Chapter 11 — Emma

Emma picked at the waffle on her plate, knowing she had to eat it whether she was hungry or not. Just because her mind didn’t feel like she needed food, didn’t mean that her body could go without some kind of sustenance. Maybe, if it was just her, she would be able to push the meal away without concern.

But it wasn’t.

She had to eat for her baby.

It didn’t matter that the brightly colored berries on top of the whip cream held very little appeal, and the small dish of maple syrup waiting to be used didn’t strike a chord with her sweet tooth. It wouldn’t make a difference that each bite would only make her jaw ache and her gag reflex act up.

She wasn’t hungry because her stress level was high.

She couldn’t sleep.

She worried, constantly.

But … her baby.

So, when the cook walked past the kitchen table and tapped a single finger beside Emma’s plate, she picked up the fork and cut a small triangle off the side of the waffle. Stuffing the bite in her mouth, Emma wished she could enjoy the sweetness of the blueberry waffles, but instead, she found herself focusing on chewing and swallowing just to get the job of eating done.

Sherry—the Donati family’s cook—offered her a knowing, but sad, smile. “You need to eat, Emma.”

Emma sighed. “I am.”

“More than what you are.”

“It’s been a long week,” Emma said in explanation.

A long, sleepless week filled with anxiety and nightmares.

Sherry nodded. “I know, but it’s almost over. He’ll be home soon, and on the mend before you know it. No worries there. Affonso is nothing, if not capable of bouncing right back to his usual self.”

Emma had to hide her cringe with another bite.

His “usual self” was exactly the problem.

Maybe it made Emma a horrible, disgusting human being, but the very last thing she wanted was her husband to come home. She hadn’t wanted Affonso to survive at all after taking three bullets to the chest, but the man just wouldn’t die, it seemed. When everyone else was praying for Affonso’s health and recovery, Emma was praying for freedom from his manipulation and abuse.

And not just her own freedom.

No, she prayed for her son’s and for Calisto’s, too.

Yet, God didn’t hear.

Or he just didn’t care.

Emma wasn’t sure which one it was, but she had accepted one part of her truth a long time ago. The day she broke her marriage vows and started an affair with her husband’s secret son was the day she had become the bad guy in her own story. It didn’t matter what Affonso did to her, or how he treated her. She would always be the woman who stepped out on her husband. She would always be seen as the woman who became pregnant with her lover’s child; the woman who brought shame down on herself, her husband, and her baby.

Nothing more.

She was scared of others seeing her that way.

So, she did what she had to until she had another option. Until something else—Calisto, she hoped—came along to free her from the cage she was in with her marriage and her husband.

What else could she do?

“There you go again,” Sherry murmured. “Off into another world. Those concerns of yours are going to worry that little baby right out of you, Emma. And we can’t have that. He needs to cook a while longer yet.”

Emma came out of her depressing thoughts with a bang, and somehow, managed a laugh at the cook’s joke. “I know.”

“Don’t worry about Affonso.”

“I’m not,” Emma said.

Well, it wasn’t a total lie.

She wasn’t worrying about Affonso getting better—the bastard was already on the mend. She was worrying about what would happen when he got home. It wasn’t as if she had been doing anything wrong while he was away in the hospital recovering, but sometimes the stupidest things could set Affonso off.

As it was, he was a paranoid prick.

The less control he had, the worse he became.

Especially with Emma.

She didn’t exactly think that Affonso would be made of happiness and sunshine when his doctors gave him the all clear and sent him home to her. He would probably still be in pain, likely bed-ridden to a point, and no doubt, a major fucking hassle on both her physical and mental health.

That terrified her.

She was not in a good position to be fighting back against her husband’s usual attitudes and behavior. Her pregnancy was risky enough without adding the stress of an angry, irritable husband to the list.

Hadn’t she dealt with him enough?

Emma just wanted her baby to have a little more time to prepare for the world. She worried that Affonso coming home in one of his moods and taking his suspicions and anger out on her might do the baby more harm than anything else.

“Good,” Sherry finally replied, giving Emma a conspiratorial grin. “God knows he wouldn’t worry too much over you, hmm?”

Sadly, that was all too true.

Sherry winked and straightened, making a beeline for the island as footsteps began to echo somewhere outside of the kitchen. Emma braced for the onslaught of what was about to come. The girls—Affonso’s daughters, Michelle and Cynthia—hadn’t been home for more than a couple of days, but the added presences in the house didn’t help Emma’s anxiety levels.

She loved Affonso’s daughters, to be sure.

While she hated him, she adored them.

