, want, or could ever possibly love.”
Briefly, Calisto frowned before his face returned to its usually passive
state. “My mother once said she learned to love my father. Their engagement lasted three years before they married; however, so I suppose it isn’t the same thing.”
Stunned at his candor, Emma struggled for a response. “Your mother and father had an arranged marriage?”
Calisto nodded. “Sì. She was eighteen. He was twenty-four. Young, but they apparently got on quite well. I know in the early years my father didn’t settle down with her. He ran with a lot of women for a while. Then things changed and they became closer. Best friends, my mother used to say.”
“What kind of things changed?”
“My mother was in an accident that almost killed her. A motorcycle that my father had bought her. He kept promising to teach her how to ride.”
“But he was too busy with other women to remember his promises.”
Calisto smiled, but the sight was sad. “Something like that. Anyway, she decided to go on ahead and teach herself when my father didn’t come home again one night. It ended terribly.”
Emma shuddered. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. A couple of broken bones later, and my father finally figured out what was important in his life. My mother said it made the pain worth it, just to see him come home every night to her and not run to someone else.”
“And then you came along, right?”
Calisto’s features darkened.
There was no hiding it.
“Shortly after the accident, my mother found out she was pregnant with me, yes.”
Emma could plainly see the anger in Calisto’s gaze. Once again, he was holding back information from her. Something secret, something hurtful, that he didn’t want to share.
Was he ashamed of whatever it was?
“She was still young. Only twenty-four,” he added.
“That would have made your father thirty, right?”
“Yes.”
Emma fiddled with her fingers, mulling over what she knew. She had done a quick search on his family like he had told her to, but it hadn’t brought up a lot. It seemed like a lot of info was simply speculation or precise, known facts.
Birthdays. Weddings. Official positions within the Donati Cosa Nostra ranks and who held them. Maybe Emma hadn’t looked at the right stuff. Google had never been her friend.
“Didn’t your dad die when he was thirty?” Emma asked, willing the nervousness out of her tone. “From some kind of motorcycle accident?”
Calisto turned to ice right before her eyes. At his sides, his fists balled and then relaxed just as quick. “Richard died at thirty, yes. He was showing my mother how to handle the machine properly, took a ride away from the house with his brother, and died when the brakes gave out. At least, that’s how the story goes.”
What were the odds of that? How tragic, that his father had died before he was even born. Calisto made it sound like there might be more to it, but Emma chose not to ask or press for more information.
“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago, and I wasn’t even born to meet him. I didn’t lose out on anything in that regard.”
She disagreed entirely. Not that Emma had much to talk about. Her relationship with her father had always been at arm’s length, and the space between them had been filled with material things as her father’s way of buying her love and loyalty. It wasn’t healthy.
Emma’s heart went out to Calisto for his loss of his father, but she was quickly reminded of his relationship with Affonso.
“I also noticed that your father was the older one between him and Affonso. I guess a big deal was made out of the marriage to your mother because your grandfather planned for him to take over eventually, right?”
Calisto cleared his throat, settling back into his relaxed posture with an indifferent attitude rolling off him in waves. “I see you’ve been doing your research.”
“You told me to.”
“I did. Find anything else interesting about the Donati history?”
Emma shrugged. “No. Why, should I have found something?”
Calisto didn’t answer her.
“So, I guess Affonso must have been the main father figure in your life, huh?” Emma asked.
Calisto’s jaw tensed. “You could say that.”
“How would you say it?”
“I wouldn’t say a thing at all,” Calisto muttered. “Not for Affonso.”
Ouch.
Calisto’s tone could have frozen steel with the coldness it held.
“I had my grandfather for a few years, but he died when I was starting into my preteen years. I don’t remember much about him, because he didn’t have much to do with me.” Then, he nodded at the dress shop. “Hurry up. Your mother is waiting, I imagine. Grit your teeth and get it over with.”
“I still don’t want to.”
Calisto smiled sadly. “Yeah, I know, Emmy. But hey, if you get through it without too much of a fit, I’ll let you take me on another round on the casino floor tonight. Drain my pockets again. I’ll sneak you a couple of drinks.”
And that right there was exactly why Calisto was such a mind-fuck for Emma. She didn’t understand his intentions, his motives, or why he sometimes seemed like maybe he actually gave a shit about her.