Even Michelle, when the girl was in a mood and acting out. It didn’t matter—Emma saw the behavior for what it was. It wasn’t all too long ago that Emma was in the very same position that Michelle was. A young girl growing up in a materialistic environment that was meant to make up for the lack of love and affection she needed from her father.

And sometimes, acting out was the only way to get that attention.

But right then, the girls were worried for their father. Affonso had asked they not come to the hospital, as he didn’t want them seeing him in that position. He had talked to them once over the phone, but it hadn’t been for long, and it mostly consisted of the girls bickering with one another while Affonso cursed on the other line about the nurses and morphine.

Michelle and Cynthia just wanted their dad.

Emma didn’t want him at all.

It was a strange situation, though the girls couldn’t possibly know how Emma truly felt. She was torn between hating the man and wanting him to stay the hell away, and sympathizing for his daughters, both of whom she cared deeply for.

She didn’t know what was the right thing to do, so she plastered on a fake smile as Michelle and Cynthia strolled into the kitchen sporting bedhead, baggy pajamas, and bleary eyes. Her problems with Affonso, and all of the secrets she was being forced to carry, were not the burdens of these young teenagers.

They shouldn’t have to carry them.

Emma wouldn’t allow them to.

Not if she had any say.

“Morning, girls,” Emma said, making sure there wasn’t even a hint of worry or sadness to her tone. It was the best she could do for Cynthia and Michelle. She certainly wasn’t doing it for Affonso. “Sherry made your favorite—waffles.”

Michelle barely passed Emma a glance, as she was too busy wiping at her eyes between staring at the phone in her hand. Cynthia, though, pulled out a chair closest to Emma and sat down. The oldest of the two daughters tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Do you think we could go visit Daddy today?” Cynthia asked.

Emma had to force herself not to frown. She despised Affonso more for refusing his daughters, at the very least, the relief of seeing him recovering and getting well. When they had heard the news, it had all ended in a melting pot of crying, sobbing, and demands to come home from boarding school. Without Affonso’s permission, Emma had the girls sent home.

“Probably not,” Emma said. “You know he doesn’t want you to see him like that.”

Michelle scowled as she sat down, and a plate of waffles was shoved in front of her face. “Or he just doesn’t want to see us at all.”

“That’s not it.”

Cynthia glared at her sister. “Don’t act like such a bitch, Michelle. He almost died.”

“You’re a fucking bi—”

“Okay,” Emma said, stopping the girls before they could really get started. “That’s quite enough, you two.”

She held both hands up, hoping it would act as a proverbial wall between the two and keep them from spitting more hurtful words at one another. With those two, it was hard to tell. Some days, they acted as though they loved one another fiercely, and then the next, they were clawing at each other’s throats every chance they could.

Having grown up as an only child, Emma had not been privy to the sort of strange and complex relationship that grew between siblings. Especially siblings that had gone through as much in their short lifetime as Michelle and Cynthia had with losing their mother, and having a mob boss for a father who just couldn’t find it in himself to care about his children.

She wished she could understand them better.

If for nothing else, to help them.

“Take a breath,” Emma ordered, glancing between the glaring sisters, “and chill out.”

Neither Michelle, nor Cynthia, said a thing.

Emma was grateful.

At least when they didn’t talk, they weren’t arguing.

It was something.

“Maybe we can do something else,” Cynthia said, breaking the staring contest with her sister to look at Emma. “For Daddy, I mean.”

Emma nodded, happy with the change of direction. She dropped her hands, knowing the fight was likely defused for the moment.

But as she rested her hands back onto her lap, a sharp ache stabbed into the side of her swell. It quickly melted into a cramp that wiggled its way over the left side of her stomach before it disappeared. As fast as it had come, the pain was gone.

Still, Emma had felt it.

And it took her breath away.

She froze on the spot, pressing her palm to the side of her stomach. It was hard to the touch, but that wasn’t unusual. Neither was the cramping given how far along she was.

Maybe it was just the baby boy trying to work his way into a more comfortable position, and that was what caused the strange pain. Emma hoped so.

She had been to her regular appointment the day before at the specialist’s office to once again, measure and check her cervix for any changes. There was very little, though she was thinning out.

It was concerning, but they weren’t willing to do anything just yet. The doctor had sent her home with an order to stay off her feet as much as was possible, and to avoid stressful things.

She almost laughed in the doctor’s face.

Her life was the very definition of stress at the moment.

“Well, what do you think?” Cynthia asked.

Emma blinked out of her haze, realizing that neither of her step-daughters had noticed that anything was wrong.

Nothing is, she told herself.

… she hoped.

“About what?” Emma asked.

“Cee thinks we could go shopping and pick up Daddy a few things for when he gets home—stuff he likes, you know,” Michelle said through a bite of her waffle.

Emma hesitated.

She should refuse them, only because she couldn’t spend a day on her feet walking through the malls for hours on end looking for gifts that Affonso would only pretend to care about before tossing away in a drawer.

And yet … the girls looked happy.

Hopeful, even.

She couldn’t refuse.

“Not all day,” Emma said. “The baby needs to rest.”

Michelle rolled her pretty brown-black Donati eyes. “He’s inside you—all he does is rest.”

Emma nodded. “I know, and he needs to stay there for a while longer.”

Cynthia nodded. “Okay, not all day.”

Across the kitchen, Emma found the cook was watching her again. This time, Sherry had a wrinkle between her brow—a sure sign of her concern.

Emma didn’t blame the woman.

She was concerned, too.

*

Midnight’s whimpering woke Emma from her nap. In a week and a half, since the shooting, she hadn’t been able to get a decent night’s rest as her mind just wouldn’t slow enough to shut down. Her body, on the other hand, was finally fighting back with exhaustion.

A nap in the middle of the day was just one of those ways.

Emma blinked, and corrected her previous thought. She had fallen asleep in the middle of the day. Earlier, when she climbed into bed, the sun had been high and bright in the bedroom windows. But now, all she could see staring back at her from the windows was a black sky filled with gray clouds, and just the barest hint of the moon gleaming behind them.

How long had she slept?

Emma checked the clock on the bedside table. It read just a little before 9:00 PM. Almost half of her day was gone to her body finally giving up the fight and putting her to sleep.

She didn’t mind.

What else was she going to do, anyway?

Sleep seemed like a good choice.

Again, the little dog on the floor whimpered. Ignoring the twinge of tightening pain in her side as she rolled over in the bed, Emma reached down to scoop Midnight up from the floor. It wasn’t often he slept in the bed with her now that he wasn’t just a puppy anymore, but some nights couldn’t be helped when the pup was feeling lonely … or Emma was feeling desolate.

She needed comfort, and the pup was good for that.

Calisto’s gift kept on giving, that was for sure.

Once Midnight was in the bed, his whimpering settled almost instantly. He curled his thin, furry body around the side of Emma’s swelled stomach, his nose bumping her belly with gentle huffs of air. She wasn’t sure if it was because the dog liked her belly, or if he knew there was a baby in there and he was just saying hello in his own way.

Whatever it was, Midnight always touched her belly with his nose.

“All right,” Emma told the pup, scratching behind his fluffy, floppy ear, “it’s time for sleep. No more going on, huh?”

Midnight barely reacted to her order, but he did flick an ear, and then looked toward the door. The slight wag of his tail accompanied his diverted attention as his head perked up more.

Emma hadn’t heard anything outside in the hallway, but it was possible one of Affonso’s daughters were up and moving around. It wasn’t all that late, after all.

The softest knock on the bedroom door damn near made Emma jump out of her own skin.

“Emmy?”

She stilled in place.

That voice did not belong to one of Affonso’s daughters. It was the very last person she expected to come back to the Donati home after the last time he was there, and what happened between them.

Clearing her throat to rid the nervousness from her tone, Emma said loudly, “Yeah, Cal?”

“You decent?”

Emma glanced down at what she was wearing. The over-sized T-shirt and thin cotton shorts kept her covered and comfortable. “Decent enough.”

“Can I come in?”

“Ah, you probably—”

She was going to tell him that he shouldn’t, given it wouldn’t be appropriate, but Calisto was already pushing the door open, seemingly satisfied with her earlier comment about being dressed.

Calisto stood in the doorway, haloed by the dim light streaming in from the hallway. Shadows darkened his features, keeping Emma from gaging his current mood, or why he might have shown up again with no warning, and for no particular reason.

He leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor like he didn’t want to look up—or maybe he didn’t want to look at her.

Emma wasn’t sure.

Still, it was damn hard for her to force back the automatic reactions of her mind and body every time this man was near. Deep in her soul, her heart screamed for her to tell him the whole story—the truth he deserved to know. Her hands ached with the need to touch him, while her eyes did a new inventory of his features and anything else they could find each time he was near.

She missed him.

All the time.

Terribly.

But she had to protect his child first, herself second, and then maybe … maybe she could save him, too. Emma just didn’t know how to go about all of that at the moment.

Calisto waved a hand at himself, still silent.

Emma’s brow furrowed at the confusing action. “What is it, Calisto?”

“Uh, I didn’t mean to just barge in here.”

“You didn’t—you knocked.”

“Still, here. The house, I mean. The girls are downstairs watching something on the television. At first I thought … well, I convinced myself I was going to come over tonight just to spend time with them. I haven’t seen them in a while, and it’s strange. It’s like they know I’m not me.”