He had nothing to gain.
Neither did she.
But you have nothing to lose, her mind taunted.
“Well?” Calisto asked.
Emma grinned. “I’ll take that deal.”
“Oh, now that is lovely,” Minnie exclaimed.
Emma cringed at the high volume of her mother’s voice. She hid her reaction by turning to face the mirror and making sure her fake smile was plastered back on when she met her reflection.
“Really, Mom. You think this is lovely?” Emma asked.
She didn’t even bother to hide her disdain.
The princess-style ball gown was big enough to hide four grown men under the skirt. It swept the floor like the bottom of a swinging bell when she moved even the slightest bit. A sleeveless, sweetheart cut neckline showcased her neck and collarbones. Nothing was holding the dress up but for the corset in the back nearly choking her to death.
The dress had a mixture of crystals, pearls, and other beadwork that covered the skirt and bodice. Emma couldn’t look this way or that way without seeing a cascade of colors glaring off a window, mirror, or wall.
The damn thing would blind somebody.
“Well, it is a little too white,” her mother muttered.
Emma glanced up at the ceiling, praying silently. God, give me the fucking strength …
It didn’t help.
“White, Mom? That’s the problem?” Emma asked.
“You have to wear off-white. You know why. And also, ivory is a terrible color on you.”
“Mom, this dress is ugly.”
“It is not, Emmy!”
“It looks like something a beauty queen puked up with her last meal.”
Minnie pursed her lips, clearly unhappy with Emma’s reaction. “See, this is why I wanted you to come dress shopping. Your tastes are very different from mine.”
Emma held back from snorting.
Different was one way to put it. Her mother believed the bigger something was, the better it would be.
No doubt, her mother had set it in her head to convince Emma on this sort of style. Honestly, the little shoe horn with the pointy handle hanging off the wall looked like a good instrument to inflict a deadly enough wound to get herself out of this hell.
Emma did smile that time.
Calisto was right.
She was a little dramatic.
Emma waved at the skirt of the dress. “Less pouf, Mom. Less beads and shiny things. I want sleeves, capped at least. Something to make me feel like my tits aren’t going to pop out and give everyone a show when I bend over.”
“Emma,” her mother scolded. “Your mouth, my God.”
“Ask the woman to find another dress. This one isn’t it.”
Minni
e scowled. “Fine. But it does look nice.”
“If I were a debutant on show, it would be perfect.”
“Now you’re starting to offend me, Emmy.”
Her mother had been a debutant from a well-to-do political family that had a hand in a crime syndicate down south. Minnie had met Emma’s father during college when George had gone down south for business under his father’s request. Twenty-five years in Vegas had cured most of Minnie’s southern quirks and verbal expressions, but an occasional “bless your heart” still slipped through with just the right amount of sarcasm behind it.
“Fine. I’m sorry. It’s a beautiful dress,” Emma said. “But not for me.”
“You’re not sorry,” Minnie muttered, still staring longingly at the gown. “Another one, then?”
“Something different this time. Not something you want to wear, Mom.”
Minnie conceded with a huff. Pushing up from the couch, her mother disappeared out of the private sitting area, likely to find the woman who owned the shop again and search for another gown. With her mother out of sight, Emma’s frustrations grew all over again at the situation she was currently in.
Dress shopping.
For her wedding gown.
A wedding happening soon.
“Yes, George,” Minnie said as she came around the corner with a phone pressed to her ear and no dress in hand. She waved at her daughter and pointed to the phone like Emma was supposed to know what in the hell was going on. With her mother and father, it could be anything. The two got off on their occasional spats. It was kind of unnerving. “I told you, I left the goddamn ticket on your—”
Minnie’s words cut off as her gaze narrowed. “Don’t you yell at me, George, just because you can’t find the stupid ticket for your dry-cleaning. I know where you sleep, you fucking pig. Keep it up.”
“Oh, my God,” Emma groaned, rubbing at her temples.
A headache began to throb there all of the sudden. This was exactly why Emma kept a distance between herself and her parents. Sometimes, their nonsense was overwhelming. How the two had stayed married for almost three decades, she didn’t know.
Her mother was pushy and spoiled. Her father was a bastard with a superiority complex. Yet, the two seemingly adored one another.