Emma frowned. “You’re you, Cal. You’ve always been you.”

Calisto shook his head, chuckling dryly. “No, I’m not me. Something is missing. I’ve known it since I woke up. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.”

“You’re remembering some things, though.”

“Some,” he agreed. “But I can’t tell anyone, can I?”

Emma fingered the sheets covering her lower half, feeling his eyes watch her every movement. He was gaging her now, searching for lies in her actions, her words, or her tone. Emma knew that without even needing to look him in the eye to see it.

Calisto was different since his accident—he knew less things about his life.

But he was still the same in ways he probably didn’t realize.

“These things I remember,” Calisto continued quieter, taking a step further into the room. “It’s not like I can just … out them to anyone, huh?”

“Depends on what they are.”

Calisto sighed heavily. “The last time I admitted I was having a memory, someone died.”

Emma’s head snapped up, and she found his gaze cutting into hers with an intensity that kept her silent. She wanted to ask what he meant—ask who had died—but a part of her might have already known. Father Day.

“That was when I really started paying attention,” Calisto murmured. “That was the moment when I knew all those things that didn’t feel right … shit, they didn’t feel right because they weren’t right. And lies can only be spun so many ways before the web is just a tangled mess that anyone—even the blindest of person—could see.”

“And can you?” Emma dared to ask. “See, I mean.”

Calisto closed the bedroom door, and it didn’t make a sound when it shut behind him. He took another step closer to her, and then another and another until he was right beside the bed. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, lowering him beneath her gaze. Emma kept a hand on her pup, using the dog’s thick fur to hide the shaking of her hand.

Her other one, however, had clenched tightly into the bedsheets.

What was he doing now?

Emma didn’t know how to deal with this, or Calisto. Her heart tightened to a painful point as the cool, calm facade of his mask faded away in an instant.

“I’m not me,” he told her softly.

Emma blinked, her fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and stroke his face. One little touch wouldn’t hurt, right?

So she did.

His skin, warm and smooth under her palm, sent a fire raging up through her arm. At the touch—as innocent and comforting as it was meant to be—Calisto closed his eyes and let out a slow, but shaky, breath.

Like he’d wanted that.

He wanted her to touch him.

“I was using the girls as an excuse to myself,” he said, “for why I came here tonight. I thought if I said it enough times in my head—for Michelle and Cynthia, because they’re scared and alone—then it would make me believe it, too.”

Emma chewed on her inner cheek, knowing what he was probably going to say next. “But?”

“But then I got here. And even when I was talking to them, the silence was too loud. I wanted to ask about you, anything about you at all. I’m always worrying about you, and I don’t even know why.”

“It’s okay to worry.”

“Maybe, but the other things—the stuff I remembered, what little it was—isn’t okay.”

Emma pressed her lips together, knowing he meant the Vegas memory. “You’re right, it’s not.”

“And somehow, I just knew …”

“Knew what?”

“That wasn’t the last time,” Calisto said.

Emma quieted altogether, not wanting to give away all their secrets. Would he run again if she did? Would he deny the truth if she told him about the baby’s paternity?

What would he do?

Emma couldn’t risk it.

“So I know it’s wrong,” Calisto continued, seemingly oblivious to her inner plight. “But I keep coming back here—I keep wanting to, I guess. And maybe that’s because you make me feel normal, Emmy. Or more normal than I am. I can’t think right because I’m always so focused on what should be in my head, or what I’m missing. I can’t breathe when I get in that head-space.”

“Cal, it’s—”

“But I can with you,” he interrupted quickly. “You make me feel more like me, even when you’re across the room, and all I can do is watch you. I do that, you know, a lot more than I should. Just like when I think about you more than I should. And that’s when I knew.”

Emma didn’t want to ask, because she wasn’t sure her heart could take it.

But she did.

“Knew what?”

“You’re what I’m missing. You’re hiding it—hiding a lot, and I’ll figure it out—but right now I just needed to breathe.”

“Breathe,” she echoed.

“There’s too many lies, too much shit in my head. I just need to think for a while. You let me do that, and it’s what I need to do right now to figure the rest out.”

Emma felt his hand slide under hers, unfurling her fingers from the sheets as he twined their fingers. She stared at their connected hands, unsure and wary.

This was going to hurt her in the morning.

It would hurt when he left again.

He still wasn’t hers—she wasn’t his.

“I know you’re what I’m missing,” Calisto said, his features confused and darkened with pain.

Emma couldn’t help herself, she nodded.

Because she was.

She was missing him, too.

So why couldn’t she just tell him?

Why did the fear keep choking her silent?